Category Archives: doggy diarrhea

Pillow Talk.

Trixie,  when I got home on Thursday and saw the FedEx sticker on the front door I just knew they had tried to deliver you while I was at work and waiting for you.

And yeah, I coulda just signed the door tag and they would’ve dropped you off like they always do, but then you would’ve spent our whole first day slumped under a nasty old door mat and I couldn’t have that, baby, so I called FedEx and had them hold you in their nice warm warehouse and then I got up really early this morning and drove to the FedEx location and stood at the window with my hands cupped around my face staring into the darkened office until they opened up so I was the first one in line and boy were they ever happy to see me.

I flashed the nice lady my CLASS A TRUCKERS ID and signed for you and ran back out to my MR.GREENE. and opened you up and turned you on. And Trixie, when you came alive in my hands that first time, I knew my life was complete.

And, ya know, I tried to work today, but I just couldn’t. I kept thinking of you and then taking you out of my pocket and staring at you. I love the way you kept quietly vibrating with happiness.

What’s that Trixie?


Those were phone calls?

Anyway. I tried my best to get something, anything, done but it wasn’t a happenin’ thing, so we left a little early and went to the Verizon store and bought you some see-through screen protection and a teeny, tiny, little Reveal frame string bikini to protect your dainty parts. Sweetheart, you look sooo cute in them.

And, ooh, the happy little purring sounds you made while we were shopping made me almost burst with pride and love.

Huh? Those were incoming e-mails? Shit. I forgot how smart you are, my little Trixie.

Anyway. I’m pretty sure that in the days and weeks and months of happiness and love ahead you’ll show me all your little secrets. But for now, my glassy, glossy little heartthrob, rest happy.

I know it’s been a long day.


My newest BFF.

I hadn’t wanted a smart phone.

I’d barely liked the stupid phone I have. It’s such a necessary annoyance that I post pictures of topless babes on my main wallpaper to make me want to answer the damn thing.

So you can imagine my surprise when I fell in love after the briefest of flings.

I had to go to the Verizon store for something or other and while I was waiting to be helped, I found myself fondling the iPhone4. I looooved her glossy, glassy feel and as I felt her up, I was, well, you know, actually chubbin’, and as I clutched her,  I whispered- I want you.

I glanced around.

Then, my little iPhone chirped so I pushed the call button.

And her sultry little voice said, take me home. baby.

Holding her tight, I turned and tried to run out of the store but my little iPhone was tethered to the display with a leash.

FUCK I screamed when the leash jerked her out of my arms, slamming her into the side of the counter.

Can I help you, sir? the nice guy with the tie said.

Yesssssss I said. I’d like to purchase that iPhone, pointing.

The nice guy with the tie said, Sir that’s just a display unit. How about we pre-order you a brand spanking new iPhone4S?

You’ll love it, he said.

And I know I will. And I can’t wait for my newest BFF to be delivered so that we can start our life together.


As I turned away from the display to do the paperwork I glanced woefully over my shoulder and I coulda’ sworn I heard an imploring little chirp.

And it tugged at my heart.

I abound, or maybe, rebound?

So this is how it works. I don’t have the ego for a blog.

I can’t understand why anyone besides me would find me even remotely interesting.

But I keep doing this ’cause my Mr. Narcissism takes up the slack. Most of the time he’s what fuels me so I can write something as silly as a blog about me.

I mean, c’mon, right?

My Mr. Narcissism’s the guy at the party who’s way too loud, way too drunk, way too out there. He bustles energetically into the room, shouldering through everybody upsetting drinks and  apologizing apologetically. He’s the guy you glom onto who sets himself up in the middle of the room and makes himself the center of attention even though eyes are rolling and heads and bodies are turning away, muttering sadly.

And even though he knows he’s probably spent, my Mr. Narcissism remains unfazed. For awhile, at least. He continues on droolingly, slatheringly, and drunkenly screaming EVERYBODY WANTS TO HEAR MY STORY, RIGHT??? while he’s gyrating wildly and dancing stupidly, until he passes out on the kitchen floor and I have to cover him up with a blanket.

Heaving a big sigh of relief, I look around blinking in the daylight and think and I say to myself that’s cool. Nobody’s really interested in my crap anyway, so in a way it’s a release, a slipping of the leash.

But just when I’m thinking about sneaking away and leaving all my bloggy friends behind he wakes up and my Mr. Narcissism winks at me and licks his lips and croaks- dude, let’s have a Bloody Mary.

And I’m right back in it.

a visit from the goon squad

I’m not sure what the visit was or is, nor do I know what, or who, the goon squad is or was.

It doesn’t matter. What a ride.

This is one of the very best books I’ve ever read that I never understood. I’m not really sure where it was going or if it ever got there but I really fucking loved this book.

Loosely told from the disparate views of the people involved, it’s basically the story of a strangely gifted musician who flashes early and then fades from view and then suddenly, at the end, bursts back into view in a scene so well written that you’ll be reliving that one concert, that one event, that one song, that changed your life, the one that you’ll never forget.

a visit from the goon squad is oddly told. It’s one of the strangest novels I’ve ever read. With the narrative constantly changing viewpoint and story timeline it’s a little like Google Earth-ing the intertwined lives of the characters as they move through the story. Click here and Sasha is pulled into focus talking about her petty theft problem. Click there and Benny is telling a story about Scotty. Click that place, and Dolly (who used to be Le Doll) is discussing her downfall and her need to raise her strange little daughter differently.

At times you feel lost.

But then, the author, Jennifer Egan, takes the whole wriggling open-ended, kinda-confusing, beautifully written mish mash, and artfully knits it together- forging understanding, in a chapter that can only be called golden. Or maybe insanely interpretive. Or maybe whatever. Trust me, if you ever read the book you’ll know which chapter I’m talking about as soon as you get to it and through it.

Chillingly, refreshingly, wonderful I’m still not sure what it was I read. Think of the sharpness of glacial springs. Think of the breathtaking clarity of tropical waters. Think of a freshness beyond fresh.

That’s a visit from the goon squad. And that’s Jennifer Egan and that’s why I want to have her baby.

like, life?

So I’m finally sitting on the beach late on Sunday afternoon after working forever and I’m watching the waves and I’m watching Miss Carol nap and I’m wondering, WTF?

Is this beach life thingy all it’s cracked up to be?

I mean, during the “nice” summer months when the beach is supposed to be the place to be, it’s so frickin’ hot you can fry eggs on your cooler. No wind, no breeze, just relentless heat and unrelenting humidity.

Add to that the daytrippers and tourons, and shit dude, sitting packed on the beach cheek to jowl with thousands and thousands of pasty-ass strangers is not really high on my idea of fun.

(Which, by the way, brings up something totally different- how is it that in AUGUST white people can still be sooooo white they start to burn just sprinting from their cars to their condo’s? I mean, I know not everyone has a beach, but surely everyone has sunlight, right? Are these people captives or something?)


So then the sultry summer season ends and it’s time for hurricanes and their endlessly wearisome, worrisome, constant weather tracking and boarding up of windows and writing of names and SSI#’s on arms so officials can positively identify our bloated dead bodies when we wash up somewhere, sometime, after the storm.

Whew. Then.

Frothing and snapping right on the heels of the hurricane fun is Papa Winter with his constantly icy winds and rain whipped nor’easters and sometimes, lately, even sleet and snow. At the beach? I love you Papa.

And then the spring awakens with her flirty lightness and we’re deluged with soaking rains and flowers that try but drown and die. And then we’ve made that short trip around the sun and it’s right back into another sweaty summer.

Fun, right?

So I sat there and I tried to think why? Why do we stay? Why do we endure season after season? Why not move on to some place where the weather isn’t so viciously predatory- maybe like a quiet lake in the mountains or somethin’.

Oh shit. Wait a sec.

I remember now.


I was working in a part of the hospital today called Transitional Care which I’m thinkin’ might be a fancypants name for torturing old people.

‘Cause that sure is what it seemed like they were doing. Most of these old geezers were having a tough time just sitting in their wheelchairs and breathing. And this super scrawny woman and her sausage squeezy fat-ass accomplice were making these old farts move around and walk ten feet or so before collapsing.

And I thought, shit. I never, ever want to be here in their shoes. This is gonna sound awful, but. Working around those people didn’t make me feel for them, didn’t make me want to help them or sympathetically hold their hand and empathize with their plight.

It made me wonder why.

As in, why, would anyone clench so white-knucklededly to such a dismal, drab existence? Why keep gripping and pedaling the bicycle wheel like a hamster waiting for the therapist to give you a break and tell you how good you’re doing? Why keep sitting in a room ringed with similarly old people, wondering who’s next up for the walk around the room or maybe the final walk with the hazy flowers?

I know I’m still young enough to boldly say I’LL NEVER END UP LIKE THAT, to think that I’m brave enough and committed enough to the Papa Hemingway out to never be wheezing on a physical therapy mattress struggling to do a leg lift.

I hope.

Sorry for the downer.

But, and hey, on other news? I pay tuition tomorrow, sign the rest of the papers, and start training on Monday to drive a big rig. It’s a big step, Junior.

I wish Miss Carol was more behind it and more enthusiastic. but.

So I did it.

As marginal as it sounds, as fuckuppery as it seems, as totally asswaddy it might be, I did it.

I signed up for the tractor-trailering course. Miss Carol’s not totally happy, but she’s not totally sad either, so we’re working it out.

It’s not like I’m gonna close up my little company but the trucking is something that’s been calling me, an insistently constant tug urging me on with it’s relentless siren song.


Deep breath.

I go for my DOT drug test and DOT physical later this week and start the course August 8th. Two months of tractor-trailer training while keeping my company going and finishing The Little House of Horrors.

I’m stoked.

Why do I do this shit?