Boy Toy

Originally I was going to talk about sexy time, which is funny, but then I got an email from Boyfriend Skeet containing no less than EIGHT pictures of the present I bought him this week.

Let me tell you that I love this man more than words could possibly say - he's been my best friend for seven years. He's a 30 year old who looks all of 18, and he was absolutely desperate for a Star Trek toy. He's too sweet to spend the $30 on himself, so I finally dragged myself to Target and bought it for him two days ago.


It lights up.
It talks.
It makes siren-y noises.
It sits on a fully-adjustable stand and you can point it any way you want.

I'm an oddity, but not what you'd necessarily call a geek. This boy? Immediately starts posting pictures of the toy to his Facebook.


And for the last two days? Has he been at all obsessed with the toy, which he perched on it's stand on top of our water cooler in the smack middle of our one-room apartment so he can see it at all times? Does he adjust it on the stand every time he walks by so it will be facing just the right way in hyperspace (or whatever)?

So of course I've taken to moving it ever-so-slightly when he isn't looking, which brings on a flurry of ultra-concerned inquiries.
'Did you move it? You did, didn't you? Did you? Didn't you? Oh!'
Panties. In. A. Twist.
Cute, though.

Edna Sings

I dreamed of Dame Edna.

More precisely, I dreamed of a fucking bevy of Dame Ednas. It was the Dame Edna Memorial Choir. Truly. I was in the lobby of the Rialto, and there were 15 ancient, ragged drag queens dressed up like Dame Edna (but much more corpse-y) in fabulous floor length sparkling Golden Girls evening dresses, wigs and glasses and all. And they were singing.

They were singing the theme song of their social club. Which sounded like some sort of drag queen retirement community deal. They sang (I wish I were making this up, but I am not):

We are the gays of North Rutherford, New Jersey

...backgammon tournament once a year

...oranges

...fun frolics

...shuffleboard tournaments

...wall-to-wall carpeting

...occasional dinners out

...lobsters

It went on like this for quite some time. I think they were listing all the things their club had to offer. Like a gaggle of Dame Edna sirens, calling us to join them in their decrepit frivolities.

Oh, one must really use the extended vocabulary to describe a sordid dream such as this.

Shoe, shoe, everywhere a shoe

Does anyone else collect this much in their desks? They're moving me to a new cubicle - I've been in this one 6 months and I had three pairs of shoes. I don't like any of them. How did they get here?

They're not heels, so I didn't change out of them in the middle of the workday.

Not sneakers, so I didn't bring them to walk in.

All black. All sandals. All mine.

Blockin up the scenery, breakin my mind.

On top of that, the sandals I'm wearing are my favorites but they make my feet smell funny, and I feel bad for the guy I'm training. I could have changed into one of the other pairs, but he chews on his hands all day, so we're cosmically even.

You never know

Today I have to start training prancing gay Forrest Gump.

Ironically, he has a big gay chip on his shoulder, which I'm going to have to deal with, even though I came out (bi, in case you're wondering how Boyfriend Skeet fits into that picture) before Mr. Chip knew about puberty.

Whatev.

Peace Corps

Ok, so here's the thing. The Peace Corps may have made me evil.

When I was younger, and far more optimistic and hippie-like, I applied to the Peace Corps. It had been my life-long ambition, and I felt I was absolutely destined to go to foreign lands and help people. After graduating college, the time came, and I applied.

First off let me tell you that the application process is incredibly complicated. But I got through it, and they were all set to send me to South Africa to teach english. So excited. Planning my whole life for the next two years around this idea. Giving away all my possesions to women's shelters, etc. (Literally true.)

The last step in the process is to be medically checked from top to bottom and get medical clearance. Like a fool, I was totally honest in the questionairre and admitted that I'd once (ONCE - actually one single session) seen a psychiatrist, in college, and that I have a family history which includes mental illness.

Application: DENIED.

Broken-hearted, I got the opinions of three doctors and two psychiatrists (one of whom was the same fellow I saw that once in college), in writing, that I'm completely sane and every bit capable of Peace Corps service. I sent in this appeal.

Turns out they send your appeal to the same single nurse who denied your original application.

Appeal: DENIED.

What I'm saying is, this not only broke my heart, but it changed who I am. It shifted the core of my being towards evil. I was so completely shattered by this unthinking dismissal of my sanity and personhood that after I stopped crying (at least a month later), I went numb.

I stopped caring. And I stopped seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.

Also? I learned that it's best to lie.
If I hadn't told them these things voluntarily? I would have won. And I'd be a different person. A dumber person, but a better person. For lying.

But the reason I tell you all of this, is that it makes me wonder. Did they unleash the evil, or was I really a cynical, cold-hearted devil woman all along?

Just like the licks on a Tootsie Pop, the world may never know.

A Talking Muffin!

I asked Boyfriend Skeet yesterday about the title of my blog (A Talking Muffin!), and he says everyone will assume this references my naughty bits.
Really?

For the record, two muffins are sitting in an oven.
One muffin turns to the other and says "Man! It is hot in here!"
Second muffin turns around and screams "AAAAHHHH! A TALKING MUFFIN!!"

So.

Talkin' bout a talkin' muffin. Not my bits. Clear.

Performance Anxiety

What are two things in the air that can get you pregnant?

Feet.


This morning they were reviewing the Michael Jackson service on the news. After a few minutes I realized I was standing naked by the TV holding my granny panties up in front of me like a big old squirrel. Boyfriend Skeet? Lying in bed, probably witnessing this behavior.

We live in a studio apartment. One room. No matter where I am, he's witnessing this behavior.

I got out of bed last week and he asked me where I was going.
Where am I going? In our one room apartment?
My mother always used to ask this when I was heading down the stairs to our basement.
Always. Not once did I go to the basement without mom wondering if I'd found a netherworld portal, or her super-secret stash. Where did she think I was going? What might I have discovered, had I taken the hint and looked hard enough through our basement? Where did she go, when she walked down those stairs? Clearly not where I was going, which was to get some granny panties out of the dryer.