Hello Readers. Long time, no see. I've been so very busy lately. I moved and it was a total hassle. Like, I still don't have all of my things in my new place, which is a source of worry and woe for me. I haven't the slightest as to how I'm going to retrieve the remaining items I have in Nashville. Does anyone on here have a truck that they'd let me borrow for a few days? The validity of my driver's license is in question.
My sister has way too many children (three--Lana, Myla, Hank) and asked me to come for a visit recently. Not to keep her company, of course, but so that I could be her free nanny. Again, due to the cumbersome move, I haven't seen these little beauties in months. My, how they grow, physically and intellectually, in a short amount of time.
Lana is headed back to pre-school, so I took her shopping on Friday. The items we purchased had nothing to do with school and everything to do with toys, so we had to go shopping again on Saturday. I'm deviating from my point, however. On Friday afternoon, we visited the local Target. As most people know, Target has a section, strategically placed in the front of the store, where everything is $1. Lana instantly ran to it and started placing worthless junk into our cart at lightning speed: sparkly pencils, tiny books, anything with glitter, junk, junk, junk. "You're going to use all of your budget on junk!" I warned her. She didn't give a fuck. Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks.
A dwarf woman passed us in the aisle. I could tell by the way Lana stared and stared and stared some more that she had never seen a dwarf. I attempted to distract her. "Miss Lana, would you like to look at the princess stuff? Let's see all the new princess stuff." Thankfully, the dwarf moved quickly, picked up her $1 party invitations and moved along to the clothing section.
"Aunt Kelli," she whispered, "why was that lady so small?"
"Some people grow up tall and some people stay small. Like some people have dark skin and some people have light skin," was the best I could muster. She seemed to understand. We headed for the toy section. Along the way, however, I spotted another dwarf. I assumed it was the dwarf woman's husband. Then a few dwarf kids. I hoped that Lana did not see them, for I knew a line of questioning would follow.
We perused the princess stuff. We perused the Barbie stuff. We perused what was apparently an aisle dedicated to faux jewels and glitter. Soon, our cart spilled over with overpriced items that she will likely enjoy either never or once. As we headed to the check-out lane, she confessed, "Aunt Kelli, I saw a man who was like that lady. What are they?" Shit.
"They are called little people, honey."
She loudly exclaimed, "Then why are their butts so big?" I turned my head to laugh when I saw the entire dwarf family to my immediate right.
As the weekend progressed, she told varying tales to anyone who would listen about her encounter with the dwarfs. The story became increasingly dramatic with each rehash. Her ultimate conclusion as to why their butts are so big is that little people's brains are located in their butts, as opposed to their heads. I wholeheartedly agreed.
I recently gained ten pounds and my boyfriend of three years has suggested that I am too chubby. I still wear the same size and I'm comfortable at this weight. That said, I am scared he will break up with me if I don't lose the weight I gained. I hate dieting and exercise! What should I do?
Lazy and Loving It
I am so over getting these stupid fucking emails from insecure girls who are afraid their boyfriends will break up with them. If your boyfriend breaks up with you, it is not because you gained ten pounds. It is because he doesn't love you. When my boyfriend broke up with me he told me he never loved me and that he used me for free housing. When he no longer required a free place to live, over ten years later, he left me for a plump and homely groupie.
I was completely baffled at his choice in a partner. I've chronicled his obsession with being thin and his obsession with me being thin on this blog in the past. He forced me to diet for almost the entirety of our relationship. He would make negative comments about my stomach and suggest wear longer skirts to cover up my supposedly fat thighs. I thought about food and eating and not eating all the time. I was a size 2 or 4, but it was never good enough, never small enough for him. I was in perpetual fear that he would leave me for someone thinner. (After we broke up, I stopped dieting and fasting and haven't been above a size 2.)
The first time I saw his hag in the ample flesh, I'm certain I couldn't hide my astonishment. I heard from others that she was overweight, but nothing could have prepared me for this. Her ass was as wide as she is tall, which is about four feet. I made note that she was wearing a long, ugly, granny skirt. I was certain he put her on a (clearly unsuccessful) diet. I wondered what sort of diet? I'm no longer privy to the latest dieting trends because I am never required to be on one again.
Then I had an epiphany. He was never concerned with my weight or size at all. He used a minor insecurity that most girls have in their early 20s as a tool to mind fuck me for years and years. All so he would not have to get a real job and pay his own bills. He was instrumental in destroying my once healthy self-esteem. He morphed me from a girl who was significantly out of his league in terms of physical attractiveness, intelligence and station in life, to one who felt she couldn't do any better than a penniless, alcoholic bass player.
Lazy, BREAK UP WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND IMMEDIATELY and never look back. Try not to gain any more weight because no one likes fat people.
I am writing to request a dose of that sage advice you're always bragging about having. I blame my recent addiction to scrambled eggs with cheese and sage for this desire. That and Heath Ledger, whose woulda been restaurant in Greenpoint fed me said eggs. RIP, dude. [Editor's note: Did I ever tell you people my Heath Ledger joke that I told for a week after he became dead? No? OMG! Did you hear about what happened to the accounting department at work!? They lost a ledger last week!!!]
More so, though, I'm writing because my one true love left me this week and I don't know what to do about it. We were two lost ships without navigation lights (or docking lights, depending on the boat. Amiright?!?), floating down the river, away from one another, for thirteen years. Then one miraculous day (a year ago in three weeks, actually), our boats bumped into one another (in the biblical sense) in the romance capital of New England: Attleboro, MA. Since then, I moved to New York to be with him, and to my dismay, even though things were going beautifully, he decided to up and move to Los Angeles: City of Bikini Sluts, for the summer. That's okay, right?
But then "summer" turned to "September" and we now stand to either be apart for six months or forever (if he "gets a job on something amazing") and I'm not sure what to do. My friends all say he's not the type of guy who'll fall victim to the wiles of the orange whores in their two-pieces - but what if he does?! Or, what if he finds someone who isn't in a bikini at all, and instead, is smart and funny and wears real clothes???
Do I trust him, even though we've been sexing for nearly a year and yet don't call each other B- and G-words? Nor have we said the L-word? All these questions seem too stupid to even ask, but I'm hoping some of your infinite relationship wisdom can help guide me in the right direction.
Forever in middle school,
Dearest Ship Storm,
Your situation reminds me of the time when I worked at the MAC counter with a black, ghetto-chick-done-well, Annette, (or as her other, non-white friends would call her, but she would never let me call her: 'Net). Anyway, 'Net and I worked together for about four years and we became quite close. We were both Virgos! She confessed to me that she banged Mike Tyson in the ' 80s--with photographic evidence to prove it! She told me that I was the only white girl she ever met who could do black girls' makeup the right way. You know, without making them look all ashy and shit. I admitted to her that she was the black, ghetto-ass, older sister I never had. BFF!
Let's face it, you can take a girl out of the projects, but you can never take the projects out of the girl. She took too many "bafroom" breaks, "aks'ed" a lot of questions, and sipped on too much grape drank in our years together for me to ever forget from which side of the train tracks she called home.
'Net and I got along famously for most of our friendship. Sadly, as with most relationships, we had a disagreement. Let me preface this with the fact that 'Net, with the exception of me, was highly suspect of white folk in general. One day I aksed (!) her if she would ever bang a white dude. She was all, "Oh hell no! White people smell like wet dogs to me!"
Seriously? I wondered. After about five minutes of chuckling, I said, "What the fuck! I always thought that black people were the ones who smelled like wet dogs!"
"Oh no, girl. It's white people!"
"Oh no you didn't! Black people smell like wet dogs, not white people!"
The vacillating went on and on and on until our shift ended and we drifted towards our respective cars parked in the Macy's parking lot. The next time we worked together we decided that we would never agree on which race reeked of wet dogs, so we agreed to disagree. I think the whole debacle brought us closer as two friends of different races. Since I have a blog and she doesn't, I am going to go on record to say that white people do not smell like wet dogs, the end, no backs, infinity.
Wow. Just Wow. Apparently I wrote all of the preceding stuff last night after I drank an entire bottle of $4.49 "Merlot" that I bought at Seven Eleven. One would suppose that drinking such an elixir would incite a few hallucinations or drunk dials. All I did was post a lowbrow Facebook status update, wrote most of this response and murdered a homeless person.
So, you want to know what you should do about a dude you love who moved a couple thousand miles away from you or something like that? I would say, break up with him, but since he's not your "B" and you aren't his "G" and you've never said "L", then I guess you really can't break up with someone you weren't ever dating. My advice is that you get some of this wine I had last night and see where the night takes you. Also, since you are free for the summer, you should be my merch girl on my comedy tour taking place in June.
It is a tedious evening in a dull town. White Cat arrives at The Black Lodge, after a long night of drinking and taking pharmies. Black Cat, sipping whiskies and smoking cigarettes, welcomes White Cat to The Lodge.
White Cat: I am soooo drunk! I want some more whiskies!
Black Cat: Let me pour you a glass! Let's celebrate!
WC: (sipping on fresh whiskies) I have an idea. Let's have a sex party!
BC: That's a great idea! I'm so glad we can have sex parties again now that we've been tested for feline AIDS. We are FIV negative! Getting tested was the best suggestion Calico Kitten has ever given us. Who should we invite?
WC: Here, here! Let the sex partyin' commence! Well, Motorhead is out of town. (checks Facebook) Oh, look, Captain America is online. Maybe he wants to sex party?!
BC: Yes! Invite Captain America. He's cute!
(White Cat messages Captain America re: potential sex party. Captain America responds to White Cat via text message.)
Written by: Black Cat (Heavily) Edited by: Blue Velvet
Black Cat: As herself
Seven: As Black Cat's friend
Leonardo: As some Italian guy
It was a cold, dark night in a known hipster bar nestled in known hipster neighborhood in Brooklyn. (Editor's note: Yes, I realize that's an oxymoron.) Black Cat and Seven sit at the bar, enjoying whiskies, theme shots, and some pharmies provided by a NYC taxi driver. Black Cat goes and and on about how it was she who scored the pharmies. Seven rolls her eyes and secretly adds yet another drink to Black Cat's ample tab.
The close of the night is fast approaching. Black Cat and Seven soon find themselves seated next to an empty chair, followed by two attractive (enough) potential gentlemen callers.
Black Cat [to Seven]: Hey. See that guy over there?
Black Cat: Think I could get him to buy me a drink?
Seven: I dare you.
Black Cat: When it's on motherfucker, then it's on, G.
Black Cat pretends to use the ladies' room. When she returns, she sits in the empty chair next to the attractive-ish (for 3am) stranger. En route to the empty chair, she stops to play some R. Kelly on the jukebox and gives all of the black person in the bar a high five. He seems to enjoy this.
Seven: Never mind. Dare's off. Those dudes are... not American. They're not speaking English.
Black Cat: It's OK. I got this.
Black Cat [to Leonardo]: Hey! Where are you guys from??
Leonardo: We are on holiday from Italy.
Black Cat [because she is a genius]: Oh, Italy! Hablas Español?
As fate would have it, Leonardo speaks more Spanish than English, and the rest of the conversation proceeds in Spanish.
(Editor's note: The following has been translated in English for the dumb dumbs.)
Black Cat: What are you drinking?
Leonardo: Rum & Coke. Would you like to try it?
Black Cat: Sure! Although I prefer Whiskey & Coke... [bats her never ending eyelashes]
Black Cat: :(
Leonardo: Do you have a boyfriend?
Black Cat: Je suis celibataire! Je parle français, btw! j/k! No. I do not have a boyfriend! However, I think I broke a rib.
Black Cat and Leonardo make their way to the men's room to fuck.
Black Cat: You stay in here for a minute. I don't want to walk out together and look like a slut.
Black Cat runs to the bar and drinks the rest of Leonardo's almost full drink.
Black Cat [to Seven]: WE HAVE TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW! [Holds up empty glass.] Dare completed.
Last Call. Penniless. Two sisters looking for some "to go" beers, a ride home after a night of debauchery. Oh, Kyle, you shouldn't have pulled that $20 out of your wallet, but you did and regret soon followed.
I truly appreciate you buying us that six pack so that my sister and I could continue drinking after the bar closed. I also appreciate the fact that when you told us that you would give us a ride home in your truck, sans extended cab, that you didn't object to dropping off the cook, Bones, on the way. (Who my sister and I promised a ride home earlier in the night even though we didn't have a ride home ourselves.) Many thanks for the White Castle cheesesticks and fries. It's unfortunate that you ran out of money and were not able to get anything at White Castle for yourself, as french fries at 4am are quite delicious.
Did you find it as exhilarating as we did when we were cruising down MLK, jamming to your cassette single of Anthrax/Public Enemy's "Bring The Noise", and, despite you asking us not to smoke in the truck, we did anyway and I dropped a lit cigarette under the seat? You had to pull over in a shady part of town to look for it, tres exciting. We could have been killed or, at the least carjacked. Danger. Intrigue. That would have never happened if you hadn't met us minutes before the bar closed and flashed some cash.
When we finally made it to my apartment, you seemed, especially by the way you parked, that you were expecting and even entitled to an invitation to come upstairs and drink the beers you bought. Alas, this would not happen. My sister and I quickly grabbed the beers and skipped off into the night, pulling a locked security door behind us.
I'm sort of sorry, but Kyle, at the end of the day....you can't cheat an honest man and rap is not afraid of you.
Blue Velvet--in addition to authoring this award winning blog--is a professional technical, creative and comedy writer, wardrobe stylist, sometime stand-up comedian, boutique proprietor, occasional actress, traveler of the world, hobbyist and lover of kitty cats.
She originally hails from the Cincinnati area, did hard time in Nashville, and now calls New Orleans home.