As I am preparing to move (hopefully) within the next couple of weeks, I've been going through some of my old belongings in an effort to decide what comes along and what gets trashed. Finding an old box of photo albums (you know, back from when we actually had them developed...), I couldn't help but laugh when I came across some from a visit with my nephew and sister many years ago.
I believe my nephew was three or four at the time, and like most children I encounter, he gravitated toward me. It's easy being an aunt and not a mother because I have always been able to spoil him rotten and not have to discipline him. At the time of this particular visit, my sister Tracy was single, and my nephew was an only child.
One particularly hot summer afternoon, my sister, our grandmother, my nephew and myself went to Target. I no longer know the reason for our visit to this popular retail chain, and even if I could recall, it's irrelevant. After paying for my purchases and waiting for my sister to do the same, I began to walk with my nephew toward the door.
Being the fun aunt that I am, I decided to teach him how to walk keeping his feet inside each of the square tiles and told him that if he stepped on a crack, he'd break his mother's back. Very carefully, the two of us walked across the spacious front-end of the store to the doors, determined not to step on any cracks. I knew he'd never forgive himself if he broke my sister's back.
As we walked hand-in-hand playing our game, I could hear my sister say behind us, "Aunt Freeway is such a MILF!".
"Me too, Mommy! Me too!" Exclaimed his little voice.
We tried to convince him that no, he was not a MILF, but he insisted he was. My sister, grandmother, and I laughed hysterically at this insistence. All I could say to him was, "Someday when you're old enough to understand what you just said, I'm going to tell you this story and embarrass you". He's nine now.
I'm trying to determine if he's old enough to hear this story...and whether or not he'll understand it. He probably has never heard of the original American Pie movie that this saying became popular from, and I think my sister might kill me if I show it to him.
Taking votes,
Freeway Fairington
PS-I hope you all know what a MILF is. If not, please look it up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MILF (Btw, this blog refers to the FIRST meaning!)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Hobo Living is the Life for Me!
I'd never really considered the life of a Hobo until a few years ago when my sister Tracy moved to Florida. She and my brother-in-law are both active-duty military personnel, and they are currently stationed in a small town in Florida.
On one trip with my parents to visit them, we drove through a small town called Laurel Hills. Sign after sign read "Home of the Hobos", "Hobo Video", etc. I really found it odd that this town was a self-proclaimed Hobo haven, and yet there were no Historical Markers, no museums, basically nothing to identify what exactly gave this town such Hobo bragging rights.
I, of course, googled the town and tried to find a valid history, but could find nothing. So, I instead searched the definition of what the politically correct terminology of a Hobo means. According to dictionary.com, a Hobo is 1) a tramp or migrant, 2) a migratory worker. I found no supporting documentation of why Laurel Hill was considered "Home of the Hobos", but I fell in love with the saying nonetheless.
Every time my oldest sister, Clara, and I visit Tracy, we make sure to take the route that leads us through this town. The elementary school boasts of skills it instills upon its young students to further them in life, yet their school mascot is a Hobo. The irony in this is absolutely hilarious to us. So much so, we were immature enough to stop and take pictures.
As I was browsing recently at a local bookstore, I found a book on the $3 clearance rack about Hobo Living 101 and was tempted to purchase the book for Clara. After careful consideration, I decided that Clara needed to learn to be a Hobo on her own, and that this book would not help her. I did text her to let her know that I had an old pillowcase I was willing to part with, and surely we could learn to tie it to some type of sturdy stick. What we were to carry with us, however, was beyond me. And the "graffiti" signs portrayed in the book were definitely 1890s old-school (if you know what I mean)-we'd definitely need to get with some real gangsta/Hobo-ish people to learn the new, correct signs to spray paint wherever we went to let other Hobos know whether the town was safe, if there was food, etc.
We had a good laugh at this.
Our next trip is planned for an upcoming Holiday weekend. I'm hoping to locate the Town Historian, or maybe, just maybe, get lucky enough to see a Hobo parade...this Hobo living really intrigues me.
Plus, if the closing on my house becomes anymore stressful, I seriously may consider making a throwback decision to the Hobo way of life. I mean, how hard can it be to become a migrant tramp? My wardrobe is definitely wide enough, and I have plenty of pillowcases...of course, that leaves the problem of needing an Hobo Entourage.
So I beg the question, "Who's coming with me?".
Hobo-fully yours,
Freeway Fairington
On one trip with my parents to visit them, we drove through a small town called Laurel Hills. Sign after sign read "Home of the Hobos", "Hobo Video", etc. I really found it odd that this town was a self-proclaimed Hobo haven, and yet there were no Historical Markers, no museums, basically nothing to identify what exactly gave this town such Hobo bragging rights.
I, of course, googled the town and tried to find a valid history, but could find nothing. So, I instead searched the definition of what the politically correct terminology of a Hobo means. According to dictionary.com, a Hobo is 1) a tramp or migrant, 2) a migratory worker. I found no supporting documentation of why Laurel Hill was considered "Home of the Hobos", but I fell in love with the saying nonetheless.
Every time my oldest sister, Clara, and I visit Tracy, we make sure to take the route that leads us through this town. The elementary school boasts of skills it instills upon its young students to further them in life, yet their school mascot is a Hobo. The irony in this is absolutely hilarious to us. So much so, we were immature enough to stop and take pictures.
As I was browsing recently at a local bookstore, I found a book on the $3 clearance rack about Hobo Living 101 and was tempted to purchase the book for Clara. After careful consideration, I decided that Clara needed to learn to be a Hobo on her own, and that this book would not help her. I did text her to let her know that I had an old pillowcase I was willing to part with, and surely we could learn to tie it to some type of sturdy stick. What we were to carry with us, however, was beyond me. And the "graffiti" signs portrayed in the book were definitely 1890s old-school (if you know what I mean)-we'd definitely need to get with some real gangsta/Hobo-ish people to learn the new, correct signs to spray paint wherever we went to let other Hobos know whether the town was safe, if there was food, etc.
We had a good laugh at this.
Our next trip is planned for an upcoming Holiday weekend. I'm hoping to locate the Town Historian, or maybe, just maybe, get lucky enough to see a Hobo parade...this Hobo living really intrigues me.
Plus, if the closing on my house becomes anymore stressful, I seriously may consider making a throwback decision to the Hobo way of life. I mean, how hard can it be to become a migrant tramp? My wardrobe is definitely wide enough, and I have plenty of pillowcases...of course, that leaves the problem of needing an Hobo Entourage.
So I beg the question, "Who's coming with me?".
Hobo-fully yours,
Freeway Fairington
Monday, August 15, 2011
Why I Hate Peroxide
As I was brushing my teeth this morning, I noticed a brown bottle with a purple label sitting on the bathroom counter. Most of you probably wouldn't have noticed this, much less minded it; however, what the bottle contained is my arch-nemesis. Peroxide.
A few years ago on the 4th of July, I celebrated America's Independence like any other 24 year old would. I went to a couple of pool parties, zip-lined from the woods into one of those pools, drank a few beers, grilled out, and then went home, where I promptly passed out and went to sleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night super thirsty and dehydrated. I reached in the darkness for the bottle of Evian on my nightstand and chugged. As soon as the "water" hit the back of my throat, I felt like someone had poured burning acid down my throat. I threw the water down, reached for the lamp and stared in horror. I had just chugged about 1/4 of a huge bottle of Peroxide. I slapped my boyfriend at the time numerous times to get him to wake up. "I just drank Peroxide!" I screamed. He laughed. "No, seriously!"
I'm frantically searching the bottle for Poison Control's phone number, or instructions saying to drink water, milk, something...he gets online and starts reading online threads about people who drink Peroxide to clean their systems out. I am now foaming at the mouth-literally. He finally calls the Poison Control center and has a good laugh with the guy manning the phones that night. "You can't drink water," he says. "And you might be foamy for a few days...".
So, I know you're wondering why I would have a huge bottle of Peroxide hanging out on my nightstand, right? Well apparently, I had cut myself earlier in the day while zip-lining and had used the Peroxide to clean my cut. Instead of going and putting it away, I was lazy and set it on the nightstand right next to a 1-liter bottle of Evian. Both had a domed top, and approximately the same sized lid. It was easy to mistake the two while half-asleep.
Let's just say that I now get sick at the sight of a bottle of Peroxide, and just thinking about it still gives me the chills. I can't even put into words how much it burned going down my throat, or how foamy it was after the fact. I don't even buy Peroxide anymore and refuse to use it on any cuts or scrapes. My current boyfriend knows this, and I swear the bottles of Peroxide I find under the bathroom sink (or on it, in this case) seem to be multiplying like rabbits. I hope he finds this funny, because I sure as hell do not.
Until next time,
Freeway Fairington
A few years ago on the 4th of July, I celebrated America's Independence like any other 24 year old would. I went to a couple of pool parties, zip-lined from the woods into one of those pools, drank a few beers, grilled out, and then went home, where I promptly passed out and went to sleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night super thirsty and dehydrated. I reached in the darkness for the bottle of Evian on my nightstand and chugged. As soon as the "water" hit the back of my throat, I felt like someone had poured burning acid down my throat. I threw the water down, reached for the lamp and stared in horror. I had just chugged about 1/4 of a huge bottle of Peroxide. I slapped my boyfriend at the time numerous times to get him to wake up. "I just drank Peroxide!" I screamed. He laughed. "No, seriously!"
I'm frantically searching the bottle for Poison Control's phone number, or instructions saying to drink water, milk, something...he gets online and starts reading online threads about people who drink Peroxide to clean their systems out. I am now foaming at the mouth-literally. He finally calls the Poison Control center and has a good laugh with the guy manning the phones that night. "You can't drink water," he says. "And you might be foamy for a few days...".
So, I know you're wondering why I would have a huge bottle of Peroxide hanging out on my nightstand, right? Well apparently, I had cut myself earlier in the day while zip-lining and had used the Peroxide to clean my cut. Instead of going and putting it away, I was lazy and set it on the nightstand right next to a 1-liter bottle of Evian. Both had a domed top, and approximately the same sized lid. It was easy to mistake the two while half-asleep.
Let's just say that I now get sick at the sight of a bottle of Peroxide, and just thinking about it still gives me the chills. I can't even put into words how much it burned going down my throat, or how foamy it was after the fact. I don't even buy Peroxide anymore and refuse to use it on any cuts or scrapes. My current boyfriend knows this, and I swear the bottles of Peroxide I find under the bathroom sink (or on it, in this case) seem to be multiplying like rabbits. I hope he finds this funny, because I sure as hell do not.
Until next time,
Freeway Fairington
7 Tequilas Away from AA
You'll notice that many (actually, almost all) of my blogs currently revolve around instances happening in apartment complexes. That is because, lately, most of my best material occurs in such an environment. Sad, I know. Lucky for you, I'm planning a shopping excursion and some gym time for myself tomorrow so hopefully you'll get some different observances in the next few blogs. Maybe.
I recently spent a weekend at a friend's apartment while she was out of town. I got in some much needed pool time (and believe it or not, some tan lines) and relaxation. Well, to an extent. It wasn't just all play time for me-I was actually there child sitting (hate to call them babies when they're not), and of course, I had my overly needy dog with me, as well.
Her children and I had a great time at the pool, bowling, chowing down, and doing what kids get to do when their mom is out of town. Oh, don't worry, I think they asked at least ten times daily when their mom was coming home. I may be fun, but I'm no mommy.
On my last night sitting, we had just gotten home from eating at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants with my boyfriend. He had followed us home to return a cooler and help me get the kids into bed and ready for school the next morning. I quickly took the dog for a walk while he helped the kids get everything out of my car and into the house. When I returned to the apartment, I was told by one of the children that they had just received a lesson about strangers.
Apparently, an Hispanic male, who we'll call Miguel, approached my boyfriend while he emptied water out of the cooler. He begged for a drink. My boyfriend, being the nice, Southern guy that he is, asked Miguel, "Whatcha want? We got water, and we got beer...". Miguel chose beer, offered to pay for the two he was given, and when my boyfriend declined, continued on his way. No less than three minutes after having this story relayed to me, I was sitting outside on the curb with one of the children I was sitting for and my dog. We were just sitting around talking, waiting for the dog to do his business, when an Hispanic man, dressed in a uniform from a local Mexican restaurant approached us.
"Where he go?" He asked me with a thick accent, pointing to my boyfriend's truck.
"Mas cerveza?" I asked. I wasn't really sure why he else he would be looking for my boyfriend.
"No," he shook his head. "I need.....(this indicates drunken rambling)...friend. Whas his name?"
I told him my boyfriend's name and also explained that he was busy. The man sat down. I sent the child I was sitting for inside and told him to ask my boyfriend to come out and to stay inside with the door locked. The man began to ramble again. "I need a friend, pleeaase...".
Out comes my boyfriend, looking from me to the man. "Miguel," he says, "Why are you here?"
At this point, it's apparent that I am not needed. Miguel begins to tell my boyfriend that he is an alcoholic and that his wife will not let him into their apartment. He cries as he speaks about his 15 year old daughter, he talks and talks at length in a language that is not quite understandable. How the two communicate is beyond me. My boyfriend's accent is so Southern, that sometimes I can't even understand it (and I'm not joking either...it's like a whole different version of English!). Miguel is speaking Spanish, but it is so garbled, that it's difficult to make out what he's saying. Some words come out in English, but most of what he says is lost in the night, to which it has now turned.
Somehow, I'm volunteered to provide AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) information to Miguel in Spanish. I am also asked to knock on his apartment door, because for some reason in his drunken state it seems like a good idea. I would never open my door to a stranger, so it's beyond me why he thinks his wife or child will. Finally, after about three minutes of this ridiculousness, I leave. I help the kids finish up their homework and tuck them in. My boyfriend apparently calls Miguel's daughter and she helps him in the house. He gives her the AA information I had written down.
My boyfriend, wanting to see the perpetual goodness in people, believes he's broken through and that Miguel will be alright and get the help he needs. Miguel is 50 years old. He has been drinking most of his life. Not wanting to be a pessimist, I say nothing. I come from a long line of alcoholics, so I know that it is a disease. One beer, or one drink, often leads to too many to count.
Approximately two days later as I am driving to meet two of my best friends (and of course, my mother) for a yoga class, I see a familiar form walking along a busy highway. He is walking north with a black bag in hand. You know, the kind of black bag that you can only get from a liquor store. The bag, no doubt, holds a six-pack at the least. I turn to see the man's face, and undoubtedly, it's our "friend" Miguel. I call my boyfriend, laugh a little bit at the irony and then continue on to yoga. I know my boyfriend's disappointed, but he too laughs and says, "Well, at least we tried".
It was offered to us that we could come into the Mexican restaurant where Miguel works anytime and ask for him and receive any drink we wanted if we would just give him one more beer that night. I'm glad that we said no. His breath smelled strongly of tequila that night, and although he denied drinking it, he did admit to having, "one or two margaritas"...as if we didn't know that a margarita contained tequila. I'm interested to see if Miguel is there should we consider dining, or if he's still locked outside of his wife's apartment soliciting beers from those who are going to bed this Sunday evening after a weekend of partying.
Social Drinker Only (on Special Occasions),
Freeway Fairington
PS-While this blog is light-hearted in nature, I do take alcoholism and drug-addiction very seriously. If you or someone you know is an alcoholic, I urge you to find a support group or doctor to help you (or your loved one) with your condition.
I recently spent a weekend at a friend's apartment while she was out of town. I got in some much needed pool time (and believe it or not, some tan lines) and relaxation. Well, to an extent. It wasn't just all play time for me-I was actually there child sitting (hate to call them babies when they're not), and of course, I had my overly needy dog with me, as well.
Her children and I had a great time at the pool, bowling, chowing down, and doing what kids get to do when their mom is out of town. Oh, don't worry, I think they asked at least ten times daily when their mom was coming home. I may be fun, but I'm no mommy.
On my last night sitting, we had just gotten home from eating at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants with my boyfriend. He had followed us home to return a cooler and help me get the kids into bed and ready for school the next morning. I quickly took the dog for a walk while he helped the kids get everything out of my car and into the house. When I returned to the apartment, I was told by one of the children that they had just received a lesson about strangers.
Apparently, an Hispanic male, who we'll call Miguel, approached my boyfriend while he emptied water out of the cooler. He begged for a drink. My boyfriend, being the nice, Southern guy that he is, asked Miguel, "Whatcha want? We got water, and we got beer...". Miguel chose beer, offered to pay for the two he was given, and when my boyfriend declined, continued on his way. No less than three minutes after having this story relayed to me, I was sitting outside on the curb with one of the children I was sitting for and my dog. We were just sitting around talking, waiting for the dog to do his business, when an Hispanic man, dressed in a uniform from a local Mexican restaurant approached us.
"Where he go?" He asked me with a thick accent, pointing to my boyfriend's truck.
"Mas cerveza?" I asked. I wasn't really sure why he else he would be looking for my boyfriend.
"No," he shook his head. "I need.....(this indicates drunken rambling)...friend. Whas his name?"
I told him my boyfriend's name and also explained that he was busy. The man sat down. I sent the child I was sitting for inside and told him to ask my boyfriend to come out and to stay inside with the door locked. The man began to ramble again. "I need a friend, pleeaase...".
Out comes my boyfriend, looking from me to the man. "Miguel," he says, "Why are you here?"
At this point, it's apparent that I am not needed. Miguel begins to tell my boyfriend that he is an alcoholic and that his wife will not let him into their apartment. He cries as he speaks about his 15 year old daughter, he talks and talks at length in a language that is not quite understandable. How the two communicate is beyond me. My boyfriend's accent is so Southern, that sometimes I can't even understand it (and I'm not joking either...it's like a whole different version of English!). Miguel is speaking Spanish, but it is so garbled, that it's difficult to make out what he's saying. Some words come out in English, but most of what he says is lost in the night, to which it has now turned.
Somehow, I'm volunteered to provide AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) information to Miguel in Spanish. I am also asked to knock on his apartment door, because for some reason in his drunken state it seems like a good idea. I would never open my door to a stranger, so it's beyond me why he thinks his wife or child will. Finally, after about three minutes of this ridiculousness, I leave. I help the kids finish up their homework and tuck them in. My boyfriend apparently calls Miguel's daughter and she helps him in the house. He gives her the AA information I had written down.
My boyfriend, wanting to see the perpetual goodness in people, believes he's broken through and that Miguel will be alright and get the help he needs. Miguel is 50 years old. He has been drinking most of his life. Not wanting to be a pessimist, I say nothing. I come from a long line of alcoholics, so I know that it is a disease. One beer, or one drink, often leads to too many to count.
Approximately two days later as I am driving to meet two of my best friends (and of course, my mother) for a yoga class, I see a familiar form walking along a busy highway. He is walking north with a black bag in hand. You know, the kind of black bag that you can only get from a liquor store. The bag, no doubt, holds a six-pack at the least. I turn to see the man's face, and undoubtedly, it's our "friend" Miguel. I call my boyfriend, laugh a little bit at the irony and then continue on to yoga. I know my boyfriend's disappointed, but he too laughs and says, "Well, at least we tried".
It was offered to us that we could come into the Mexican restaurant where Miguel works anytime and ask for him and receive any drink we wanted if we would just give him one more beer that night. I'm glad that we said no. His breath smelled strongly of tequila that night, and although he denied drinking it, he did admit to having, "one or two margaritas"...as if we didn't know that a margarita contained tequila. I'm interested to see if Miguel is there should we consider dining, or if he's still locked outside of his wife's apartment soliciting beers from those who are going to bed this Sunday evening after a weekend of partying.
Social Drinker Only (on Special Occasions),
Freeway Fairington
PS-While this blog is light-hearted in nature, I do take alcoholism and drug-addiction very seriously. If you or someone you know is an alcoholic, I urge you to find a support group or doctor to help you (or your loved one) with your condition.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Mi Barrio (aka My 'Hood)
It's a quiet Sunday here in my apartment complex. No one's at the swimming pool (it's closed, like always). No one is down at the river yet. Nope, things don't get poppin' out here til about dark. And then, it's like...I don't even know how to describe it. Maybe detailing my neighbors (minus the stalker that you all already know about) will help.
I have a tendency to choose low-rent apartment complexes to live in. Yes, I can afford the more expensive ones, but I just don't see the point of throwing away my money (and entertainment) to live in an overly-priced, exceptionally small apartment that looks exactly like the 25 year old-ish one that I rent for approximately two-thirds less. You wouldn't know by seeing the inside of my apartment that it was probably built in 1980-something. It's a gated community. It's close to the major interstates and downtown. It is also a mecca for the working-class American (and wanna-be American). And I love it.
My favorite neighbor is Ola. He is from Africa, is always dressed to the nines, and sells luxury cars-through Auto-Trader. He is quiet, keeps to himself, and was kind enough to help my boyfriend and I move our furniture in when we first signed our lease at this apartment (and no, he didn't rob us).
My next door neighbor is okay, she has two boyfriends...it's always a show-down when one arrives before the semi live-in boyfriend leaves. My dog (who also understands Spanish) and I often watch heated arguments in the parking lot during his nightly walk. It's like Destinos, but better. The scents wafting from her apartment always smell good...better than any Mexican restaurant that you've ever been to, and her music is...well, I don't really enjoy her music. While I love, love, love me some El General and Enrique Iglesias (en Espanol), I'm not a fan of the Mexican-restaurant(ish) music that blares next door until midnight. But, at least she's respectful and the music is turned off early and doesn't come back on until late in the am.
Now...everyone probably already knows about my least-favorite neighbors because I complain about them often. I have a very strong dislike for Lan-Lan and Honey, as well as their members-only Vietnam Vet era Pimp. I wish I was making this up, but this is the complete and total truth. From 11:30pm until 6:30am when Honey leaves for whatever her "real" job is, there is incessant and incredibly loud noise from the bedroom above mine. There is no furniture in the living room, only a faint bluish-tinted light. A bright light, however, glares from the bedroom above mine. It is always glowing-a sign to customers, that Lan-Lan and Honey are open for business. Oh yes, I'm 99.9% sure that an illegal "massage parlor" is being operated upstairs. And I'm 100% certain that it comes with "happy ending". This has been going on since we moved in, and I can honestly say that I have not gotten one complete, full-night of sleep since October of last year. I absolutely DESPISE Lan-Lan and Honey...and their Pimp too. He drives one of those roller-skate looking cars for god sakes. How do you pimp a couple of middle-aged Asian women in one of those? I'm just wondering.
Now, the other side of the building, I like. There's my taxi-cab driver friends. They know how to party at a 10 and keep it at a 2. There's an old car-wash station at the end of our building where they've set up lawn chairs, a trash bag, and a beer station. They are truly good guys...any man who names their puppy Bella and will sit and call out to my severely anti-social dog by name each time I walk him and wave to me (note-not stalk me) is a good man in my book. And then, there's the Mariachi band that practices next door. They aren't very good, but it's always funny to hear them (except for the nights when I want to go to bed early).
The only other downside to this complex besides my stalker and Lan-Lan and Honey, is the fact that for some reason I've been mistaken for a prostitute on multiple occasions while walking my dog. Seriously, an unshowered woman with her hair unbrushed and tangled, in yoga pants and a t-shirt walking her dog is a prostitute? Just last night, a red car came to a complete stop and the man inside said, "Hola...". I just glared at him until he drove off. Come on dude, I'm walking my dog, not standing on or near any corner. Perhaps that's a job I should consider if worst comes to worst...it seems I'm already one step ahead of the game as far as looks go. Lol, that really scares me.
I, of course, won't disclose where I live...but, there are millions of apartment complexes like this one spread out all over the country. I just have that special knack for finding them.
Moving in Less than a Month,
Freeway Fairington
I have a tendency to choose low-rent apartment complexes to live in. Yes, I can afford the more expensive ones, but I just don't see the point of throwing away my money (and entertainment) to live in an overly-priced, exceptionally small apartment that looks exactly like the 25 year old-ish one that I rent for approximately two-thirds less. You wouldn't know by seeing the inside of my apartment that it was probably built in 1980-something. It's a gated community. It's close to the major interstates and downtown. It is also a mecca for the working-class American (and wanna-be American). And I love it.
My favorite neighbor is Ola. He is from Africa, is always dressed to the nines, and sells luxury cars-through Auto-Trader. He is quiet, keeps to himself, and was kind enough to help my boyfriend and I move our furniture in when we first signed our lease at this apartment (and no, he didn't rob us).
My next door neighbor is okay, she has two boyfriends...it's always a show-down when one arrives before the semi live-in boyfriend leaves. My dog (who also understands Spanish) and I often watch heated arguments in the parking lot during his nightly walk. It's like Destinos, but better. The scents wafting from her apartment always smell good...better than any Mexican restaurant that you've ever been to, and her music is...well, I don't really enjoy her music. While I love, love, love me some El General and Enrique Iglesias (en Espanol), I'm not a fan of the Mexican-restaurant(ish) music that blares next door until midnight. But, at least she's respectful and the music is turned off early and doesn't come back on until late in the am.
Now...everyone probably already knows about my least-favorite neighbors because I complain about them often. I have a very strong dislike for Lan-Lan and Honey, as well as their members-only Vietnam Vet era Pimp. I wish I was making this up, but this is the complete and total truth. From 11:30pm until 6:30am when Honey leaves for whatever her "real" job is, there is incessant and incredibly loud noise from the bedroom above mine. There is no furniture in the living room, only a faint bluish-tinted light. A bright light, however, glares from the bedroom above mine. It is always glowing-a sign to customers, that Lan-Lan and Honey are open for business. Oh yes, I'm 99.9% sure that an illegal "massage parlor" is being operated upstairs. And I'm 100% certain that it comes with "happy ending". This has been going on since we moved in, and I can honestly say that I have not gotten one complete, full-night of sleep since October of last year. I absolutely DESPISE Lan-Lan and Honey...and their Pimp too. He drives one of those roller-skate looking cars for god sakes. How do you pimp a couple of middle-aged Asian women in one of those? I'm just wondering.
Now, the other side of the building, I like. There's my taxi-cab driver friends. They know how to party at a 10 and keep it at a 2. There's an old car-wash station at the end of our building where they've set up lawn chairs, a trash bag, and a beer station. They are truly good guys...any man who names their puppy Bella and will sit and call out to my severely anti-social dog by name each time I walk him and wave to me (note-not stalk me) is a good man in my book. And then, there's the Mariachi band that practices next door. They aren't very good, but it's always funny to hear them (except for the nights when I want to go to bed early).
The only other downside to this complex besides my stalker and Lan-Lan and Honey, is the fact that for some reason I've been mistaken for a prostitute on multiple occasions while walking my dog. Seriously, an unshowered woman with her hair unbrushed and tangled, in yoga pants and a t-shirt walking her dog is a prostitute? Just last night, a red car came to a complete stop and the man inside said, "Hola...". I just glared at him until he drove off. Come on dude, I'm walking my dog, not standing on or near any corner. Perhaps that's a job I should consider if worst comes to worst...it seems I'm already one step ahead of the game as far as looks go. Lol, that really scares me.
I, of course, won't disclose where I live...but, there are millions of apartment complexes like this one spread out all over the country. I just have that special knack for finding them.
Moving in Less than a Month,
Freeway Fairington
Ooh La La
I've never really been a fan of the French. French bread, french fries, french champagne maybe...but not France itself. My oldest sister has been trying to force their culture on me since childhood. First making me learn the alphabet and how to count in French, then by sharing stories of her love life with a man I'll call Pepe Le Pew.
My main issue with France and the French people is their overly strong dislike for all that is American. Just what, exactly, did we do? So what if we wear deodorant (you sure need it in the South) or our breasts are too big to fit into a wine glass? So what if we love McDonald's and obesity instead of nibbling on our cheese and wine? I like bread, damnit! Ok, ok, you get my point. (By the way, did I mention I hate scarves?).
So anyway, my sister has this man who we'll say is a "love interest" of hers. He is very intelligent, works as a researcher at a world-renowned University here in the state of Georgia, is supposedly very good-looking, and has a fetish for butts. Specifically, the opening to the butt. Yes, I really did just say that. He likes anuses.
Now let me add this quick disclaimer before I continue: a) I have permission from my sister to write about this man, as well as this subject, and b) I never use real names in any of my blogs because that just wouldn't be right...even if given permission, all subjects in any blog are given a false name or moniker (that's just how I do).
Back to Pepe Le Pew. I think it is probably best that I have never seen or met him. I am allowed to therefore imagine him any way that I would like to in my mind, as are you. I first became aware of his existence (and anus fetish) on a trip to Florida with my sister. He texted her constantly with very inappropriate messages of what he wanted to do to her anus. In improper English. I laughed so hard I cried. I'm sorry, but when you are of what you deem a Superior Society to my own, and you work at a University as a researcher, I expect you to know English. "I want to anal you so hard right now" does not give me a pretty image. Nor, would it turn me on.
I expect that he still sends her these obscene messages. Last I heard, he was upset about me texting her late one evening asking how her anus was and telling her that it was her favorite sister writing to her (she had lost her phone for the umpteenth time, and of course, my number along with it). My nickname could be mistaken for a man, especially if you are not familiar with my real name (which, ironically, is of French origin). He became very angry with her and accused her of seeing another man. Ouch, I'm offended. I do know that she bought him some Old Spice deodorant for his birthday. So, at least our dear Pepe Le Pew will smell good and maybe have a little swagger left after my sister takes her next anal beating.
Keep Those Booties Covered,
Freeway Fairington
PS-Mom, I hope you chose NOT to read this posting!!!
My main issue with France and the French people is their overly strong dislike for all that is American. Just what, exactly, did we do? So what if we wear deodorant (you sure need it in the South) or our breasts are too big to fit into a wine glass? So what if we love McDonald's and obesity instead of nibbling on our cheese and wine? I like bread, damnit! Ok, ok, you get my point. (By the way, did I mention I hate scarves?).
So anyway, my sister has this man who we'll say is a "love interest" of hers. He is very intelligent, works as a researcher at a world-renowned University here in the state of Georgia, is supposedly very good-looking, and has a fetish for butts. Specifically, the opening to the butt. Yes, I really did just say that. He likes anuses.
Now let me add this quick disclaimer before I continue: a) I have permission from my sister to write about this man, as well as this subject, and b) I never use real names in any of my blogs because that just wouldn't be right...even if given permission, all subjects in any blog are given a false name or moniker (that's just how I do).
Back to Pepe Le Pew. I think it is probably best that I have never seen or met him. I am allowed to therefore imagine him any way that I would like to in my mind, as are you. I first became aware of his existence (and anus fetish) on a trip to Florida with my sister. He texted her constantly with very inappropriate messages of what he wanted to do to her anus. In improper English. I laughed so hard I cried. I'm sorry, but when you are of what you deem a Superior Society to my own, and you work at a University as a researcher, I expect you to know English. "I want to anal you so hard right now" does not give me a pretty image. Nor, would it turn me on.
I expect that he still sends her these obscene messages. Last I heard, he was upset about me texting her late one evening asking how her anus was and telling her that it was her favorite sister writing to her (she had lost her phone for the umpteenth time, and of course, my number along with it). My nickname could be mistaken for a man, especially if you are not familiar with my real name (which, ironically, is of French origin). He became very angry with her and accused her of seeing another man. Ouch, I'm offended. I do know that she bought him some Old Spice deodorant for his birthday. So, at least our dear Pepe Le Pew will smell good and maybe have a little swagger left after my sister takes her next anal beating.
Keep Those Booties Covered,
Freeway Fairington
PS-Mom, I hope you chose NOT to read this posting!!!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Excuse Me, but Can You Please Stop Stalking Me?!?
I've had four stalkers in my lifetime. Well, that I know of. Two in high school (one that carried over into the Facebook era), one at a previous place of employment, and now one (possibly more) in my overly "hood" apartment complex.
I have yet to figure out what drew, or draws, these people to me. Regardless, it creeps me out. In high school, it was easy to dismiss it as a pubescent crush gone awry and one that would eventually end. And as far as my very first stalker is concerned, it did. My second high school stalker did not know me in high school...we had no classes together, and honestly, I never knew who this person was until a friend of mine told me that he was basically obsessed with me. I kept my distance, graduated, and managed to not run into this person until many years later when I joined Facebook.
Like an idiot, I accepted his "friend" request. We, of course, were not (and never had been) friends, but let's all admit it now, that's what Facebook is for. You friend somebody, catch up on them and any gossip you can dig up, have a good laugh at how some people turned out, and then you move on. I mean, come on, who really has 4,000+ friends? Really? So anyway, shortly after accepting his request, the emails started. Then the instant messaging. Thankfully, you can delete people and block them...too bad this isn't the case in real life. To his credit, I have not been bothered by him since.
When I was 19 years old, I worked as a contracted employee for one of the world's largest computer manufacturers. The building I worked out of was considered huge to me at that time (my first "desk job"), and there were hundreds of employees spanning nine floors that were considered to be my co-workers. Randomly one day, I received an instant message on the company's internal version of AIM or Yahoo Messenger from a MAN that I did not know and had never met. Thinking he had messaged the wrong person, I ignored him. Um, bad decision. He continually messaged me day after day telling me how beautiful I was, asking me on dates, telling me about his divorce and children, etc. I was bothered, but not scared. That is, until the day I walked out to my car and discovered the fish flowers.
At the time, I drove a gunmetal-colored Mustang (hold your jokes about the car please). Never once had I seen anyone suspicious or unknown to me watch me get into my car. However, on this particular day when I left work, there was a bouquet of flowers that smelled disgustingly like fish and a Precious Moments card. I actually shuddered as I read the card and felt vomit creeping up in the back of my throat. Luckily for me, my mom also worked for this same company and was able to have HR handle the situation. It never escalated further than the fish bouquet and weird card...I thank God for that.
I thought after the aforementioned situations that I was all done with stalkers. I'm aging, I've definitely put on some weight, and let's face it...there's really nothing "stalkable" about me. At least, that's what I thought...
I'm sure that everyone remembers my dog...yes, the vampire. Well, as I was out walking him along the river that runs through my apartment complex one evening (bad scene from a horror movie flashes through my mind), I was flagged down by a Hispanic man and the couple he was with. Being neighborly, I waved and said hello. Baaaaddddd decision. The Hispanic man chased me and my dog down and decided to interrogate me. He only found out my dog's name, while I managed to gather the information that he was a native of El Salvador, one of twelve children (many of his siblings apparently also live in this complex), that he works for a moving company near downtown Atlanta, and oh, that he's in love with me. That's right, he's in love with me. WTF?
I went a couple of weeks without seeing this man, until one day while I was walking my dog he approached us and told me that he'd been coming outside, "three, four times a day" looking for me. Um, excuse me? I told him that this was not normal, and was in fact, rather creepy. He didn't seem to understand and asked me for my phone number. I told him no, I had a boyfriend, and that I was most definitely not interested in him. Not now, not ever.
The next time that I saw him, he was drunk and leaving the pool. He asked me on a date. I repeated my lack of interest and asked him to please leave me alone. He then offered me a Modelo. I declined. I thought maybe he had understood because until two days ago, I did not see him for more than a month.
I thought that my luck was finally turning until today, when I was walking my dog. It was like the twilight zone or something. Here comes my stalker, a friend of his, and one of his brothers, Jose. All are extremely drunk. My stalker starts asking me where I've been and tells me that MY NEIGHBOR has been calling to tell him approximately what time I walk my dog every morning. Um thanks, I'm glad to see that you've resorted to recruiting my neighbor to assist your stalking me. Thank God that my stalker told me he's already at work every day when he finds out I'm walking the dog. And then his friend...rattling off in Spanish about my star tattoo behind my ear. Tells my stalker he's right, I'm beautiful. And then more about the star tattoo. And then there's Jose, my stalker's brother. Jose is huge, but not very tall. A drunk that you can tell is friendly one minute, but not the next. When I tell him he doesn't need to drink anymore beer (talk about some stank breath), he pulls out a bottle of tequila and offers it to me. He is speaking Spanglish. Somehow I escape the three after firmly telling them about a thousand times that no, I don't want the tequila, and that my dog really needs to eat dinner.
Seriously, who does that? A) Pick a language and stick to it when you're speaking to me. B) It's creepy enough that you're stalking me, please don't recruit my neighbors to help you...that's just weird. C) No, I will NOT get you a green card. So um, about that...will you please stop stalking me?!
Currently in Hiding,
Freeway Fairington
I have yet to figure out what drew, or draws, these people to me. Regardless, it creeps me out. In high school, it was easy to dismiss it as a pubescent crush gone awry and one that would eventually end. And as far as my very first stalker is concerned, it did. My second high school stalker did not know me in high school...we had no classes together, and honestly, I never knew who this person was until a friend of mine told me that he was basically obsessed with me. I kept my distance, graduated, and managed to not run into this person until many years later when I joined Facebook.
Like an idiot, I accepted his "friend" request. We, of course, were not (and never had been) friends, but let's all admit it now, that's what Facebook is for. You friend somebody, catch up on them and any gossip you can dig up, have a good laugh at how some people turned out, and then you move on. I mean, come on, who really has 4,000+ friends? Really? So anyway, shortly after accepting his request, the emails started. Then the instant messaging. Thankfully, you can delete people and block them...too bad this isn't the case in real life. To his credit, I have not been bothered by him since.
When I was 19 years old, I worked as a contracted employee for one of the world's largest computer manufacturers. The building I worked out of was considered huge to me at that time (my first "desk job"), and there were hundreds of employees spanning nine floors that were considered to be my co-workers. Randomly one day, I received an instant message on the company's internal version of AIM or Yahoo Messenger from a MAN that I did not know and had never met. Thinking he had messaged the wrong person, I ignored him. Um, bad decision. He continually messaged me day after day telling me how beautiful I was, asking me on dates, telling me about his divorce and children, etc. I was bothered, but not scared. That is, until the day I walked out to my car and discovered the fish flowers.
At the time, I drove a gunmetal-colored Mustang (hold your jokes about the car please). Never once had I seen anyone suspicious or unknown to me watch me get into my car. However, on this particular day when I left work, there was a bouquet of flowers that smelled disgustingly like fish and a Precious Moments card. I actually shuddered as I read the card and felt vomit creeping up in the back of my throat. Luckily for me, my mom also worked for this same company and was able to have HR handle the situation. It never escalated further than the fish bouquet and weird card...I thank God for that.
I thought after the aforementioned situations that I was all done with stalkers. I'm aging, I've definitely put on some weight, and let's face it...there's really nothing "stalkable" about me. At least, that's what I thought...
I'm sure that everyone remembers my dog...yes, the vampire. Well, as I was out walking him along the river that runs through my apartment complex one evening (bad scene from a horror movie flashes through my mind), I was flagged down by a Hispanic man and the couple he was with. Being neighborly, I waved and said hello. Baaaaddddd decision. The Hispanic man chased me and my dog down and decided to interrogate me. He only found out my dog's name, while I managed to gather the information that he was a native of El Salvador, one of twelve children (many of his siblings apparently also live in this complex), that he works for a moving company near downtown Atlanta, and oh, that he's in love with me. That's right, he's in love with me. WTF?
I went a couple of weeks without seeing this man, until one day while I was walking my dog he approached us and told me that he'd been coming outside, "three, four times a day" looking for me. Um, excuse me? I told him that this was not normal, and was in fact, rather creepy. He didn't seem to understand and asked me for my phone number. I told him no, I had a boyfriend, and that I was most definitely not interested in him. Not now, not ever.
The next time that I saw him, he was drunk and leaving the pool. He asked me on a date. I repeated my lack of interest and asked him to please leave me alone. He then offered me a Modelo. I declined. I thought maybe he had understood because until two days ago, I did not see him for more than a month.
I thought that my luck was finally turning until today, when I was walking my dog. It was like the twilight zone or something. Here comes my stalker, a friend of his, and one of his brothers, Jose. All are extremely drunk. My stalker starts asking me where I've been and tells me that MY NEIGHBOR has been calling to tell him approximately what time I walk my dog every morning. Um thanks, I'm glad to see that you've resorted to recruiting my neighbor to assist your stalking me. Thank God that my stalker told me he's already at work every day when he finds out I'm walking the dog. And then his friend...rattling off in Spanish about my star tattoo behind my ear. Tells my stalker he's right, I'm beautiful. And then more about the star tattoo. And then there's Jose, my stalker's brother. Jose is huge, but not very tall. A drunk that you can tell is friendly one minute, but not the next. When I tell him he doesn't need to drink anymore beer (talk about some stank breath), he pulls out a bottle of tequila and offers it to me. He is speaking Spanglish. Somehow I escape the three after firmly telling them about a thousand times that no, I don't want the tequila, and that my dog really needs to eat dinner.
Seriously, who does that? A) Pick a language and stick to it when you're speaking to me. B) It's creepy enough that you're stalking me, please don't recruit my neighbors to help you...that's just weird. C) No, I will NOT get you a green card. So um, about that...will you please stop stalking me?!
Currently in Hiding,
Freeway Fairington
*A Note from Your Beloved Blogger*
Dear Readers,
I know that you've been wondering for the last month or so about where all of the cowboys have gone. Well, quite frankly, so have I. My only guess is that perhaps they have switched sides and are now drug lords in Mexico and Colombia. I hear that there's more money to be made in that line of work...
No, in all seriousness, you can blame Star 94 and their 90s Weekend for that lame joke. :)
As you all have been, I too have been busy. But, the good news is that I'm baaaaacccccckk!
You're about to be reading some seriously funny blogs with a vengeance. Yeah, you can thank me later. I only have one favor to ask of you (since google disabled my AdSense account...)-please follow me on this page and "like" me on FaceBook. I promise not to disappoint. And if I ever find those cowboys, I'll let you know.
Peace, Love, and Karma,
Freeway Fairington
I know that you've been wondering for the last month or so about where all of the cowboys have gone. Well, quite frankly, so have I. My only guess is that perhaps they have switched sides and are now drug lords in Mexico and Colombia. I hear that there's more money to be made in that line of work...
No, in all seriousness, you can blame Star 94 and their 90s Weekend for that lame joke. :)
As you all have been, I too have been busy. But, the good news is that I'm baaaaacccccckk!
You're about to be reading some seriously funny blogs with a vengeance. Yeah, you can thank me later. I only have one favor to ask of you (since google disabled my AdSense account...)-please follow me on this page and "like" me on FaceBook. I promise not to disappoint. And if I ever find those cowboys, I'll let you know.
Peace, Love, and Karma,
Freeway Fairington
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