Sunday, July 26, 2015

Directing the Entertainment

My BFF Becca is throwing our friend Jamie a baby shower and I have a big surprise for both of them.

I’m going to volunteer my talents as Entertainment Director.

That’s the kind of friend I am.  

In fact, I’ve already started doing my research, and have several games picked out.

Guess the Chocolate Filled Diaper.  I love this one!  We'll melt a variety of chocolate bars in the microwave and smear/load them into diapers.  During the game, we will pass the diapers around and the person who correctly identifies the contents of the most diapers will win a prize.

Except I’ve got a new spin on the game.  One of the diapers will have real poop!  Won’t that be hysterical?  

Pin the Something on the Something.  I haven't decided yet.  It’s either Pin the Sperm on the Egg or Pin the Poop in the Potty Chair.  

Since I’m indifferent, I guess I’ll let Jamie decide.

Preggers or Porn.  This is my favorite.  I’ll have a series of photos and the guests will have to pick whether the woman is in labor or a porn movie. 

Now, one could argue that the Entertainment Director’s span of control should end with entertainment, but I disagree.   You see, I am not your average Entertainment Director.

I am a summa cum laude graduate dropout of Michael’s Cake Decorating School.  And I consider it an honor to put my culinary skills to work for Jamie's shower.

I haven’t chosen my design yet.  I'm leaning towards this one:

With a Jamie, not a Casey.  Duh.

This is going to be THE event of the season.  

You're welcome, ladies.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Too Famously Hot

On, pause is defined as “a momentary hesitation.

Well, I don’t know about other women, but when my meno “paused,” it did not hesitate.  My meno slamed-on-the-freakin’-brakes.

One day I was an ordinary tampon consuming nerdling who was freezing all the time.   Overnight I became a former tampon consuming nerdling who was freezing almost all of the time.

Until a hot flash struck, turning me into, well, this:

And then back again into an icicle.  Covered in sweat.

This is particularly inconvenient in the summer.  In South Carolina.

And because I work in an office with air conditioning, I am forced to wear long sleeves.  And sweaters.  And socks. Year round.

With the help of my show shirt snuggi, which I keep in my igloo office, I am able to stay relatively comfortable, despite the A.C.

Until a hot flash hits.

Speaking of which, defines flash as “a very brief moment, instant” or, even more ironically, “a sudden, brief outburst or display of joy, wit, etc.

I do not have hot flashes.   I have hot emissions.  Blow torching my body. 

And yes, they are sudden.  But they are not outbursts of joy.  

Or wit.

And if I happen to receive a hot emission on my 5 minute walk to/from my car when I’m dressed for winter in the middle of a famously hot Columbia, S.C. summer.

Well, let’s just say it ain’t a pretty sight. 

I will not even mention all the other lovely side-effects of meno-slam-on-the-freakin'-brakes.

You’re welcome.

Now, over the years I have poked fun at the Japan Trend Shop and their silly products.   

But they have really hit pay-dirt with their Air Conditioned Clothing line. 

Apparently, you just flick the switch and your body cools off, which is EXACTLY WHAT I NEED when one of my famously hot emissions emits.

What do you think?  Pretty snazzy, huh?  Then again, I'm thinking those pockets make my butt look big.  And it really doesn't match my show shirt snuggi.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Attempting Flexibility

To say my body is inflexible is a bit of an understatement. 

I clearly remember the day my dance instructor, Miss Imogene, attempted to get me to do a back bend.

“Reach for the stars!” she'd say in a sing-songy voice. 

I could do that.  I was four.  I was gifted at reaching for the stars.

“Now bend backwards.”

I would bend two, maybe three degrees.

Next, Miss Imogene would attempt to “help” by placing her arm behind my back and pushing me backwards.  

And it worked.  My back bent.

However, my legs went into the air as my body converted to a teeter-totter using Miss Imogene’s arm as the fulcrum.

It’s not just my back that is lacking in flexibility.  My legs open to a 45 degree angle. 


Let’s just say you won’t see me starring in any porn movies.  

I can just imagine the scene on the set. 

Director: “Lou, now place your left leg over Bruno’s shoulder.”

Being the professional actor that I am, I would.  My right leg would follow, possibly injuring Bruno’s jaw.

“Lou, leave you right leg under Bruno.”

I would return my right leg to its position under Bruno.  The left leg would follow clobbering Bruno in his manhood.


And my porn star career would end.  Just like that.

But you know what?  I have just discovered a class at Gold’s Gym that may just change my life.  BodyFlow offers participants a chance to improve strength and flexibility while rejuvenating the body’s systems.

Finally.  After decades of being a stiff I will be flexible!  I could become a dancer.  Or a porn star.  Or a dancing porn star!

Decisions, decisions....

OMG.  I could be a Twerk Star!

Or not.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

Living to Tell the Tale

People may wonder why I even attempted that high-ropes course.

It was that damn 24-ounce Blue Moon. That's why.

After that beer I knew I could do it.  Sure, the course looked challenging, but I’d zip lined in three different countries.  And lived to tell the tale. 

So I bought my $15 ticket and left Dave in charge of the camera so he could document my audacious adventure.   My adrenalin was pumping as I stood in line with all the other teenagers.  

Except the line was hardly moving, and I was thirsty for another Blue Moon. To that end, I decided to leave and return in the morning.

I’m not sure how it happened, but sometime during the night they added another story to the structure.  And a bungee rope at the end of the course.

I looked up at the ropes course that had looked so fun (and achievable) just 10 hours earlier.  I gulped. 

I could do this.  Even the bungee.  I jumped out of an airplane once.   And lived to tell the tale.

I was the first customer of the day.  Which, I supposed, was good.  If I fell off a rope and remained precariously suspended in mid-air, fewer people be witnesses to the humiliation.

I joked nervously with the small army of teenage boys who hooked me into my wedgie maker harness.  My pulse began to quicken as I began my ascent to the ropes.  

At the top of the stairs I contemplated the rope course.  OMG.  Who did they think I was, Nic Wallenda?  

I took my first steps.  Looking ahead, not down.  

Because looking down reminded me that I was balancing on a rope five miles in the air.

The first rope bridge I crossed had little boards every foot or so.  No problem.  Except each stinkin’ rope after that got increasingly challenging. Then came Zip Line #1.   

“You go first,” I said to the teenage rope attendant (let’s call him “Tyler”).

Tyler leaned back, lifted his feet and zoomed across effortlessly.

As did I.  Screaming the entire way.  

I looked down to see if Dave had witnessed my achievement.  He did.  Along with a small crowd of spectators.  Damn.

It was time to ascend to the top level, where the difficulty of the ropes increased exponentially. 

Please don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say by the end I was walking across dental floss. 

However, with great determination and focus I made it through Zip Line #2 and the rest of the top-floor course.  I was feeling good about myself until I remembered.  

The bungee.

Another teenager, Justin, was manning the bungee platform.

“You go first”, I said to Tyler.   He jumped.

“Did he splat?” I asked Justin.

“Nope,” Justin assured me as he transferred my cables to the bungee cord.

I looked down to see what must have been the entire population of a day camp field trip sitting below. Watching my every move.  “Jump! Jump! Jump!” they chanted.  

Like I was some jumper on the Golden Gate Bridge or something.  Bunch of sociopaths.

I had no choice.  

I took a step.

And landed on my butt on the launch pad. 

I tried to ignore the giggles from below.  I stood up and brushed off my pants,  took a bigger step.

And landed safely.  No splat.  

I faced my audience, and took a bow as the small army of teenagers removed harnesses.

"Can I do it again?" I asked Tyler.

"Sure," he said, clearly surprised at my new-found bravery.

"Just checking," I said, as headed off to get a much needed Blue Moon.