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Posts Tagged ‘entertainment’


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Hey Maybelle, the dish needs adjusting.

Why me?

Because you’re in charge of dishes.

I’ve been thinking again. This time about tourettes. I worked with a guy who had tourettes, but he only twitched when he got nervous. He didn’t yell out random obscenities. I thought he should just for fun. I would.

I would begin all meetings with –

“I want to apologize in advance. I have tourettes. When I get nervous I may say a few inappropriate words or phrase. Which can quickly snowball since my nerves will increase the more words I say.”

Then at some point I’ll break in with –

“Holy crap.

Damn it.

Turkey butt.

Sorry ass.

Son of a bitch.

Can those peaches, honey buns!

Sorry my Grandpa was a frugal man.”

And thus would end the meeting on a high note.

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The airplane was so tiny, it could be called a sardine can. my fourteen inch wide carry-on was banging against the seats as I dragged it behind me. I had become intimate with the two seat on the left, one on the right commuter plane. Even at my diminutive height of five foot two, I managed to smack my head on an over head bin. Up until now, all super small planes I’d flown on were short and wide, not super narrow.

This must be how sailor a submarine feel. I do loves me a man in a sailor uniform. But that’s another story.

As I was fighting with my recalcitrant case, banging along after me.  A ray of hope entered the darkness. A cowboy booted foot protruding out in the isle. A cowboy, too tall for his seat. Cowboys always offer help to a woman in distress.

As I slugged closer to immediate help, I notice a harlequin pattern painted on the boot. My stomach began to sink. When I got close enough to realize it was puffy paint, my stomach hit bottom. And not just puffy paint, he had bedazzled his belt to match his boots. This was no cowboy, it was a fauwboy (a faux cowboy).

He didn’t offer to help me with my case. He didn’t even look me in the eye.

Hot and sweaty, struggling down the isle I continued. Then I saw another ray of hope, a cowboy hat way in the back, near my seat. In the row so far back, if they’d have to strap me in the toilet to get me any closer to the rear of the plane.

My seat was finally in reach. Someone would help me heft my case into the overhead bin. I turned with  a forlorn look of desperation. His hat was tied to his head with strings. STRINGS TYING ON HIS HAT. This was no cowboy.

Cowboys do not paint their boots, bedazzle their belts, or need to tie their hats on. Cowboys wear worn boots, real leather, silver belt buckles, jeans without bling and finally, cowboys know how to treat women like ladies.

This is why I loves me a cowboy.

And a sailor

Any man in military uniform.

Firemen.

Texas Ranger, which goes without saying.

And …

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I’ve managed to break another tablet. I mention this since it has been a while since I’ve posted. I travel during the week and use my tablet to stay connected. I managed to break this tablet, by plugging my cell phone charger into my tablet.  Not that this had any thing to do with drinking whiskey straight. It happened during the airport apocalypse. I can assure you there was no whiskey involved in that incident though I think it couldn’t have hurt.

I stay at a hotel in Sioux Falls with a secret club on the ninth floor. You have to know about it and then beg and whine to get access. Since I’m a superb whiner, I was granted access the second night. Persistence, squeaky wheel, you know the drill…

I was given a key card to swipe on the reader in the elevator.  This allows you to reach the hitherto inaccessible ninth floor run by Charlie, a lovely older lady. Charlie’s an interesting character. She use to be a manager with the hotel before she had a brain aneurysm. She has some memory related issues but other than that, she’s in tiptop shape.

At this point, you’re thinking where does the whiskey come in. The attraction of the secret club is an open bar and free food. They serve an entree and what I call bits and pieces, cheese, nuts, shrimp and the like. And did I mention the open bar is free. The Ninth Floor began to remind me of gangster movie, which led to drinking liquor straight.

I would step up to Charlie’s bar and say, “Whiskey, straight.”

Her brows would wrinkle and she would say, “Really?”

I replied, “Yeah.” Like a gansta says yeah.

She would shake her head like we hadn’t been through this the night before and pour the cocktail. I grabbed it, downed it and slammed the glass back down. The mostly male audience was impressed. And I would go about my evening.

Recently I went in for a checkup. My doctor is a tiny thing, even shorter than my five foot two self. This doctor makes grown men quake, even other doctors.

I have a policy “Be bad, but don’t lie about it.” So when she asked, You’re a moderate drinker, right?

I replied, “Yeah, mostly. Except for the whiskey, straight, only one, a night.”

She stopped and turned. I’m sure she assumed I would have a different answer.

“What you mean?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses.

“I found this club. The drinks are free. One thing leads to another. You know.”

The diminutive doctor comes over. Patting my arm she said, “Just because it’s free, doesn’t mean we want it.”

Now when a bartender asks me, “Want something to drink?”

I replied, “Nah, my doctor told me to stop drinking whiskey straight.”

Which gets about the same reaction as drinking whiskey straight.

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