Living Well Is the Best Revenge

She has a great personality.

Oh, she hears the whispers as they pass by. She secretly spies Ken and the boys giggle like schoolgirls, or perhaps she overhears the hushed kiss of death.

"She has a great personality, though."

Oh, she hears them. Barbie has a beach house. Skipper has a townhome in Hoboken.

Barbie got a pink Corvette for her 21st birthday. Skipper was making payments on a 1999 Corolla.

After saving for a year for their vacation to sunny Malibu, Skipper got skin cancer. Barbie got an unbelievable tan and an egagement ring from Ken.

While Barbie was whoring her way through school so that she could be an astronaut, an attorney, a veterinarian, a nurse and a doctor, Skipper waited tables in a smoky beer joint and got her degree in English so that she could eventually get a job as a secretary in an insurance agency.

When Barbie got married to the blonde, blue-eyed volleyball athlete, Ken, Skipper was still waiting for red-headed and hot-tempered Ricky to get a feel under her mohair sweater.

And through it all, Skipper remained patient, knowing that she was smart and street-wise. Barbie couldn't think herself out of a wet Burger King bag. Or a greasy McDonald's bag. Or a soggy Slurpee cup.

Yes, she was patient because she was Barbie's little sister, and she knew all of the family's secrets. She watched as Barbie stockpiled napkins from Dairy Queen, and she witnessed her hour-long trips to the restroom, and she could hear the secret wretching echoing in the porcelain bowl.

And Skipper knew Barbie's own vanity would be her secret weapon.

"Skipper, do you think my ass looks fat in these designer jeans?"

"Oh well, Barbie. I know my ass would never fit in them, and if your ass looks extraordinarily fat and like a trash bag full of strawberry Jell-O, then it must be the jeans."

By her wedding, Barbie could barely stand the smell of own buttercream-iced wedding cake.

She began to waste away. And yet Skipper remained bold.

"Does my ass look big in this napkin ring?"

"Did you have cottage cheese for lunch?"

Barbie's obsession worsened. By the time Skipper had married Ricky who had since made his fortune as a real estate developer, Barbie was a cokewhore, speeding the final pounds away.

Skipper and Barbie checked into the Beverly Hills hospital at the same time -- Barbie from malnourishment, Skipper for the most amazing plastic surgery ever conducted on one human.

In the recovery room, Skipper painfully slipped from her bed, careful not to rip the stitches, and pulled the plate of chili cheese fries from the nightstand drawer. Barbie looked so peaceful as her finally-gaunt chest rose and fell.

"Barbie, are you hungry?"

"Oh Skipper, so hungry but I don't have the energy to lift my fingers down my throat."

"Here. Let me help."

Skipper carefully fed Barbie the plate of chili cheese fries. Barbie ate so ravenously, chili splattered across the hospital-white pillowcases.

"Thank you, Skipper. Tell me. Does my ass look fat in this hospital gown?"

Within minutes, Barbie had died of exertion, tragically trying to wretch the fries from her stomach.

In 21 more days, Skipper emerged from the hospital. From a lifetime of inferiority. From the shadow of that bitch Barbie.

Barbie had always said that Skipper would be cuter if she were skinnier, if her hair were blond... well if she looked like something else. Now, Skipper did.

She's a pretty girl and she has a great personality.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The above story is a work of fiction. It in no way implies that I wish harm upon HotAss. I love him like a sister and no, his ass does NOT look like two sperm whales mating under a rubber tarp.

Just When You Need It

Today, I decided that if I went to work, someone might get hurt. Somedays you just need a mental health day, and while HotAss and others will attest that I rarely spend a full day in the office, I just couldn't be bothered with the office today. So I cashed in a sick day. The first "sick day" I've had in over a year.

And, of course, I felt guilty all day. ARGH! Until 3:45 p.m., when the Enamored Catholic told me I should read my horoscope...

Still in the mood to stay home and forget about the rest of the world? Well, if you can afford to take some time off, see if you can't talk your sweetie or your best friend into doing it with you. There's something about a day away from it all, especially when it wasn't on your schedule to start with, that brings back memories of carefree times when taking a risk was bold and exciting -- like when you got brave enough to play hooky in high school.

From the "What the F**K department?"

Mama, I'm coming home.

This fella I've had a few dates(?) with instant-messaged me this evening and said, "Guess what I had to do tonight?"

A million things go through my mind, especially when it's the fella I've had a few dates with.

"I have no idea. What?"

"I had to fish a dead armadillo out of my swiming pool!"

What the fu*k?

Ok...now look...this doesn't happen everyday in Memphis. Maybe in El Paso, but not Memphis? And for crying out loud, dude lives in Germantown...which might as well be Suburban Breeder Hell, east of the Mississippi River.

So the story is that this armadillo weighed about 12 pounds and was ugly as homemade sin in its dead, water-logged state.

"Apparently, he couldn't swim or get out of the pool."

Well, look. Of course, the armor-coated rat had to be able to swim. He had to cross the Mississippi River somehow.

"Or he could have crossed the bridge."

Well, yeah. But look, even I am afraid to cross the bridge, and not to mention, walk through West Memphis.

I implored the fella to call animal control or State Fish & Wildlife. But, it's dead, he says.

Well, yeah. But finding an armadillo in Germantown floating in your pool, is almost like finding a kangaroo dead in your driveway. It just doesn't happen.

And I think Fish & Wildlife oughta know these ugly bastards have finally learned to cross busy highways.

The Honey Has Landed

Oh So Sweet!

On Friday, The Pink Lady arrived in Memphis. Ethan, his Roomie and I stopped by Sunday afternoon to greet her with a bottle of pinot grigio. Of course, they loved her and she loved them. And I'm thrilled to death to have her here.

Bathroom Humour

They say that bathroom humour isn't appropriate in mixed company. But fortunately as the Gaggle was watching "Desperate Housewives" at Wanda's house, the company was rather homogenous. And maybe that's why the new series of Angel Soft toilet tissue commercials were hysterical.

Kudos to the creative team at Angel Soft. I'm switching brands.

Now if only they'd make some booty wipes.

Something's Missing

There's a song by John Mayer on the Heavier Things album that I'm growing to relate to.

It's called Something's Missing. And that's the way I'm starting to feel about my life. In a rare moment of introspection, life is holding something for me and I haven't quite found it yet.

I've got a great job with plenty of money to keep me semi-happy (check).

And God knows that since I've moved to Memphis, I've got the most wonderful friends (check) a man could ask for.

Living in Memphis is something I've wanted for years (odd, huh?). I always pictured myself living here, and I've got a wonderful apartment (check) that I absolutely adore coming home to.

My social life (check) is something to be envied I guess. There's always an event to attend. My wonderful gaggle of friends keep me busy.

And I'm developing a few hobbies (check) that I've always wanted to try and having much success at it.

So I suppose what is missing is that someone special. And I despise saying that because it sounds so desperate. But I've always known that I have a lot to offer, and I've been sorta-mostly-patient in waiting for Prince Charming to come along. But gimme a break, I'm a Libra - the sign of partnerships and relationships. It's hard for me to feel complete without that significant other in my life.

So in the words of Charlotte from Sex and the City... I've been dating since I was 15. I'm exhausted. Where is he?

And it frustrates me to see these gay men in their 40s and 50s and they're still unpartnered. It doesn't inspire a lot of confidence. Don't I deserve to be supremely happy? And don't me get me wrong...a lot of the fault lies with me. I'm critical. I'm shallow. I'm superficial when it comes to men. But for the right man, I can overcome that. I hope.

So there is that part of me that wonders what I'm doing wrong. That Mr. Right hasn't materialized yet. And then there is the trusting part of me that says it's not the right time yet. But good heavens...I'm getting impatient. I'd like to think I've paid my dues in a number of unfulfilling relationships, and Mr. Right is just around the corner. So I feel guilty when I don't go out on Friday night (what if I miss him?), or when I don't sign online (what if he's there?).

Gah! It's more complicated than I care to ponder.

So I'm throwing it out there. I'm telling the universe what I want. I want a partner to share my life with, in the truest since of sharing. Someone who is smart and funny and compassionate and deeply sexual. Someone with whom the chemistry is undeniable. Someone who can kiss like there is no tomorrow. Someone independent. Someone who doesn't mind making decisons when I can't. Someone with baggage that weighs less than mine, and willing to help me leave my baggage at the terminal. Someone patient with me and my neuroses. Someone to whom my friends would give their seal of approval. Someone with a zest of life, who is excited by the possibilities that each day brings and can inspire me to do the same.

So now that I've given the universe my order, do I pull around to the second window?