A Case of the Drag-Ass

"Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh.

"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning, which I doubt," said he.

Today, I had a good case of the drag-ass. No, not a day where I put on a pantyhose and pranced around to "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'."

But a day that you immediately know when you get out of bed, after four punches to the snooze button, you know that there can be no possible good that will come of this day. Your heart just ain't in it. It would be a better day if I spent it curled up in bed.

So I took my time warming the shower to a body-scalding temperature. I fretted over what to wear. I felt fat and frumpy. The toothpaste squirted out in one big gelatinous blob instead of the nice smooth line with a cute curl they show on TV. The toothpaste splattered tiny white dots all over the cuff of my black shirt. It was going to be a bad hair day and I really didn't care. And then I decided it's finally time to go to work.

I arrived at work and decided breakfast would be a good pick-me-up, so I walked next door to Mrs Winner's for two sausage biscuits and a medium Diet Coke. Fried pork, butter-slathered carbohydrates, and a calorie-free soda to make me feel better. Even Latoya or whatever her name seemed to be more chipper than I was on a chilly, dark, rainy Memphis morning. I got back to the office and sank into my chair with a sigh.

My boss bustled into my office a little later with sunglasses still on. Why were the shades necessary today? Her manic energy was more than I was ready to tolerate. She dispatched the latest message from on high in her pleasant, "it's-all-sunshine-and-rainbows" way. The message only created more unnecessary work for me. And I guess I might have sighed a little too much or rolled my eyes a little too obviously.

In her "Pollyanna-on-speed" yet indirect way, she then told me that I was working too much and suggested I take time off. Like, this afternoon. She's crazy as hell, but she might be on to something. But as great as it sounded, I knew that being gone for the afternoon would only mean more to deal with tomorrow.

After four hours of making calls, returning emails and answering questions, I turned off the lights in my office and walked out. I grabbed a bottle of cheap Cabernet* at the liquor store, and retreated to my apartment.

Having the afternoon might have been a blessing. It would have been a good day for painting, or reading, or running on the treadmill, or spending a few hours figuring out how to fix my life.

Instead it turned out to be a good day for wallowing in the puddle caused by my little black raincloud.

---
*Which reminds me of a funny story

A couple of weeks ago, I overheard a man in a restaurant ask his waitress for a Cab.

She returned a few minutes later, and asked him for his destination.

How the Other Half Lives

Last night, I went to a Memphis Grizzlies game. During halftime (do they call it halftime in basketball?), it was my turn to buy beer. So I scouted out an ATM to get cash and then return with two Miller Lites.

No one was at the ATM but the person before me left their receipt. I was almost content to just take my $20, and leave it there, untouched. But at the last minute, curiosity got the better of me, even if for no other reason than to do a good deed and toss their receipt in the garbage.

The person before me had withdrawn $20 from their checking account as well, but unlike me, they left a balance of $117,075.41.

$117,075

What kind of person has more than $117,000 in their checking account at any given time? How does one amass that kind of money in their checking account? Why isn't it in a saving account or a CD or investments? And why would you leave a receipt in the machine?

And why only take out 20 bucks?

The Interview Continues...Five Questions For a Hearthhusband

Now that The Artist, aka Diary of a Hearthhusband, has celebrated Imbolc and Ash Moon, reduxed the Duo's home, and chased Abigail in out of the rain, he has temporarily run out of steam with his blog. He's asked me to provide a little inspiration via "the interview."

1. I imagine that your typical day is rather structured and ritualistic and it stems from your pagan spirituality. What is your daily routine?

2. It's been several years since you learned you were HIV-positive, and to your friends, you don't make a big deal out it. How has it affected your outlook on life?

3. You and The Chef tied the knot in September in a state that obviously doesn't recognize same-sex marriages. Your ceremony was more about celebrating love and commitment, as it resulted in no legal benefits. What is your opinion of gay marriages vs. civil unions vs. commitment ceremonies? Or does it matter?

4. What three things have Big Linda told you that you will count as lessons of life?

5. What's gonna happen to poor Bree Vandecamp?

And now the rules:
The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Hey, Remember When...?

No, of course you don't. Because it never happened.

I'm stealing this from Sardonic Bomb.

If you read this (even if we don’t speak often or don’t really know each other) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want — good memory or bad — BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

So leave me a comment and tell me what you don't remember about us.

Better Late Than Never

After a year and a half, I have officially shed the last physical evidence of ever being a Nashvillian.

Today, I got new license plates, emblazoned with the "SHELBY" county name.

Yes, I've been driving around on expired plates since October, hoping to prolong the forgiveness that Memphians give to out of town drivers. But I knew in my heart, that forgiveness was only a farce. My idiocy behind the wheel was only giving Memphians further reason to hate Nashvillians. And I'm okay with that.

But, before I could get new plates, there was the cracked windshield to be replaced, and the headlight to be fixed. Never mind that I had those rectified months ago. I was thriving off the fact that I had gone almost five months without getting a ticket.

Good sense finally got the better of me, and I decided that I shouldn't wait any longer. Actually the thought was that I should stop being so white trash with my expired plates.

So this afternoon, I took off the Davidson County plate and replaced it with the brand-new plate design that proclaimed that I am a Shelby County resident.

On the down side, if it were a vanity plate, it would say that I ate 71 fleas.

Ink

I had wanted a tattoo since I was in college, but like most folks, I didn't know what I wanted or where I wanted it.

Back then, the only person I knew with a tat was a girl studying criminal justice. I sorta had a crush on her, but I also suspected her to be a lesbian. Her tattoo was a ying-yang symbol on her ankle, and her rationalization was that if she, in the line of duty, were dismembered, the medical examiner could still identify her body by virtue of the tattoo on her ankle.

My reasons were a little less practical. I was idealistic in the sense that I wanted some sort of meaning attached to it. Not only did I want the tattoo itself to mean something, I wanted to be able to look at it and not be reminded of a drunken escapade or an intolerable boyfriend-of-the-moment. I wanted to be reminded of a good place in my life, remembering where I was, mentally and physically, when I added that permanent design to my body.

So I waited. And it took me til I was 30 to get there. Virginia and I had just gotten back from OBX the first time. I had just celebrated my 30th birthday. And I was single, free of any emotional attachments to any negative feelings or hateful boyfriends. And tattoos were suddenly cool.

After a few trips to the studio to flip through the three-ring binders filled with photocopied sheets and photos of sample design work, I decided on mine. I wanted the Libra pictogram on the small of the back.

It makes sense. I'm definitely a Libra, and Libra rules the lower back and buttocks. After sizing and re-sizing the design on the copier a few times, my tattoo artist was ready to begin work. And perhaps it would have been better had he been a ZZTop-bearded, Harley bear.

But no. Brandon was HAWT. Mid-20s. Clean shaven. Tasteful tribal tattoos snaking up his well-developed forearms. Heavily gelled hair in the gay tiara, and thick-framed Buddy Holley glasses.

The room was set up with the padded chair. He said, "Unbutton your pants and bend over the bar there." I think I was instantly erect.

People always ask, "did it hurt?" Honestly, it was more uncomfortable than painful. The small of my back is somewhat of an erogenous zone for me anyway. And so when the hot tattoo artist passed over a cluster of nerves with a vibrating needle...well I almost launched out of my chair.

Forty-five minutes later, I was officially scarred for life.

And I thought it was rather unique. And then a few weeks later, I found this picture floating around the Internet.

Is there no such thing as an original idea anymore?

So I think I'm ready for the next unoriginal idea. I've got it narrowed down to two locations: my left shoulder or my right hip.

And I've got it narrowed down to two designs:

The Star: Just like this design, only in black and white. Simple, understated, masculine, and I have a plate that I picked up at a Goodwill with the exact same star around the rim.

The Scales: Keeping with the Libra theme on my body, I could add the other symbol.

Also in true Libran fashion, I can't make a decision to save my life.