4th of July, Kids and Being Single

Just call me Morticia, for even in the hell of the heat I’ll wear black, which is exactly what I did at a  pre-4th of July barbecue I attended as a tag along with another single friend of mine. I don’t want to be the only unmarried one there she said and of course she singled me out from her handful of other single and not hating it lady friends. As I’m not the type to

Questions I asked Mommy and Daddy

Looking at my childhood pictures reminded me of happy days filled with wonderings about the mysteries of the world. My innocence compelled me to ask questions, which my parents answered separately and together.

Will Santa give me that big doll house for Christmas?

Not this year sweetie. He’s on a budget.

Why do I have to order from the children’s menu when I can eat more than you can?

Small people must eat small portions.

Why can’t I eat more candy?

Because cavities are expensive.

Why do I have to go to school?

Dad: So you’ll know how to fill out a job application.

(Two frogs in my hand.) Do frogs really turn into prince charmings?

Mom: Eeeek!     Dad: Get that toad out of this house.

What’s divorce?

The Frenemy

Self-expression is the choice between satisfying the stirrings of my emotional conscience and burning bridges. Good

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behavior makes me feel like a soloist in a symphony with an indifferent, but hostile audience. Play flawlessly and the audience is silent, but hit a wrong note and receive hisses and jeers.

I don’t want to be difficult, disagreeable or MEAN, but I can be. I don’t want to be different for the sake of being unique, such contrivances are pedestrian antics of a lost soul. I’m no longer lost, but I haven’t reached my destination either. But I am/can be different because we cannot ALL BE THE SAME. In my circle of reality, I am the lone femme–single, never married and childless. 

I am an oxymoron moving within the flow of life. I go unnoticed and then a malfunction

Translations at the Nail Salon

I like to zone out when I’m getting my mani pedis. This is my weekly routine. I walk inside the nail salon with my iPod in full blast. In my opinion, this is the best nail salon in my area. The owner greets me. She is Vietnamese. All of the ladies working there are Vietnamese. The owner says something (I don’t hear it), but I smile and wait for Peggy my manicurist. When I see Peggy she smiles and says something (I don’t hear it), and I follow her to her station. As I’m following the petite Peggy I accidentally bump into a not so petite grumpy looking manicurist who looks like she just sucked on a lemon. I say excuse me, but she says nothing. I get to Peggy’s station. I sit, close my eyes, and zone to the music as I feel the pulsing of warm water tickling my toes while Peggy begins on my right hand. This is my time for solitude; no one else exists.

Then my iPod shuts down. The battery is dead. I take off the earphones with my free hand and a cacophony of voices replace

Confessions of a former snooper

When Pandora’s opened the jar, she unleashed all sorts of horror and evil on mankind. Have you ever been as curious as Pandora? Have you ever had that compunction to open a friend’s medicine chest? Have you ever found yourself alone in your boyfriend’s place rummaged through his drawers?  Have you ever been so curious that you invaded someone’s privacy? If curiosity killed the cat what did your curiosity do to you?

In my youth I was a snoop. Although, I likened myself to be more of an investigator of mysteries. When my parents thought I was tucked in and snoozing I was lurking and snooping. As a teen, I read a friend’s letter and found out that she was

My letter from Santa!

When I was just a wee kid who looked up to people because I was too short to look at them straight in the face, I believed in Santa Claus. I wrote him a wish list every year and I mailed it to the North Pole. I asked for big-ticket items like a bike, a phonograph (I’m dating myself here), a tape recorder (I thought I wanted to be a reporter but I really just wanted to use the device to snoop on people) and such.

Every year Santa always got it wrong.  When I asked for a pink bike I got a puke orange bike with no basket, but he did include a little honker. I knew that Santa wasn’t perfect but he always came close. One year I asked for a Baby Alive, a doll  that ate, drank, pooped and peed.

Imagine my surprise when I received a letter back from Santa:

Wikimedia Commons – Patrick Lentz from Boston, USA

Dear Petit Lafemme,

You have been a good girl this year. You reduced your pouting to every other day and you only stuck out your tongue behind your mother’s back once a week. What an improvement! You always get good grades even though you never do your homework and you only hit your siblings with an open hand. So this year I thought that I could finally give you the toy of your desire.

Unintentional Sexual Thoughts

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I’m single and dateless, that also means I’m “sexless.” But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. In fact I think more about sex when I’m not getting it. I think about sex multiple times a day–hell multiple times an hour and sometimes multiple times a minute when I have my quickie thoughts.

I can be teary-eyed while cutting up an onion, but my mind will be engrossed with thoughts about scorching the sheets with some hot fantasy male. In fact I’m thinking about sex now. I think about sex so much that I’ve suffered many embarrassing 

Don’t Flirt on my Time

Patience is a virtue. I went to Starbucks and while I had intended to go through the drive through my tush said that I should park and walk it because I could use the “exercise.” Big mistake … I walk into a long line. I hate lines and the slow as snail baristas melts my patience like a glacier in hell. While waiting I try to entertain myself with the knick knacks on the shelves and ponder the logic of buying an overpriced coffee maker.

Hallelujah I’m next. Only the chick (flashing silicone cleavage) in front of me is flirting with the order taker (the horny half-wit). The two talk about clubbing, partying and other mindless “ing” activities while the last person in line (me) is  chomping at the bits for her caffeine fix. The guy behind the counter sees me,

10 Signs That He’s Mr. Wrong

Here are 10 signs that say the guy you’re with is NOT the guy for YOU:

1. The word “commitment” isn’t in his vocabulary: But he knows how to say “no strings sex” and “I need to see other people” in 5 different languages. 

2. He’s still looking for himself: If he’s lost, then you’ll never find love with him.

3. He’s exactly like your ex-boyfriend: This one is a no-brainer … DUH!

4. His words don’t match his actions: He says you’re the only woman for him, while his eyes fixate on the blonde bombshell and her knockers.

5. You don’t speak the same language: You say potato–he says potaTOH. You say relationship–he says bootie call. Oh just call the whole thing off.

Red, White and Blue All Over Me

This is an oldie but a goodie!

Just call me Morticia, for even in the hell of the heat I’ll wear black, which is exactly what I did at a recent pre-4th of July barbecue I attended as a tag along with another single friend of mine. I don’t want to be the only unmarried one there she said and of course she singled me out from her handful of other single and not hating it lady friends. As I’m not the type to