Where the Other Half Lives

My apologies, my apologies.  I’ve been remiss in my blogging duties.

If the truth be told, I’m just back from a weekend trip to hell.  It wasn’t quite as hot as I had expected, but everything else was just as I had imagined…even down to the old man gyrating to a boombox on the boardwalk.  By the second coming he might even have the spinning on one foot thing down.

Ahhhh…Atlantic City….and to think you make New Jersey proud!

I”m convinced there’s a memory eraser in the toll plaza as you leave town.  Why else would anyone willingly return?  Certainly not for the hospitality at the one star Clarion overlooking Sam’s Club. (And we thought we had destination hotels in Alabama!)

I’ve stayed in many hotels over the years.  Some nice; some really, really nice;  and a few I’d only recommend to Danielle Dobbs (the first girl I ever really hated–and only because she broke the baton that held my dreams of becoming a professional twirler over the handlebars of her pink bicycle).  But even I’m not mean enough to recommend the Clarion to her.

You can tell a lot about a hotel by it’s guests and what they bring.  Chances are, if you see someone pull up and unload 6 black garbage bags, a German Shepard and two full sized ice chests, you can bet your last dollar the front desk attendant won’t care if the fire alarm sounds at 2 AM.  It’s a bet I’d be comfortable doubling.

So it should have been no surprise, when the fire alarm did sound at 2AM, that the front desk clerk was no where to be found.  Actually, let me revise that, someone did see her bolt for the back office.  Nevermind the 50 or so of us who were standing in the lobby wondering why there were no rescue vehicles and WHY Diana Ross was singing her lungs out over the sound system.

I realize we ultimately have no control over the manner in which we die…but I regularly give the homeless a dollar with the hope that God will look down on me and say “Ya know, she wasn’t all bad.”  And then he’ll let me die in a field of Gerber daisies with Rick Springfield strumming the guitar next to my head…

I never imagined Diana Ross in a flaming Clarion.  Thankfully I didn’t have to.

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When in Brazil…

 There’s a story in the news today about a woman who is suing Victoria’s Secret because of a faulty thong.  I admit, stories like these are the equivalent of crack to me.  And yes, I realize they are the root of all evil and our society is going to burn in hell for all eternity because of them.  I just can’t help myself.

 Go ahead and light the kerosene.

So this 53 year old woman is suing because a decorative piece on a thong flew off and hit her in the eye.  I’m really torn on this one.  As the Queen of Klutz (QOK),  I generally understand how these things can happen.   I mean, it’s not easy to put a thong on through the armhole of your shirt in the drive-thru of taco bell…(and no, I don’t know if that’s what she was doing, I’m just saying…it’s not easy)  Let me add, if you actually stopped and thought about that,  1) you’re even more demented than I am and 2) it’s not possible.

That’s not to say I don’t have my own history with Victoria’s Secret.  I just haven’t had a jeweled SEXY lodged in my eye.

I used to live by the “feel pretty-look pretty” motto.  The basic premise being, if you wear pretty things underneath, you’ll feel like you look pretty to the outside world. 

Of course, that was before the packing tape incident.

Don’t be fooled.  Thigh highs might look sexy on an airbrushed photo of a brazilian supermodel, but there is nothing sexy about them.  Try wearing them for more than 10 minutes and you’ll understand.  Any longer and you may as well go ahead and accept the fact that you’ve become your 89-year-old grandmother.  The one whose ankle-bunched knee highs drive you absolutely insane.

And yes, I do know what a garter belt is.

And the brazilian supermodel wasn’t wearing one…which made perfect sense at the time.

That aside,  I no longer remember how I came think wearing thigh highs to work was a good idea, or even how long it took for them to start creeping toward my ankles, but I do remember my one moment of packing tape brilliance.  At least it seemed brilliant.   If pageant goers could be taped into their dresses, by God, I could be taped into my stockings!

Contrary to any thought you might have, packing tape, when ripped from the skin to remove a stocking, leaves nothing short of ring around the thigh…for approximately four weeks three days and two bottles of neosporin.  And you thought thigh highs were sexy…

So, to the lady with the thong-eye:  I’ve felt your pain.  And the good news is, I  lived through it without suing.

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Saran Wrap Hygiene

 Am I the only one,  or is anyone else, completely freaked out by the saran wrap toilet covers they have in airports?  (for the urinalized men in the group, I’m referring to plastic seat covers that refresh with a push of a button).

First and foremost, any southern girl knows you don’t sit on a public toilet seat.  It’s a no-no bigger than white shoes before Easter and velvet after Valentines Day.  Your mother had you in gymnastics before you were potty-trained just so this would never be an issue.  You can balance on one foot for five minutes, or hang from the purse hook…it doesn’t matter.  You don’t sit on the seat.

So one would wonder why this invention was even necessary.  After all, didn’t they make the disposable paper covers for those with less-fortunate upbringings (in all fairness, I do realize not everyone can do a chinese split between the toilet paper dispenser and the metal sanitary disposal box)?  And if we’ve really gotten so lazy that we can’t use the paper ones, what’s the chance we’re going to lean over and push the magic red button for the rotating plastic?

But more importantly, once you do press the button, where does the plastic go?

When I was a kid I refused to drink out of a water fountain because I believed the water cycled continuously.  (I’m still a little suspicious).  There was no way I was drinking after Rita.  I still remember, with horror,  the roast beef story she told on the back of the bus.

So you can only imagine my hesitation over this plastic wrap contraption.  Is it just me?

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