I have been inspired to work out all the time now. I know that most of you may be rolling your eyes and saying “We’ve heard this before”, but HALT my weary reader, this time I am a changed man.
I was recently working a triathlon; we were filming it and I knew several of the participants competing. It was early, it was humid, we won’t even talk about my hair, I really would have rather slept in to be honest, but my demeanor soon changed, because as I turned the corner I was greeted by greased abdominals and perky pectorals.
The beach was full of men wearing nothing but booty shorts and baby oil.
What in the hell? Where has all this man meat been hiding in Hilton Head? It was paradise. I mean, yes, there are some prune-like old men wearing spandex and Speedo’s, but you have to take the good with the bad.
As soon as I realized that I was salivating and experiencing a tingle in my tutu area, I had to snap out of it and pretend that I wasn’t noticing the delicious assortment of beaux-hunks.
Let Me Tell You How This Works:
1. The Arrival- You get there and you go sign in and get your cute little tag to wear while you compete. Then a woman comes and writes the same number on your arm with a permanent marker. THEN, this is the best part, she writes your age on the back of your right calf! She is doing all the work for you, and she doesn’t even know it, she is like the best wing man ever! This allows for you to scope out all of the potential candidates in your age range without even having to talk to them. Talk about perfect?
2. The Start of the Race- Everyone gathers in a big cluster barely clothed; they are shaking hands, patting asses, HUGGING! Agh. Anyways, this allows time for you to take your position near the age appropriate hotties that you have scoped during the arrival section. Make sure to tell them “Good Luck” or something of that nature so you know that they have taken notice to you, I mean of course they would notice you anyways, you’re hot, but just in case they’re way too in the zone, you at least make your mark.
3. The Swim- As the gun, or cowbell as it was in this instance, goes off you run into the water. Try and stay close to your options, but not too close, we aren’t desperate. This swimming portion allows for further inspection of their back, arms and shoulders, muscle groups you are going to want to take into consideration. I mean, what if you marry one of these men? Aren’t you going to want to have a strong man to carry you across the threshold of your new home after your wedding? You certainly don’t want a scrawny little thing that gets a hernia when he attempts to lift you. These are the things you have to think about. Also, don’t worry about the jellyfish stings; there are so many people peeing in the water at this point, that it won’t hurt but for a minute.
4. The Biking- As you and your dripping wet hunks make it out of the water you have to run to your bike. At this point in the race you can choose to tag in a team mate to do the biking part for you. If one of your options does decide to do this, cross him off the list; this shows that he lacks stamina, and we know what that means. You don’t want a strong man to carry you across the threshold on your wedding night with his big arms, and then have to “tag someone in” because he lacks the stamina, no ma’am! Follow the “one man team”. The biking can get rigorous, but stay with it, this is ample time to check out his legs, and of course his buttocks.
5. The Run- Girl, I know this race is difficult but you can do it. This is the best part, he’s shirtless and wearing barely any pants! I know that you may be lacking energy but this is where we have to power through. At this point it is safe to jog alongside your new found men ( I am pretty sure you have narrowed it down to two or three by now). Staying alongside him at this point will make him realize that he has some competition that he didn’t have before; of course, we all know that you could easily smoke him, but you have been busy checking him out the whole race. The final test starts here. Keep in time with your prey, it may be a smart idea to even get in the same rhythm as him, and then pretend you have a bead of sweat forming around your eye. Take your elbow and casually, without breaking stride with him, wipe your face to “clear the sweat”. This is an old trick, but it works. While your man may think that you are just wiping your sweaty brow, the real intent is to check out what he is packing; don’t act like you haven’t done this, I know you have. I realized yesterday that triathlons are the ideal place to see what is going down in Wienerville, they just flop around like nobody’s business, for everyone to see! Even though there is this blatant display of manhood, be discrete, it is not a good feeling when a man sees you ogling his goodies, he thinks you are only interested in one thing after that, and we are ladies, that isn’t ALL we are after. Think about the wedding night, the big arms and high stamina may be worthless with out a decent sized friend joining the party. Be weary of no flop, but cautious of TOO much flop, a little swingin' is all we be needin'.
6. The Finish Line- You did it! You finished the race, and looked damn good doing it. You also found a potential mate in the midst of things, whether he knows it or not. Just because you have crossed the finish line, doesn’t mean you are done with your prowl, you have got to walk it out, I mean you just did a triathlon and all. Follow him discretely (if you haven’t noticed yet, the general theme is to be close enough to be approachable, but far enough away to be mysterious), start to stretch. Pass a flirtatious look his way when he is bent over stretching his calves, and catch his eye. Smile turn away.
7. Awards- OK, so you did a great job, and you won 18 trophies, but the ultimate prize hasn't been won yet. You see your man walking off the platform, he is carrying an award, of course, we only choose award winning men. At this point you should start talking. You chose the conversation, you are in control, he is suitable for you, not the other way around sister.
Good Luck.
I had once thought that triathlons were a place where only skinny people who have no sort of social life went to hang out with their own kind. On the contrary my friends, the women who attend these wiener races have it all figured out.
Now, where is my speedo?
Showing posts with label High Heels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label High Heels. Show all posts
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
a Terrible Tiara Tale...
An important thing to remember when you are going to an event, especially an event that you have to travel multiple hours/miles to, is this: always note the time change.
Why do you think I am telling you this? Guess. JUST guess. That's right, THAT IS RIGHT, I missed Miss America 2010.
I was sitting here thinking to myself, as I was choosing which shoes to wear to this momentous occasion, how excited my mother was going to be to see her first born on TV when she tuned in at 7pm to watch THE Miss America pageant, and see me in the crowd, cheering, possibly crying because I was so overwhelmed with glee...and then it hit me. If she was tuning in at 7pm Alabama time...that means, it is going to be two hours earlier in Vegas, because of the time change. I panicked and in a whirlwind of chaos grabbed anything that looked remotely like something I would need at the pageant. I was getting hairspray, colognes, all my shoes, etc., and bobby pins, in case the reigning Miss America forgot some when she crowned the new one, I would rush up to the stage and offer my helping hand!
In this mad dash I am not able to get hold of Bex, screaming and running to my car in 6" leopard print peep toe pumps, I fumbled with my 7 bags and car keys, cursing the gay powers that be, for letting me be so stupid. I cranked up LaRhetta, and hauled off to meet her at her house. I text her and told her to be ready to start moving as I pulled into the driveway. As I fought traffic as if someone was chasing me down the freeway, all the while calculating how fast we would have to go to get there, it was possible, if we went at a constant speed of 84 miles an hour.
I pull into Bex's house and I see her, in a full out run, loading up her car, I pause here to make a note that this chick had some rocking hair, she curled it for me because everyone who knows me knows of my obsession with curly hair, and she did it as an extra surprise for me, ANYWAYS, I digress. She is in a full out run, literally throwing her suitcases into her car from across the yard. Without a word, we both, in unison, start to unload my bags and jump in her car. Out of breath, panting and praying for a miracle we sped down the 15 towards the Silver State.
We finally start to talk about how stupid we both were for not realizing it sooner, and laughed it off, I mean, we were making good time , and what else could go wrong?
(NOTE: Never ask yourself, "What else could possibly go wrong". Why? Because God will show you instantly.)
We were right in the middle of the chorus belting out "It's Raining Men", and I heard a sound effect that I had never noticed before. That sound effect sounded oddly like...a police siren.
Yup.
The fuzz. The fuzz was pulling us over. For speeding. Mind you, I never told Bex my theory of the 84 miles an hour, just so it is clear.
We pull over to the shoulder, and we prepare for the State Trooper to let us have it. He comes up to my window, and screams "I PULLED YOU OVER FOR SPEEDING". We informed him that we were in a hurry to get to Vegas and we didn't realize how fast we were going. He asked for ID, registration and insurance. Bex reached across the car to open the glove compartment box, and he instantly reached for his gun and said "Woah!!". When he realized that she was reaching for her papers, that he had just asked for, he felt embarrassed, I think, and then tried to be smooth about it and act relaxed. This is when he saw my shoes. My big ass 6" leopard print peep toe shoes with the 1" platform. I thought he was checking me out, then realized that it isn't everyday you see this, especially in the Mojave Desert, I know he secretly enjoyed my well toned calf muscle in those shoes, because I am sure that his wife has cankles and only wears crocs, so it must have been a treat for him to oggle my goodies. We were asked a series of questions, and then he went to run the plates. He came back with a ticket. Going 96 in a 70. Whooops! So that took up 25 minutes of our journey. Then we hit insane traffic. At this point the pageant has started seating people, and we had barely gotten into Nevada. We finally arrive to the outskirts of Vegas. We make it to the pageant doors, after valeting Dora the Scion, both of us clacking up in our big girl shoes. Then this BEAST OF A WOMAN denies us entry because the pageant commenced 25 minutes prior. I wanted to cry. I was on the verge of a breakdown. I still am actually.
After 10 minutes arguing with this sexually depraved creature in her awful navy suit and totally out of season doc martins, we left. Defeated. I heard the crowd cheering, and it was clear, my dream of seeing Miss America, was still just that, a dream. I wanted to slap that woman in her throat, and punch that cop right in his gonads.
We went to our hotel, Miss Amy texting me all the results as we waited in our check in line at the Flamingo. Went up to the room, and caught the tail end of the pageant. We still had a good time that night, for the most part. I mean, it's Vegas, Vegas always has something to do. I was introduced to Jimmy Buffet's restaurant and Bex and I followed around a lesbian couple, one of them, the short squatty one, was wearing a plaid skirt, that came a shade above her ass cheeks. It was so horrifying we of course, had to follow it, and listened to the comments that people were making about it as she passed them. We drank out of an Eiffel Tower shaped cup.
I am, of course, upset blog buddies, I mean, it was a big deal for me to go see the glittery dresses and teased hair. But this blog isn't called William Goes to Miss America, it is Adventures of a Boy in Heels, and that is exactly what I had. An adventure, and, no, it isn't the adventure I had planned, hoped for, or promised you, but I did deliver you an adventure. I promise that our next trip is planned/thought out better!! I am glad to now have 39 of you loyal readers, and hope that you stay tuned for my next installment, the fun is just beginning...
Loving you always!!
xox
William
PS I totally picked Miss Virginia to win, before I even left for the pageant, I am just that good.
Why do you think I am telling you this? Guess. JUST guess. That's right, THAT IS RIGHT, I missed Miss America 2010.
I was sitting here thinking to myself, as I was choosing which shoes to wear to this momentous occasion, how excited my mother was going to be to see her first born on TV when she tuned in at 7pm to watch THE Miss America pageant, and see me in the crowd, cheering, possibly crying because I was so overwhelmed with glee...and then it hit me. If she was tuning in at 7pm Alabama time...that means, it is going to be two hours earlier in Vegas, because of the time change. I panicked and in a whirlwind of chaos grabbed anything that looked remotely like something I would need at the pageant. I was getting hairspray, colognes, all my shoes, etc., and bobby pins, in case the reigning Miss America forgot some when she crowned the new one, I would rush up to the stage and offer my helping hand!
In this mad dash I am not able to get hold of Bex, screaming and running to my car in 6" leopard print peep toe pumps, I fumbled with my 7 bags and car keys, cursing the gay powers that be, for letting me be so stupid. I cranked up LaRhetta, and hauled off to meet her at her house. I text her and told her to be ready to start moving as I pulled into the driveway. As I fought traffic as if someone was chasing me down the freeway, all the while calculating how fast we would have to go to get there, it was possible, if we went at a constant speed of 84 miles an hour.
I pull into Bex's house and I see her, in a full out run, loading up her car, I pause here to make a note that this chick had some rocking hair, she curled it for me because everyone who knows me knows of my obsession with curly hair, and she did it as an extra surprise for me, ANYWAYS, I digress. She is in a full out run, literally throwing her suitcases into her car from across the yard. Without a word, we both, in unison, start to unload my bags and jump in her car. Out of breath, panting and praying for a miracle we sped down the 15 towards the Silver State.
We finally start to talk about how stupid we both were for not realizing it sooner, and laughed it off, I mean, we were making good time , and what else could go wrong?
(NOTE: Never ask yourself, "What else could possibly go wrong". Why? Because God will show you instantly.)
We were right in the middle of the chorus belting out "It's Raining Men", and I heard a sound effect that I had never noticed before. That sound effect sounded oddly like...a police siren.
Yup.
The fuzz. The fuzz was pulling us over. For speeding. Mind you, I never told Bex my theory of the 84 miles an hour, just so it is clear.
We pull over to the shoulder, and we prepare for the State Trooper to let us have it. He comes up to my window, and screams "I PULLED YOU OVER FOR SPEEDING". We informed him that we were in a hurry to get to Vegas and we didn't realize how fast we were going. He asked for ID, registration and insurance. Bex reached across the car to open the glove compartment box, and he instantly reached for his gun and said "Woah!!". When he realized that she was reaching for her papers, that he had just asked for, he felt embarrassed, I think, and then tried to be smooth about it and act relaxed. This is when he saw my shoes. My big ass 6" leopard print peep toe shoes with the 1" platform. I thought he was checking me out, then realized that it isn't everyday you see this, especially in the Mojave Desert, I know he secretly enjoyed my well toned calf muscle in those shoes, because I am sure that his wife has cankles and only wears crocs, so it must have been a treat for him to oggle my goodies. We were asked a series of questions, and then he went to run the plates. He came back with a ticket. Going 96 in a 70. Whooops! So that took up 25 minutes of our journey. Then we hit insane traffic. At this point the pageant has started seating people, and we had barely gotten into Nevada. We finally arrive to the outskirts of Vegas. We make it to the pageant doors, after valeting Dora the Scion, both of us clacking up in our big girl shoes. Then this BEAST OF A WOMAN denies us entry because the pageant commenced 25 minutes prior. I wanted to cry. I was on the verge of a breakdown. I still am actually.
After 10 minutes arguing with this sexually depraved creature in her awful navy suit and totally out of season doc martins, we left. Defeated. I heard the crowd cheering, and it was clear, my dream of seeing Miss America, was still just that, a dream. I wanted to slap that woman in her throat, and punch that cop right in his gonads.
We went to our hotel, Miss Amy texting me all the results as we waited in our check in line at the Flamingo. Went up to the room, and caught the tail end of the pageant. We still had a good time that night, for the most part. I mean, it's Vegas, Vegas always has something to do. I was introduced to Jimmy Buffet's restaurant and Bex and I followed around a lesbian couple, one of them, the short squatty one, was wearing a plaid skirt, that came a shade above her ass cheeks. It was so horrifying we of course, had to follow it, and listened to the comments that people were making about it as she passed them. We drank out of an Eiffel Tower shaped cup.
I am, of course, upset blog buddies, I mean, it was a big deal for me to go see the glittery dresses and teased hair. But this blog isn't called William Goes to Miss America, it is Adventures of a Boy in Heels, and that is exactly what I had. An adventure, and, no, it isn't the adventure I had planned, hoped for, or promised you, but I did deliver you an adventure. I promise that our next trip is planned/thought out better!! I am glad to now have 39 of you loyal readers, and hope that you stay tuned for my next installment, the fun is just beginning...
Loving you always!!
xox
William
PS I totally picked Miss Virginia to win, before I even left for the pageant, I am just that good.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Garments from Hell
I witnessed a 58 year old woman wearing a tube top today I almost hopped out of my car and slapped her to the ground to rip it off of her wrinkly body.
I hate tube tops. HATE THEM. I don't care if you are a 5'10 slender, flat stomached woman, or if you are a 300+ mess of a woman , no one should wear a tube top.
They are trashy.
Do you wish to rebuke this statement? Do men come up to you when you are wearing your tube top? Yes? Where are you when this happens? In your local biker bar? Oh, OK..and are these the type of men you want to marry? [If you are in a biker bar and wearing a tube top,I realize, yes, this is the man you will probably marry, but, otherwise,no]. And if on the off chance you do marry them, they are probably going to cheat on you with the first bedazzled tube top to cross his path after the honeymoon.
Why?
Because men have it programmed in their heads that "tube top" is code for skank, which, as a good rule of thumb, it is. And you may not be a skank at all. For all I know you are a Harvard law student who is working towards a high powered legal career, and the only reason you wore that tacky piece of shit is because that blonde girl, Cindy, from Malibu who you somehow ended up being roomies with junior year convinced you that that would be the perfect choice to wear for a girls night out.
Regardless, a man is going to take you as a skank and all that Harvard crap isn't going to matter, we all know what that tube top translates to in a straight mans head...sex. and skank.
If you feel like I am being overly dramatic about this topic, you may be right, but I am very ANTI. So anti in fact that I had to let my own mother know what I was thinking when she whipped out a little white number on me one fine spring day. We were sitting in her closet (yes, I was sitting in a closet..don't even try..it's too easy) and she was showing me her outfits she was packing for an all girls beach trip. Well you know, there were sundresses, and there were sandals, some cute jewelry...and then, tucked into her little duffel bag was a garment that will haunt my dreams forever. IT was this white tube top that LACED UP THE SIDES, like shoe string status! I completely blacked out I can't remember a thing, it wasn't until later when I awoke from my fashion coma, I asked her which corner of what bargain bin she salvaged it from, AND ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?! She borrowed it from my Aunt Sloane. And then went on to defend it! Saying that Sloane got all these guys looking and coming up to her when she was wearing it, at the FLORABAMA when they went on their last beach trip.
To give those of you an idea of how classy the Florabama is, they are hosting their 25th Annual Mullet Toss this year. Nice.
Now, I will say this, my mother and my Aunt Sloane, they are very well dressed women, and out of anyplace to wear a tube top, a beach bar is, I guess, the best choice. And, hell, if they are wearing tube tops somewhere that is proudly hosting a "Mullet Toss", they might be the more dressed up in the crowd.
My point being, even my mother and beloved aunt who I think are amazing, beautiful, smart, and independent women, are not safe from my war on tube tops.
Moral of Post: Tube Tops are Horrid. I don't care if they are full coverage, midriff, bedazzled, glittered, Ed Hardy,gold plated, rhinestone incrested, hell I wouldn't care if Jesus came back wearing one, I would tell him the same damn thing. TUBE TOPS ARE WRETCHED!!!
I hope that anyone reading this soundly burns their TT's, and every time you see someone wearing one, please roundhouse kick them in the face.
Thank you for your support.
William
xox
I hate tube tops. HATE THEM. I don't care if you are a 5'10 slender, flat stomached woman, or if you are a 300+ mess of a woman , no one should wear a tube top.
They are trashy.
Do you wish to rebuke this statement? Do men come up to you when you are wearing your tube top? Yes? Where are you when this happens? In your local biker bar? Oh, OK..and are these the type of men you want to marry? [If you are in a biker bar and wearing a tube top,I realize, yes, this is the man you will probably marry, but, otherwise,no]. And if on the off chance you do marry them, they are probably going to cheat on you with the first bedazzled tube top to cross his path after the honeymoon.
Why?
Because men have it programmed in their heads that "tube top" is code for skank, which, as a good rule of thumb, it is. And you may not be a skank at all. For all I know you are a Harvard law student who is working towards a high powered legal career, and the only reason you wore that tacky piece of shit is because that blonde girl, Cindy, from Malibu who you somehow ended up being roomies with junior year convinced you that that would be the perfect choice to wear for a girls night out.
Regardless, a man is going to take you as a skank and all that Harvard crap isn't going to matter, we all know what that tube top translates to in a straight mans head...sex. and skank.
If you feel like I am being overly dramatic about this topic, you may be right, but I am very ANTI. So anti in fact that I had to let my own mother know what I was thinking when she whipped out a little white number on me one fine spring day. We were sitting in her closet (yes, I was sitting in a closet..don't even try..it's too easy) and she was showing me her outfits she was packing for an all girls beach trip. Well you know, there were sundresses, and there were sandals, some cute jewelry...and then, tucked into her little duffel bag was a garment that will haunt my dreams forever. IT was this white tube top that LACED UP THE SIDES, like shoe string status! I completely blacked out I can't remember a thing, it wasn't until later when I awoke from my fashion coma, I asked her which corner of what bargain bin she salvaged it from, AND ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?! She borrowed it from my Aunt Sloane. And then went on to defend it! Saying that Sloane got all these guys looking and coming up to her when she was wearing it, at the FLORABAMA when they went on their last beach trip.
To give those of you an idea of how classy the Florabama is, they are hosting their 25th Annual Mullet Toss this year. Nice.
Now, I will say this, my mother and my Aunt Sloane, they are very well dressed women, and out of anyplace to wear a tube top, a beach bar is, I guess, the best choice. And, hell, if they are wearing tube tops somewhere that is proudly hosting a "Mullet Toss", they might be the more dressed up in the crowd.
My point being, even my mother and beloved aunt who I think are amazing, beautiful, smart, and independent women, are not safe from my war on tube tops.
Moral of Post: Tube Tops are Horrid. I don't care if they are full coverage, midriff, bedazzled, glittered, Ed Hardy,gold plated, rhinestone incrested, hell I wouldn't care if Jesus came back wearing one, I would tell him the same damn thing. TUBE TOPS ARE WRETCHED!!!
I hope that anyone reading this soundly burns their TT's, and every time you see someone wearing one, please roundhouse kick them in the face.
Thank you for your support.
William
xox
Bridget the Fancy Feast-er
I was talking to Bridget today. She quoted a line from Disney's "Bambi", she referred to some one being "twitterpated". I thought that this was a cross between the words 'to twitter' and 'masturbate', like, he got so excited about how many followers he had he started twitterpating about it. This is not the case. Apparently, to be twitterpated means to be excited or overly zealous about something or someone, it was used by Thumper the Rabbit in Bambi, which just goes to show that you are never too old to learn new things everyday.
She mocked me for not knowing this quote, because I am a self declared Disney fanatic, and it seemed that I had lost my touch. I, however, could not bear to watch this movie, or Dumbo. I hated that both of them lost their mothers (even if Dumbo did finally get reunited), and that in turn caused me to have a fear for most of my youth, of being obsessed with the thought I was going to lose my Mommie Dearest. So, Miss Amy cut me off of the depressing shit.
Bridget, now feeling awkward by my informing her of my inability to cope with these cartoon tragedies, felt obligated to contribute something strange about her childhood that would make me feel a little bit better about being the perfect Zoloft candidate at 4 years old. And boy did she deliver. This is what I got.
"Don't worry. When I was younger I used to lick my hand after feeding the cats."
"WHAT? Like after handling the food?"
"Don't judge me Mama's boy."
Touché.
xox.
William
*EDIT* After reading this entry my friend Bailey informed me that she "once" urinated in a pizza box as a child.
"When I was a kid for some reason I peed in a pizza box one time, and the threw it away in my kitchen I was a weird kid"
This leads me to the question...weren't we all weird kids? Tell me what you did that was weird..leave a commentskies!
She mocked me for not knowing this quote, because I am a self declared Disney fanatic, and it seemed that I had lost my touch. I, however, could not bear to watch this movie, or Dumbo. I hated that both of them lost their mothers (even if Dumbo did finally get reunited), and that in turn caused me to have a fear for most of my youth, of being obsessed with the thought I was going to lose my Mommie Dearest. So, Miss Amy cut me off of the depressing shit.
Bridget, now feeling awkward by my informing her of my inability to cope with these cartoon tragedies, felt obligated to contribute something strange about her childhood that would make me feel a little bit better about being the perfect Zoloft candidate at 4 years old. And boy did she deliver. This is what I got.
"Don't worry. When I was younger I used to lick my hand after feeding the cats."
"WHAT? Like after handling the food?"
"Don't judge me Mama's boy."
Touché.
xox.
William
*EDIT* After reading this entry my friend Bailey informed me that she "once" urinated in a pizza box as a child.
"When I was a kid for some reason I peed in a pizza box one time, and the threw it away in my kitchen I was a weird kid"
This leads me to the question...weren't we all weird kids? Tell me what you did that was weird..leave a commentskies!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Beers & Sticky Boobies
There are things that you and your best friends do that you will never forget for as long as you live. I was reminded of one such occurrence today when I was talking to my best friend, Bridget, and we started to gab about one of our adventures one fateful Homecoming night.
This was before the high heel craze, and I was just a little closet gay boy in Alabama, who had great hair, and new perfectly straight teeth, I was just beginning to get the hang of high school and come into my own. Bridget was the same as she is now, beautiful brown hair that is always perfectly curled with the aid of her hot rollers,and pearls with every outfit, even when she was playing basketball, which just goes to prove that she was, and is still a lady. This maybe the best time to mention that we have the same size feet, and as fate would have it,her secretly gay friend always tried on her stilettos, and now she is asking to borrow his. We were usually each other's back up dates to these sort of things, just so we don't appear to be dateless or pathetic, both of us with the understanding that if there was an available man at the function, we would bow out gracefully and race to see who could get his number first. This year, however, circumstances were different and Bridget had been asked by a junior, which was no matter to me because I had a secret weapon, her name opossums, is Audrey. The one thing you need to know about Audrey is that you never know what she is going to do next, she is a firecracker, a wild card, and it is the one quality that she has that has made me fall and remain deeply in love with her. Audrey came to homecoming at my school, that only had 144 people at the time, and turned my modest Catholic Boarding School on it's ear.. Most girls wore a long floor length dress made out of all kinds of hideous fibers that I wouldn't let come within a 23 foot radius of my body, and they all had ghastly up-do's that their pageant mothers did for them on the porch of their double wide, every hair held securely in place by copious amounts of Aqua Net and bobby pins. Audrey, however, came into that sorry excuse of a dance wearing a sassy and dangerously short teal flowy dress that showed off her long dancer legs, with her hair down, and wavy. She wore her show choir heels and told all the nun-wanna-be's that they were designer, Michael Kors or something, they were definitely $45 from a dance apparel store, but these people ate her up, they loved her, as anyone would, they thought she was a big city girl. We all danced, I showed her off, and that is when the trouble began. One girl, Marie, came up to us and asked us if we "really wanted to party". A note to anyone reading this that is in high school, and is approached by a "Marie" type person, always say "HELL NO MARIE YOU CRAZY FUCKER". Trust me, it will only save you many hours of stress and heartache. Naturally, Audrey was all about something, a little more exciting than the electric slide. So we follow Marie to a gas station that shares the same main road that our school does. Audrey and I pull up behind my friend Claire, who has a car full of Freshmen who in turn are all related to her. And then, our friend who will forever live in my mind as the Wootten drove up. The Wootten was the smaller scale version of Audrey, she was kind of a ding dong at times, but I always have loved her. So, the Wootten and Marie get out of their Cadillacs, yes two white 16 year old girls in Alabama drove matching pimped out Caddy's, I know, what the hell, and pulled out beers from their trunk. I am not going to lie to you, I was this little virgin gay boy who spent his time admiring shoes in Vogue magazine, the same little gay boy who had the fear of God put into him by his parents if they ever caught him drinking and driving, I started to panic. Audrey was all about this. I was petrified.
We each got handed a bottle of Bud Light. It was warm, Marie had gotten
"a guy she new" (that means one of the redneck boys who hangs out at the local Wal-Mart, who graduated high school three years earlier and dropped out of community college after a month because he was going to be in the Army, then he failed because of drugs or something, and now spends his days huntin' and fishin' and drinking Natty Light in the back of his pick-em-up truck, scamming on girls who are still in high school, because they are the easiest ones to convince to sleep with you because everyone your own age knows you are a dumb ass, you know, those types). We all sat in our cars, with open hot alcohol, in our hands waiting for the person in the next car over to take the first sip. The Wootten did it first. Then Claire, then Bridget, then me. I looked over at Audrey who handed hers to me, and told me to drink it, she was "watching her weight". I forced down two gulps of my beer, then I heard the sound of what I thought was a mix of God and my Mother in my head. "YOOOU ARE DRUNK! YOU CAN'T DRINK AND DRIVE!!" I just knew I was shit faced, those two gulps had rendered me unfit to drive and I started sweating, I was an alcoholic, a drunk, I was my GRANDMOTHER!! I turned to Audrey, who had her eyes bright and lit up. She had been planning to use this as her opportunity to drive LaRhetta, my car. She had been bugging me about it ever since I had gotten her, and now took complete advantage of the situation.
"You don't look like you should be driving, how many beers have you had? What if we get pulled over, what will your step dad do if he knows you were drinking and driving?"
She had me cornered.
I agreed to let her drive, but she had to go slowly, the radio had to be off, no cell phones were to be used whilst driving, and she had to keep her hands on the wheel.
PS Audrey didn't have a license.
So we all decide that we need to go back to the dance before someone wonders why all of our cars are parked across the street at the closed gas station that was in clear view from the school. We stashed the beer bottles in a bush in front of the store, and we all get back into our respective vehicles. I was coaching the license-less Audrey, "OK, put it into reverse, now check your mirrors..." She started to back up, slowly, as coached, and started to turn the wheel to back out of the lot. As she is turning the wheel, I will never forget this as long as I shall live, Marie's gray Cadillac slams into reverse and plows right into my car.
MY POOR LARHETTA was in her first accident! We were all stunned that this had happened. I just knew right then and there that the cops were going to show up and breathalyze me and send me to prison, Audrey was going to get the death penalty for driving without a license, and my poor car was going to be sent to a junk yard and sold for parts because no one else would ever buy such a beaten up heap of junk.
Marie got out of her car. Everyone else sat in complete silence, mainly because they thought that I was going to commit a homicide right there in the Pepco parking lot. I opened my car door and got out. My bumper lay there half hanging on with dear life to LaRhetta, half defeated on the slick black pavement.
All Marie could say was "Man, don't worry about it. It won't be that expensive of a fix." As she lit her Camel No. 9.
"It's a fucking Saab Marie! Windshield wiper fluid is expensive for this car!, " I shouted back.
Everyone is slowly starting to trickle out of their vehicles and Marie and I are in the midst of an all out screaming fest when we start to notice a lot of traffic on the road behind us. The dance had started to let out and people's parents were driving by, to pick up their sober, not screaming children up from Winter Homecoming.
Some cars started to honk at us. 11 of us in all, all in our formal wear standing around my broken car in 23 degree weather, wondering what the hell we were going to do.
I will tell you what we did, we panicked. Everyone fled to get into someone else's car so they could leave before anyones parents recognized them and pulled over to see what was happening. Bridget, my best friend in the entire world, yelled at me "See you back at school! Call me!" she jumped in Claire's car, and they drove off, Bridget's coral dress flapping in the door, leaving Marie and me to our own battle. Audrey is sitting in the car at this point, giggling & texting.
We stood there, in awe. We weren't sure what to do at this point. Then,the only remaining soul in the Pepco parking lot, the Wootten, lept out of her car doing what looked like, a boob massage. She was screaming "BOOOOBIES TO THE RESCUE!"
I asked her how much she had to drink, and that this want a time to talk about her mammary glands. She whipped out her fake sticky breasts that she was using to keep her dress up at the dance and adhered them to my bumper and stuck it back onto my car. It was amazing. It worked. The Wootten was my hero. We decided that I would worry about fixing my bumper later, and I would call Marie in the morning with an estimate.
Audrey drove us up to the dance, right as it was letting out, everyone staring at the two C-cup stick on's that LaRhetta was wearing, the monks and nuns that were chaperoning eyed Audrey and I wearily as we walked across the quad. I looked around so I could yell at Bridget, but I couldn't find her. Audrey and I had a final dance, and then decided we wanted IHOP, I was going back to get in my car when I noticed a coral dress sticking out of someone else's car. I went over to the window, of the old stank ass pick up truck and saw my best friend having her face licked, seriously, licked, by the junior boy who had asked her to the dance, Robby. Robby was so frightening, a nice comparison would be that of a goblin. I, at first thought that I was still drunk from my two gulps of beer, but nope, it was happening. I died laughing at the scene, and Bridget gratefully got out of the car, vowing to never leave me stranded again at a gas station as long as she ever lived. Having to make out with Robby, I figured was punishment enough, so I let it slide.
And went to Ihop.
I came up with some lie to my stepfather about this situation the next morning, it must have worked, because I am alive today to tell it. Don't ever go to parking lots and drink warm beer purchased by a redneck. It just isn't worth your time.
xox
William
This was before the high heel craze, and I was just a little closet gay boy in Alabama, who had great hair, and new perfectly straight teeth, I was just beginning to get the hang of high school and come into my own. Bridget was the same as she is now, beautiful brown hair that is always perfectly curled with the aid of her hot rollers,and pearls with every outfit, even when she was playing basketball, which just goes to prove that she was, and is still a lady. This maybe the best time to mention that we have the same size feet, and as fate would have it,her secretly gay friend always tried on her stilettos, and now she is asking to borrow his. We were usually each other's back up dates to these sort of things, just so we don't appear to be dateless or pathetic, both of us with the understanding that if there was an available man at the function, we would bow out gracefully and race to see who could get his number first. This year, however, circumstances were different and Bridget had been asked by a junior, which was no matter to me because I had a secret weapon, her name opossums, is Audrey. The one thing you need to know about Audrey is that you never know what she is going to do next, she is a firecracker, a wild card, and it is the one quality that she has that has made me fall and remain deeply in love with her. Audrey came to homecoming at my school, that only had 144 people at the time, and turned my modest Catholic Boarding School on it's ear.. Most girls wore a long floor length dress made out of all kinds of hideous fibers that I wouldn't let come within a 23 foot radius of my body, and they all had ghastly up-do's that their pageant mothers did for them on the porch of their double wide, every hair held securely in place by copious amounts of Aqua Net and bobby pins. Audrey, however, came into that sorry excuse of a dance wearing a sassy and dangerously short teal flowy dress that showed off her long dancer legs, with her hair down, and wavy. She wore her show choir heels and told all the nun-wanna-be's that they were designer, Michael Kors or something, they were definitely $45 from a dance apparel store, but these people ate her up, they loved her, as anyone would, they thought she was a big city girl. We all danced, I showed her off, and that is when the trouble began. One girl, Marie, came up to us and asked us if we "really wanted to party". A note to anyone reading this that is in high school, and is approached by a "Marie" type person, always say "HELL NO MARIE YOU CRAZY FUCKER". Trust me, it will only save you many hours of stress and heartache. Naturally, Audrey was all about something, a little more exciting than the electric slide. So we follow Marie to a gas station that shares the same main road that our school does. Audrey and I pull up behind my friend Claire, who has a car full of Freshmen who in turn are all related to her. And then, our friend who will forever live in my mind as the Wootten drove up. The Wootten was the smaller scale version of Audrey, she was kind of a ding dong at times, but I always have loved her. So, the Wootten and Marie get out of their Cadillacs, yes two white 16 year old girls in Alabama drove matching pimped out Caddy's, I know, what the hell, and pulled out beers from their trunk. I am not going to lie to you, I was this little virgin gay boy who spent his time admiring shoes in Vogue magazine, the same little gay boy who had the fear of God put into him by his parents if they ever caught him drinking and driving, I started to panic. Audrey was all about this. I was petrified.
We each got handed a bottle of Bud Light. It was warm, Marie had gotten
"a guy she new" (that means one of the redneck boys who hangs out at the local Wal-Mart, who graduated high school three years earlier and dropped out of community college after a month because he was going to be in the Army, then he failed because of drugs or something, and now spends his days huntin' and fishin' and drinking Natty Light in the back of his pick-em-up truck, scamming on girls who are still in high school, because they are the easiest ones to convince to sleep with you because everyone your own age knows you are a dumb ass, you know, those types). We all sat in our cars, with open hot alcohol, in our hands waiting for the person in the next car over to take the first sip. The Wootten did it first. Then Claire, then Bridget, then me. I looked over at Audrey who handed hers to me, and told me to drink it, she was "watching her weight". I forced down two gulps of my beer, then I heard the sound of what I thought was a mix of God and my Mother in my head. "YOOOU ARE DRUNK! YOU CAN'T DRINK AND DRIVE!!" I just knew I was shit faced, those two gulps had rendered me unfit to drive and I started sweating, I was an alcoholic, a drunk, I was my GRANDMOTHER!! I turned to Audrey, who had her eyes bright and lit up. She had been planning to use this as her opportunity to drive LaRhetta, my car. She had been bugging me about it ever since I had gotten her, and now took complete advantage of the situation.
"You don't look like you should be driving, how many beers have you had? What if we get pulled over, what will your step dad do if he knows you were drinking and driving?"
She had me cornered.
I agreed to let her drive, but she had to go slowly, the radio had to be off, no cell phones were to be used whilst driving, and she had to keep her hands on the wheel.
PS Audrey didn't have a license.
So we all decide that we need to go back to the dance before someone wonders why all of our cars are parked across the street at the closed gas station that was in clear view from the school. We stashed the beer bottles in a bush in front of the store, and we all get back into our respective vehicles. I was coaching the license-less Audrey, "OK, put it into reverse, now check your mirrors..." She started to back up, slowly, as coached, and started to turn the wheel to back out of the lot. As she is turning the wheel, I will never forget this as long as I shall live, Marie's gray Cadillac slams into reverse and plows right into my car.
MY POOR LARHETTA was in her first accident! We were all stunned that this had happened. I just knew right then and there that the cops were going to show up and breathalyze me and send me to prison, Audrey was going to get the death penalty for driving without a license, and my poor car was going to be sent to a junk yard and sold for parts because no one else would ever buy such a beaten up heap of junk.
Marie got out of her car. Everyone else sat in complete silence, mainly because they thought that I was going to commit a homicide right there in the Pepco parking lot. I opened my car door and got out. My bumper lay there half hanging on with dear life to LaRhetta, half defeated on the slick black pavement.
All Marie could say was "Man, don't worry about it. It won't be that expensive of a fix." As she lit her Camel No. 9.
"It's a fucking Saab Marie! Windshield wiper fluid is expensive for this car!, " I shouted back.
Everyone is slowly starting to trickle out of their vehicles and Marie and I are in the midst of an all out screaming fest when we start to notice a lot of traffic on the road behind us. The dance had started to let out and people's parents were driving by, to pick up their sober, not screaming children up from Winter Homecoming.
Some cars started to honk at us. 11 of us in all, all in our formal wear standing around my broken car in 23 degree weather, wondering what the hell we were going to do.
I will tell you what we did, we panicked. Everyone fled to get into someone else's car so they could leave before anyones parents recognized them and pulled over to see what was happening. Bridget, my best friend in the entire world, yelled at me "See you back at school! Call me!" she jumped in Claire's car, and they drove off, Bridget's coral dress flapping in the door, leaving Marie and me to our own battle. Audrey is sitting in the car at this point, giggling & texting.
We stood there, in awe. We weren't sure what to do at this point. Then,the only remaining soul in the Pepco parking lot, the Wootten, lept out of her car doing what looked like, a boob massage. She was screaming "BOOOOBIES TO THE RESCUE!"
I asked her how much she had to drink, and that this want a time to talk about her mammary glands. She whipped out her fake sticky breasts that she was using to keep her dress up at the dance and adhered them to my bumper and stuck it back onto my car. It was amazing. It worked. The Wootten was my hero. We decided that I would worry about fixing my bumper later, and I would call Marie in the morning with an estimate.
Audrey drove us up to the dance, right as it was letting out, everyone staring at the two C-cup stick on's that LaRhetta was wearing, the monks and nuns that were chaperoning eyed Audrey and I wearily as we walked across the quad. I looked around so I could yell at Bridget, but I couldn't find her. Audrey and I had a final dance, and then decided we wanted IHOP, I was going back to get in my car when I noticed a coral dress sticking out of someone else's car. I went over to the window, of the old stank ass pick up truck and saw my best friend having her face licked, seriously, licked, by the junior boy who had asked her to the dance, Robby. Robby was so frightening, a nice comparison would be that of a goblin. I, at first thought that I was still drunk from my two gulps of beer, but nope, it was happening. I died laughing at the scene, and Bridget gratefully got out of the car, vowing to never leave me stranded again at a gas station as long as she ever lived. Having to make out with Robby, I figured was punishment enough, so I let it slide.
And went to Ihop.
I came up with some lie to my stepfather about this situation the next morning, it must have worked, because I am alive today to tell it. Don't ever go to parking lots and drink warm beer purchased by a redneck. It just isn't worth your time.
xox
William
Sherrell is a Super Freak...
Here is something amazing.
If anyone is actually following this blog, you are now aware based on my previous entry that I am completely obsessed with the Tudors on Showtime. Well, I am here to tell you that I was telling my mother about it and she was quick to inform me that Sherrell, my grandmother, has told her that "the Tudors" was her favorite show too. My grandmother and I share the same love for soft-core pornographic TV programs about European Royalty.
What a bond my family shares.
xox.
William
If anyone is actually following this blog, you are now aware based on my previous entry that I am completely obsessed with the Tudors on Showtime. Well, I am here to tell you that I was telling my mother about it and she was quick to inform me that Sherrell, my grandmother, has told her that "the Tudors" was her favorite show too. My grandmother and I share the same love for soft-core pornographic TV programs about European Royalty.
What a bond my family shares.
xox.
William
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