I had a sex dream about Ben Kingsley.
It was a pretty ok sex dream. BK (dang, that makes me think of the creepy hamburger pimper; I won't use that in the rest of the story) was a little weird in what he was into. Not the weirdest thing I've ever experienced, in a dream or in actuality, but still weird enough that if I meet Ben Kingsley in person, I don't think I'll be able to talk to him without blushing.
It takes a lot to make me blush. I once blushed in a leather fetish store when I said to an employee "Sorry, I'm in your way." And he said, "You aren't sorry. You will be spanked." I just wasn't expecting that from a browsing experience. I wasn't even shopping. I was with a friend who was shopping for a skirt. I was totally the innocent party.
Anyway, Ben Kingsley wasn't so much into me as the totally awesome human being I am. He was nice and all, but I could have been anybody. I was just a mean to his ends with a scrub brush in the tub. I'm sure we've all felt like that at least twice, whether you were the scrubber or the scrubbee. It's ok if you're desperate I guess, but it's so much better if whoever you're with actually makes eye contact and talks to you rather than going all glazed over and mumbling "Get you washed, get you washed," to themselves.
I had another dream in which I was babysitting that guy Tucker's kid and there was a party and this guy I knew in high school showed up in drag. It wasn't fabulous drag, it was like "Mama's Family" drag. He had old lady shoes and a flowered dress on. Not a sequin in sight. There was some sort of misunderstanding with Mrs. Tucker in the dream. She was calling me and I didn't answer my phone, and she thought I wouldn't pick up for her, only Tucker, but that wasn't the deal. I just don't answer my phone in general, which you probably know if you've called me in the last 10 years or so. When I feel like answering, no one calls me. Crap, I forgot to call Jane back yesterday.
Anyway, there were tons of people at the dream party and I was dancing and trying to decide whether or not to sleep on this old brown velvet couch without being expressly invited or I should try to drive to Kerrville, which is the reverse of something I did in real life. I once drove from Kerrville to Austin to have dinner with Tucker, and I was so freakin' late and he was really pissed off but he didn't say anything and we still had a nice dinner at Houston's, even though we were like the last people allowed in to eat at a ridiculously late time for dinner. I got a ticket in Dripping Springs on the way.
Also, in the dream, we used my purse as a football, and now that I think about it, I don't think Tucker ever appeared in the dream. People just talked about him and it was his house and Mrs. Tucker was there and a bunch of other married with children types who weren't dancing or playing purse football. That was all the single people who crashed the party, including those in old lady drag. The MWCs were sitting around talking and drinking wine and I couldn't think of anything to say.
It would have been awesome if I could've taken Ben Kingsley as my date to the party dream.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
I Hate You, Jimmy Vincente.
I am displeased.
I cannot defeat the kung fu of the online Algebra test. Seriously. Since I can take the damn things three times, you'd think I could get 100 perfect points. Negatory. The best I can do is a 96 point whatever for not knowing how to multiply the factors of 21. I told you I can't play Blackjack in Vegas because of all the math. SEE? I WASN'T KIDDING. I don't even make the same mistakes on each try. I find new and ingenious ways to fuck up every time. If I can't subdue the Algebra kung fu, I will throttle Jimmy Vincente. I will poke him sharply with a half-dried out whiteboard marker. I will narrow my eyes and frown at him. I will stamp my foot and leave in a huff. I will not thank him when I win my Oscar and I won't apologize for it the next morning when I'm on Oprah. Jimmy Vincente is dead to me, except for when I have to sit in his class. And then he's a vegetable to me.
Dang, it's getting cold in ye olde White Rock Coffee. They've got a hippie couple up from Austin to play the jangly guitar music and something they insist is NOT a mandolin, but it sure as hell sounds like one to me. All their songs sound the same. I'm sure they're very nice people, and I can't smell any patchouli, so I guess they're alright. I'd let them on the Ark, as long as they never came up to the Lido Deck while I was there.
Ok, that's it. There's no way WRC is going to give me another free frozen coffee beverage of any kind so there's nothing here for me. I'm breaking up with WRC for tonight, until next week when I need free wi-fi again. They always take me back. Suckers.
I cannot defeat the kung fu of the online Algebra test. Seriously. Since I can take the damn things three times, you'd think I could get 100 perfect points. Negatory. The best I can do is a 96 point whatever for not knowing how to multiply the factors of 21. I told you I can't play Blackjack in Vegas because of all the math. SEE? I WASN'T KIDDING. I don't even make the same mistakes on each try. I find new and ingenious ways to fuck up every time. If I can't subdue the Algebra kung fu, I will throttle Jimmy Vincente. I will poke him sharply with a half-dried out whiteboard marker. I will narrow my eyes and frown at him. I will stamp my foot and leave in a huff. I will not thank him when I win my Oscar and I won't apologize for it the next morning when I'm on Oprah. Jimmy Vincente is dead to me, except for when I have to sit in his class. And then he's a vegetable to me.
Dang, it's getting cold in ye olde White Rock Coffee. They've got a hippie couple up from Austin to play the jangly guitar music and something they insist is NOT a mandolin, but it sure as hell sounds like one to me. All their songs sound the same. I'm sure they're very nice people, and I can't smell any patchouli, so I guess they're alright. I'd let them on the Ark, as long as they never came up to the Lido Deck while I was there.
Ok, that's it. There's no way WRC is going to give me another free frozen coffee beverage of any kind so there's nothing here for me. I'm breaking up with WRC for tonight, until next week when I need free wi-fi again. They always take me back. Suckers.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Ow. My Hair Hurts.
I love it when Saturday night lasts until Sunday night. I don’t love the brain pain said Saturday night marathon results in. My whole body hurts. I have bruises. They’re explainable, i.e., I know where they came from, rather who they came from. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more. I blame Matt the Miller Man.
He invited me to a wine tasting. We tasted 15 wines. I’ve never tasted more than four at a time before, and the 15 included a margarita wine that looked like peppermint Scope. I can’t even tell you what the last five wines were. The wine lady believed in heavy pours, and frequent repeats. Purple tongues galore.
Then after Stefanie caught the bouquet at the fun wedding, we met at the usual place. We met these idiots from Oklahoma. One was a married football coach who didn’t take his vow of fidelity very seriously and then he spit on the floor. Talk about three strikes. I didn’t hesitate to tell him exactly how disgusting I found him to be. “You are disgusting and unsanitary. You could have SARS.” His wife should leave him. Immediately. I curse his team with a losing record for the next 25 years. He was easy to get rid of, but his idiot friend kept loitering around Stef. We fixed his wagon. We recruited foreigners. Nothing scares off Oklahoma idiots faster than a man with dreadlocks.
The foreigners bought us drinks aplenty and we stayed until the lights came on, then we went home and drank some more with said foreigners. That was unnecessary. We have agreed not to do that again for some time. St. Paddy’s is in six months.
The Streak remains unbroken. In the Clintonian sense. Don’t judge, you dweller of a glass house! Five and a half years and counting! That’s got to cause cancer or something.
I tried out a new place to take my Algebra tests online. The Tipperary Inn. It’s closer to my house than the other place I go for free wi-fi, but since it’s a bar, it’s a bit loud, even in the late afternoon before anyone really gets there. I found an outlet to work near, but these other dudes needed it as well so I had to listen to this blowhard’s expert testimony on everything from Social Security to the pyramids. I can’t even tell you how he got from A to B on those topics, but he damn sure knew everything about everything, let me tell you.
Then the Irish music groupies got there way early so they could sit at the table right in front of the band. It was only 5:30. They must really love Irish music. Anyway, I rushed through my test and didn’t bother checking my answers so I got a subpar grade that is UNACCEPTABLE. But that’s ok, because I get three swings at the piñata. Yes, you read that right. I get two more chances to take the same test. That showed me which ones I got wrong. And the correct answers. I also have a week to complete it. Community college is weird. If the site doesn’t generate new questions when I take my next crack at it, then it’s pointless taking Algebra again because I’m sure as hell never going to learn anything. Yes, I did write down all the ones I missed. But I didn’t write down the answers. I am not a cheater, and you should know me by now if you thought I did. Cheating is for idiot Oklahoma spitting football coaches, not ReadBecca. ReadBecca is an academic angel, if nowhere else.
Also, I love Queen Elizabeth II and Inspector Lynley. They are good for hangovers.
He invited me to a wine tasting. We tasted 15 wines. I’ve never tasted more than four at a time before, and the 15 included a margarita wine that looked like peppermint Scope. I can’t even tell you what the last five wines were. The wine lady believed in heavy pours, and frequent repeats. Purple tongues galore.
Then after Stefanie caught the bouquet at the fun wedding, we met at the usual place. We met these idiots from Oklahoma. One was a married football coach who didn’t take his vow of fidelity very seriously and then he spit on the floor. Talk about three strikes. I didn’t hesitate to tell him exactly how disgusting I found him to be. “You are disgusting and unsanitary. You could have SARS.” His wife should leave him. Immediately. I curse his team with a losing record for the next 25 years. He was easy to get rid of, but his idiot friend kept loitering around Stef. We fixed his wagon. We recruited foreigners. Nothing scares off Oklahoma idiots faster than a man with dreadlocks.
The foreigners bought us drinks aplenty and we stayed until the lights came on, then we went home and drank some more with said foreigners. That was unnecessary. We have agreed not to do that again for some time. St. Paddy’s is in six months.
The Streak remains unbroken. In the Clintonian sense. Don’t judge, you dweller of a glass house! Five and a half years and counting! That’s got to cause cancer or something.
I tried out a new place to take my Algebra tests online. The Tipperary Inn. It’s closer to my house than the other place I go for free wi-fi, but since it’s a bar, it’s a bit loud, even in the late afternoon before anyone really gets there. I found an outlet to work near, but these other dudes needed it as well so I had to listen to this blowhard’s expert testimony on everything from Social Security to the pyramids. I can’t even tell you how he got from A to B on those topics, but he damn sure knew everything about everything, let me tell you.
Then the Irish music groupies got there way early so they could sit at the table right in front of the band. It was only 5:30. They must really love Irish music. Anyway, I rushed through my test and didn’t bother checking my answers so I got a subpar grade that is UNACCEPTABLE. But that’s ok, because I get three swings at the piñata. Yes, you read that right. I get two more chances to take the same test. That showed me which ones I got wrong. And the correct answers. I also have a week to complete it. Community college is weird. If the site doesn’t generate new questions when I take my next crack at it, then it’s pointless taking Algebra again because I’m sure as hell never going to learn anything. Yes, I did write down all the ones I missed. But I didn’t write down the answers. I am not a cheater, and you should know me by now if you thought I did. Cheating is for idiot Oklahoma spitting football coaches, not ReadBecca. ReadBecca is an academic angel, if nowhere else.
Also, I love Queen Elizabeth II and Inspector Lynley. They are good for hangovers.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Things I Need To Google
The IRA, particularly the Hunger Strikes, maybe some bombings and people who got caught
More hospitals
Craig Ferguson's book(s) and film(s)
Mississippi
Aging soap opera stars who unbutton their shirts too far on Tavis Smiley
Tavis Smiley
The etymology of "arrogance"
Blah Blah Blog
Santa Barbara, the soap, not the city
Malta, again
Limoncello recipes
Danny Devito as Jack Nicholson's Dill
The Louisiana Purchase
The top 10 Westerns
James Garner
Lou Diamond Phillips
The history of Corpus Christi, Texas - was it de Pineda? Definitely not Magellan.
Ponce de Leon
The Black Plague in North America
The theme song to the new Ken Burns film of doom
Edith Piaf
Local meth labs
Whether or not shoes on a wire really = drug dealer, and if so, whose shoes are they? A punk ass bitch's or his own, recently determined to be wack
Chiropractic medicine
Multivitamins
Dude ranches
More hospitals
Craig Ferguson's book(s) and film(s)
Mississippi
Aging soap opera stars who unbutton their shirts too far on Tavis Smiley
Tavis Smiley
The etymology of "arrogance"
Blah Blah Blog
Santa Barbara, the soap, not the city
Malta, again
Limoncello recipes
Danny Devito as Jack Nicholson's Dill
The Louisiana Purchase
The top 10 Westerns
James Garner
Lou Diamond Phillips
The history of Corpus Christi, Texas - was it de Pineda? Definitely not Magellan.
Ponce de Leon
The Black Plague in North America
The theme song to the new Ken Burns film of doom
Edith Piaf
Local meth labs
Whether or not shoes on a wire really = drug dealer, and if so, whose shoes are they? A punk ass bitch's or his own, recently determined to be wack
Chiropractic medicine
Multivitamins
Dude ranches
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)