The One Where Karl Loses a Bet and Then Has to Write a Guest Post
I wrote this late last Sunday for CheekySweetie’s blog. I know it was overdue, but I did get it done. -K
So there was this bet that Angel and I made. She claimed that the carpet in her bedroom was the ugliest carpet on Earth. I told her that I have 10 years on her, grew up in the 70’s, and have seen a TON of ugly carpet. Hello? Lime green and burnt orange, people? Shag carpeting?
If, in fact, she did possess the ugliest carpet on Earth, I would have to write her a guest post for her blog. This, during a time when I barely touched my own blog. Good choice. She wanted to make me work.
If, in fact, she did NOT own the nastiest carpet on the planet, well…shit, I forget what I would have won. It doesn’t matter, clearly, because I’m here, aren’t I?
I lose. Story of my life.
She really does have the ugliest carpet on the planet. It has dark orange and blood red and puce and cream, all swirled together in this melange that you’d think would look like a creamsicle but, in fact, looks like someone vomited all over her floor. I wish I’d gotten photos of it.
Thought about it a lot over the holidays. Wasn’t sure what I’d write, but came up with a Top 10 list because I’m lazy.
I don’t ever talk about my love life on my own blog, but then, I’m not exactly AT my blog, now am I? See? This is what you get for getting me to write a guest post for you, Angel. Next time you’ll think twice.
Why CheekySweetie Rocks
- Angel blogs. I’ve always said that my future girlfriend was going to have to be a blogger. Blogger girls are the only ones who’d understand all the time I spend on a computer. Facebook, Twitter, blogging…she does it all and more often than I do. She doesn’t even blink when my thumbs are blazing across my iPhone’s virtual keyboard, mostly because she’s on her Droid Eris playing Bonsai Blast and doesn’t give a fuck. Me likey.
- Angel is smart and shit. Like, really really smart. Case in point, she beats me at least 50% of the time on Words With Friends (a Scrabble clone). This is why I like her intelligence only 50% of the time (at least). Seriously, smart chicks are very sexy, and she has the sexy in spades. She’s not *too* smart, though. She still gets that impish grin when I say something juvenile like, “Heh, you just said ‘hard.’”
- Angel is geeky. One time (not in band camp), I was on my iPhone and I gasped with excitement. “You know what I love?” I said to her. Without even looking up from her iPod Touch, she said, “When you go to the App Store and there are updates for your apps waiting?” Oh. My. God. I showed her my phone…4 app updates ready. “YES!” She totally gets me.
- Angel is low-maintenance. I need to make this the criteria for all my relationships, friendship or otherwise. I like low-mai. She doesn’t care that my main wardrobe consists of silly t-shirts and cargo shorts. She doesn’t demand a lot of phone time. In fact, half the time, our dialogue is via text messaging. Don’t get me wrong. We talk on the phone frequently, and I always enjoy it, but she’s not big into the phone talk, and either am I. Usually.
- Angel is generous. Spent a few days with her and the kids in Daytona Beach right after New Year’s. I was outside on the balcony smoking (what can I say? I’m smoking hot) and she told me what there was for lunch. I said I’d make a sandwich when I got back inside. When I did get back inside (brr! It was FREEZING out!) there was a sandwich already waiting. “You didn’t have to do that, babe,” I said. She just smiled and said, “I know.” That’s just one example out of dozens, if not hundreds. Oh, and she rubs my shoulders a lot, which kinda makes me purr.
- Angel is kind. Time and time again, I’ve watched her with others. She’s always encouraging, always has nice things to say…kind of the opposite of me, really.
- Angel makes me laugh. A lot. This fits well into my new life philosophy: Laugh more, laugh more. On top of that, she has a great laugh herself, though she might not agree with me on that. Always makes me smile to hear it, and really, aren’t I what matters most?
- Angel says what she’s feeling. Like, without head games and crap. Do you know how rare this is? She tells it like it is, and doesn’t mince words about it, either. I dig that. Heavily. Her honesty is refreshing and never laced with malice, and I dig that, too.
- Angel is a phenomenal mother. I’ve watched her with those children of hers, and I’ve spent time with those kids. They’re super-smart, polite kids, all three of whom are a delight to be around. Well, save for the teen boy, who is excelling at his misanthrope duties. Angel is amazing at showing her kids that they have choices, and that there are consequences for our choices. She’s also very good at follow-through, which many of us parents sadly lack a lot of the time.
- Angel doesn’t think I suck. Really, this should be at the top of the list…y’know, if I were prioritizing the list. It should go without saying that a girlfriend would not think her boyfriend sucks, but I continue to find this amazing. My insecurities run rampant (depending on the day) and I often wonder what any woman in her right mind would see in me. Angel doesn’t hesitate to tell me. And I almost believe her.
So, to sum up, Angel is like a comedic slightly-raunchy version of Mother Teresa. Just with better boobs.
Filed under Guest Post, Humor, Local Goings On, Relationships | Comments (8)Priorities
Right, so I know Saturday was supposed to be the end of the Summer of Love here at 2HT. And it would have been. Except today is, well, still technically August. And I have been begging for Crystal to write me a guest post from within the first 60 minutes of meeting her in Chicago last month. And she finally got around to sending me one just before midnight last night.
And it’s Crystal.
From Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper. If you think I’m not posting something from HER, you’re insane. She rocks my socks. So now I leave you with the REAL last guest post from the Summer of Love
Back to regular programming tomorrow (and the regular 2HT banner). -Karl
I took my toddler, Harmony, to the park today.
At 5:30 am, she stood motionless and unblinking near my face as I slept. My arm was hanging off and I’m sure there was drool.
Kids have the spooky ability to remain that way for an indefinite period of time so that they can scare the bejeezly shit out of you. When you’re somewhere that requires any form of reverence, however, you can tranq them and superglue their ass to the seat and their remaining that way for longer than 23 seconds is a statistical impossibility.
It typically only takes about a minute or so until I sense, somewhere in my psyche, that there is a face in my personal bubble. Before coherent thought can form, I am up in the middle of the bed shrieking like a pantywaist and piddling all over my husband, Chris. This happens at least five times a year, with each child. If I have a nervous tic and I don’t like sudden movements, I think it’s fucking justified.
No matter how disconcerting my screams or the hysteria that ensues, Harmony finds this uproariously funny – so much so that as I’m gasping for air and clutching my chest, she is doing the same, but for much different reasons. She will be doubled over, her chubby fists balled up on her knees and tears rolling down her cheeks as I struggle to make sense of what has just happened.
After the shock had worn off, she quietly asked for a ‘pop dart’ and I rolled out of bed to begin our day, trying to let Chris get some much-needed sleep. I denied her repeated requests for a pop dart and we compromised with cereal and juice. I watched her eat and marveled, for the thousandth time, at her beautiful, natural ringlets and her methodical destruction of her pajamas as she independently scooped big, sloppy spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth, the milk dripping over the sides and down her clothes.
At 8 am, we were watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when I sat up and told her to find her shoes. “We’re going to the park.” I have been housebound for almost a week and the despair and anxiety I had been suffering as a result of some very poor choices and necessary lifestyle changes was beginning to lift.
She looked at me in disbelief, her huge, blue eyes confused. “We go to da park? Da park, Momma? We go to da playground?”
My heart ached as I nodded and watched her face erupt into an ear-splitting smile. She went in search of her sneakers and I counted in my head the number of times I have taken her to the park. I counted less than five. My job, a job that I’m grateful for, especially in today’s economy, is no longer a job. It is a life. It is one that I alternately hate and fear. It is one that has caused me such stress and anxiety that it has played a huge part in my medicated, hospitalized, destructive life as of late. It is one that has forced me to compromise my morals and the very person I’ve worked so hard to become. As a result, my family has suffered.
We took stale bread and fed the ducks. I heeded her demands of, “Higher, Momma!”, and I watched her climb and explore and learn and live. After a while, I urged her that we needed to go and eat lunch. I couldn’t stand the disappointment on her face, so I chose to take her to a restaurant that has a huge children’s area. “It’s a better playground,” I assured her. She was satisfied with that, so we went. I spent the next hour fishing her out of giant tubes when she was convinced that she had climbed into another universe and began wailing in fright. But we also played with all the toys and I didn’t’ give a damn when she declared, “You’re too big for dat toy, Momma,” indicating said tubes. “I’m little.” I grimaced in horror when I saw the color of the bottom of her bare feet and I fretted over the trillions of germs, but her joy was worth the risk.
At home in the afternoon, I put her in bed for a nap, pushed her curls off her forehead and kissed her mouth. She smelled like kool-aid. “I love you, Momma.”
“I love you. You’re my little guy.”
“I’m not a guy, Momma. I’m a guwull.”
“Have a good nap.”
I sat outside for a while. The afternoon was passing and a blessedly cool breeze was coming around the corner of the house. I watched some kids down the street playing basketball in the cove and I thought about the last time I really noticed what my kids were doing. I tried to remember the last date I had with my husband. I struggled to put even a tentative time frame on the last real kiss we had shared. I couldn’t remember what peace and contentment had ever felt like.
I picked up crayolas off the floor and training panties from the bathroom. There was a struggle going on inside me, one that had been raging and gnashing to be born, to be resolved. I dealt with it accordingly; I pushed it away.
When I wrestled Harmony into bed for the night, I tried to reason with her. “Ok, little guy, it’s been a long day. You need to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.” I was referring to daycare.
She grabbed my face and pulled it in close. “We go feed da ducks. And den we go to da playground,” she chirped. “And den we go to da betta playground!”
It was at that moment when the struggle was laid to rest. I’m quitting my job tomorrow and looking for a life that doesn’t begin and end with a time clock. I’m going to the park.
My Shirt Is Not Offensive, Right?
Summer of Love. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Yes, yes it does. I’m Karl’s last guest poster for his summer lovin’ thing and I’d like to think he saved the best for last. However, that $100 bill he asked me for to save this spot, is sort of a dead give away that it may not be the case at all. Jerk. Love ya, though.
Let me properly introduce myself since I’m all about the proper and stuff. I’m Sassy Smith, and surprisingly (or not) that is not my real name. Yes, a lot of people do call me Sassy and I, of course, will answer to it (I’ll answer to almost anything except Edna. That’s just not a pretty name. No offense to anyone actually named Edna) and it matches my personality. Serious and conservative *cough*. If you follow me on Twitter (and if you don’t, what the hell are you waiting for? This could be YOUR lucky day), you’ll see just how proper, conservative and serious I truly am. Flirt with a big F. Anyway, when I joined teh internetz back in 2002, I was told by my paranoid mother to never use your real name online, because? there are weirdos out there. Which, yes, true, but Karl is totally harmless.
Let me tell you a little story. No, it won’t be about that time in the hotel room playing naked poker with one of my best girlfriends (Karl asked me to send the draft to him first, you know, so he could check it out and point out my spelling errors), and maybe I’ll be asked to never come back and guest post again, and I’ll enthrall you with that little bit of porn gem or not.
This is about shirts. Offensive shirts. Allegedly offensive. Are they really offensive? I mean, what if you don’t know the whole story behind the shirt? Right? Remember Karl’s Blogher tees? A handful of people didn’t like them (bitch please, you had better send me that pink one! You hear me Karl?!). I’ve experienced similar discrimination. And from men, too! Usually I don’t offend men, but this one dude walked up to me and said my shirt was disgusting and that I was a dirty girl (so disgusting in fact, he licked his lips as he said it). And he did give me his home number, his cell number, his pager number, his email address and keys to his apartment. Maybe when he said disgusting and dirty girl, he meant something else? Whatevs.
So, tell me what you think? I mean, these shirts are cute, right? And they are super high-quality. Had them specially made as you can totally tell hand printed with grape-scented kid markers. Nothin’ but the best for my chest.
“My pussy is awesome!”
Sure, I can sort of see how it might be offensive, but seriously, my pussy is awesome. It’s just that I can’t take her every place I go. She sheds.
See? She’s adorable, right?! Told you! My pussy is totally awesome. So, to that dude who said I was dirty and disgusting, I’m totally returning your apartment keys after I sleep with you just once. I mean you were totally hot.
“I have a dirty box.”
Seriously, it’s not been cleaned, in like, days. I get how some might react badly to that shirt caption – it’s not like I take my dirty box with me wherever I go, so people understand what I mean. So they can see my dirty box. It’s dirty. Like, for real, who wants to cart around a dirty box? Not me!
See? Dirty box. To the lady at the grocery store, you know what? Fuck you. I didn’t judge you on your poor fashion choice of leggings, crop top and $3 bargin-bin flip-flops. I applaud you on your courage to show the world your back fat and ugly feet. You could have shown me the same courtesy instead of huffing away in a jiggly mass after reading my shirt. Don’t judge my fucking dirty box or my dirty box shirt.
“I heart big breasts.”
Who doesn’t love big ones? Big, juicy breasts. Smeared with sauce. Yum.
I mean look at those big breasts! When they thaw and get tossed on the BBQ and smeared with sauce…yum, gonna be so juicy. See? How is that offensive? Sheesh.
Hey, grandma at the doctor’s office, loosen up, will ya? There was no need to point your cane at me and cluck your tongue in disgust. I’m sure back in the day you liked big juicy breasts but were afraid to admit it. You’re 92. Time to live a little. Nothing wrong with BIG, JUICY BREASTS. I think the crowd agrees with me, right? Stand up and cheer!
“My milk jugs R full.”
Love me some full milk jugs. All filled up. Best way to enjoy milk jugs. Full. I like the milk in bags, too. Fun bags, I call them. Milky fun bags. Ooh.
Look at those jugs. Full. Milky. Dreamy.
Sure, it may not have been THE best shirt to wear to church, but my friend didn’t give me much time to prepare. She was all, let’s go to church and confess and shit and I just grabbed the closest thing to me. The nuns, I’m pretty sure, were not pleased with my tank top, but the priest? I think he sort of dug me. I asked him after the service if he like full milk jugs and he nodded his agreement. He was kind of tongue-tied. Not sure why? Hi, is that your robe or are you just glad to see me? The nuns didn’t like my joking nature. I’m probably going to hell anyway, so no big.
I like my shirts. I think they’re cute (and remember, super high quality). But…
…after much consideration, I think I might give up the shirts. And not just my specially hand-crafted tees, but all shirts. I mean people are so damn judgy. Say the hell with shirts! Take them off! Be free of the shirts and the judgment!
So…
…hopefully, my bikini top doesn’t offend you. Because? Next step would be to go around topless and I know that shit would really offend people.
Don’t judge me. Or my shirts. Or me taking off my shirt. Let’s all love one another like in a big orgy. I mean, group hug. Yeah, group hug.
Karl, thank you so much for letting me guest post. You’re calling security, right? Now, give me back my hundred bucks.
Filed under Bloggity Blog, Guest Post, Humor, Photos, Rants, Sex | Comments (30)
