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
Sunday, August 14, 2011
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
Monday, June 27, 2011
My Dog, the Vampire
*Warning: If you do not have a dog for a pet, or are not a dog "person" then you may find this post somewhat repulsive and/or concerning. However, if you do have a pet dog, then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
I recently adopted a dog from a local shelter during one of their "adoption days" at a local Pet Superstore. The dog I chose is a Chipin, or a Chihuahua-Miniature Pinscher mix. He's adorable, only weighs ten pounds on a good day, and seemed like he wouldn't mind living in my apartment too much.
Within the first hour of "owning" him, he bit me and pooped on my shirt. He hated the treats that the shelter recommended to me, and getting a leash around his neck was like trying to lasso a bull. I must say, we've come a long way since that first day. We're so close, in fact, that he hates to leave my side and wants to be a part of EVERYTHING I do. And when I say everything, I mean everything. If I'm taking a shower, he has to be right outside the tub. If I need to use the restroom, he has to come in the bathroom with me. You get the point.
So then, it should have been no surprise to me when I learned that he had a special affection for trash. Not just trash in general, but my trash. And not all trash, but preferably trash that contained some type of my bodily fluid. He has a particular preference for blood.
The first time I caught him with trash, he was lying beneath my dining room table with two shredded tissues that had been used to blow my nose, and I hate to say this, but a used feminine item. I know, it's gross. I freaked out, texted my best friend, and found out that her dogs too had a thing for, ahem, trash. He'll still sneak out a used tissue from time to time, but I've mostly learned my lesson by keeping the trash out of his reach.
However, as you'll recall from my last post, I recently had facial surgery. On my nose. So of course, there was a plethora of bloody tissues in the trash can. He didn't get much time alone with that trash, but he was able to shred, eat, destroy, and only God knows what else with those tissues in that short period of time.
And then there was the time that I sliced through my thumbnail with a vegetable peeler. He was right there trying to lick the blood away. Any scratch, any cut...he wants to lick it clean and then lick it some more. The only conclusion that I can come to is that my dog, my sweet, sweet dog, was a Vampire in another life. How else could such a tiny animal have such a thirst for blood? I am truly baffled.
Currently Blood-Free,
Freeway Fairington
I recently adopted a dog from a local shelter during one of their "adoption days" at a local Pet Superstore. The dog I chose is a Chipin, or a Chihuahua-Miniature Pinscher mix. He's adorable, only weighs ten pounds on a good day, and seemed like he wouldn't mind living in my apartment too much.
Within the first hour of "owning" him, he bit me and pooped on my shirt. He hated the treats that the shelter recommended to me, and getting a leash around his neck was like trying to lasso a bull. I must say, we've come a long way since that first day. We're so close, in fact, that he hates to leave my side and wants to be a part of EVERYTHING I do. And when I say everything, I mean everything. If I'm taking a shower, he has to be right outside the tub. If I need to use the restroom, he has to come in the bathroom with me. You get the point.
So then, it should have been no surprise to me when I learned that he had a special affection for trash. Not just trash in general, but my trash. And not all trash, but preferably trash that contained some type of my bodily fluid. He has a particular preference for blood.
The first time I caught him with trash, he was lying beneath my dining room table with two shredded tissues that had been used to blow my nose, and I hate to say this, but a used feminine item. I know, it's gross. I freaked out, texted my best friend, and found out that her dogs too had a thing for, ahem, trash. He'll still sneak out a used tissue from time to time, but I've mostly learned my lesson by keeping the trash out of his reach.
However, as you'll recall from my last post, I recently had facial surgery. On my nose. So of course, there was a plethora of bloody tissues in the trash can. He didn't get much time alone with that trash, but he was able to shred, eat, destroy, and only God knows what else with those tissues in that short period of time.
And then there was the time that I sliced through my thumbnail with a vegetable peeler. He was right there trying to lick the blood away. Any scratch, any cut...he wants to lick it clean and then lick it some more. The only conclusion that I can come to is that my dog, my sweet, sweet dog, was a Vampire in another life. How else could such a tiny animal have such a thirst for blood? I am truly baffled.
Currently Blood-Free,
Freeway Fairington
Sunday, June 19, 2011
I've Been Hibiclensed!
It's 4:30 in the morning on a Friday. My alarm is going off incessantly in my ear. My dog is licking my face. I am grouchy. The fact that it's 4:30 am on a Friday is reason enough for me to already be in a bad mood, but what's worse is that I can't eat or even drink water as my plans for the day revolve around going to the hospital for surgery.
The previous afternoon, the nurse that called to do my pre-op instructions by phone told me that I would need to purchase a product called Hibiclens and wash with it from the neck down that evening, and then again the morning of surgery. She stated it was to, "help prevent infection". I was a little skeptical of this since the surgery I was scheduled for was facial surgery...but hey, I didn't go to nursing school, and I don't work in a hospital. I did as instructed and purchased the Hibiclens (located in the First Aid aisle, and ridiculously overpriced) at my local pharmacy and then came home to shower.
Before showering, I read the label on the box. "Do not get in eyes-will cause blindness. Do not get in or near ears-will cause deafness"...ummm, my heartbeat quickens a little bit. I'm a very clumsy person. I'm about to get in the shower, where water has the tendency to make liquid products go places where they probably shouldn't go. This could be bad. Very bad.
As I'm showering, I'm allowed to do all the normal stuff first-I just have to save the Hibiclens for last. It's in a pastel teal container (if that's possible) that looks eerily similar to a bottle of Calamine Lotion. The "soap" (?) is extremely watered-down and is almost burgundy in color, it pours out much faster than I was anticipating. I hesitantly begin to rub the soap into my skin, extra careful to avoid those parts that definitely don't want to have anything to do with this potentially blinding and deafening soap. And then I rinse for an approximate extra ten minutes. No, I'm not joking, I really do and am quite certain that my next water bill will reflect this. As soon as I step out of the shower, I begin to itch all over my body. Of course. I would be allergic to the stuff. I checked the box the "soap" came in one more time. No lie, the website listed for more information was www.hibigeebies.com. WTF?
I apply lotion before going to bed, although I'm fairly certain that I'm NOT supposed to do this, since I'm supposed to shower again the following morning using the same toxic "soap"...but, the nurse didn't say I couldn't, so...
I still don't know if my "soap" prevented me from contracting any kind of weird mutant hospital bugs while in surgery, but I appear to be alive, well, and normal (for myself anyway). And even if I had been infected, it wouldn't matter because I only used the soap on my body and not my face where I was actually being operated on...
Now, if anyone ever tells me that they're scared or feel something along the line of the "hibigeebies", I can tell them not to worry because there's a soap for that and to trust me because, "I've been Hibiclensed!".
Hibigeebie Free,
Freeway Fairington
The previous afternoon, the nurse that called to do my pre-op instructions by phone told me that I would need to purchase a product called Hibiclens and wash with it from the neck down that evening, and then again the morning of surgery. She stated it was to, "help prevent infection". I was a little skeptical of this since the surgery I was scheduled for was facial surgery...but hey, I didn't go to nursing school, and I don't work in a hospital. I did as instructed and purchased the Hibiclens (located in the First Aid aisle, and ridiculously overpriced) at my local pharmacy and then came home to shower.
Before showering, I read the label on the box. "Do not get in eyes-will cause blindness. Do not get in or near ears-will cause deafness"...ummm, my heartbeat quickens a little bit. I'm a very clumsy person. I'm about to get in the shower, where water has the tendency to make liquid products go places where they probably shouldn't go. This could be bad. Very bad.
As I'm showering, I'm allowed to do all the normal stuff first-I just have to save the Hibiclens for last. It's in a pastel teal container (if that's possible) that looks eerily similar to a bottle of Calamine Lotion. The "soap" (?) is extremely watered-down and is almost burgundy in color, it pours out much faster than I was anticipating. I hesitantly begin to rub the soap into my skin, extra careful to avoid those parts that definitely don't want to have anything to do with this potentially blinding and deafening soap. And then I rinse for an approximate extra ten minutes. No, I'm not joking, I really do and am quite certain that my next water bill will reflect this. As soon as I step out of the shower, I begin to itch all over my body. Of course. I would be allergic to the stuff. I checked the box the "soap" came in one more time. No lie, the website listed for more information was www.hibigeebies.com. WTF?
I apply lotion before going to bed, although I'm fairly certain that I'm NOT supposed to do this, since I'm supposed to shower again the following morning using the same toxic "soap"...but, the nurse didn't say I couldn't, so...
I still don't know if my "soap" prevented me from contracting any kind of weird mutant hospital bugs while in surgery, but I appear to be alive, well, and normal (for myself anyway). And even if I had been infected, it wouldn't matter because I only used the soap on my body and not my face where I was actually being operated on...
Now, if anyone ever tells me that they're scared or feel something along the line of the "hibigeebies", I can tell them not to worry because there's a soap for that and to trust me because, "I've been Hibiclensed!".
Hibigeebie Free,
Freeway Fairington
Saturday, June 11, 2011
You Can Thank Me for Your Boyfriend
I don't recall if I saw it in a movie or read it in a book, but I am the girlfriend that a guy dates before he gets married, so to speak. (Only one that I know of is now actually married, but you get my gist).
It's almost ironic now, but my seventeen year old self once made a collage of words and images, and on this particular collage (which still hangs prominently in my old bedroom at my parent's house) there is a comic strip. Orange in background, it presents an awkward party scene: girl standing and looking desperate to get away; geeky guy standing in front of her, drink in hand and pocket protector on his short-sleeved 1950s-style dress shirt saying, "Are you interested in a fixer-upper?". I kid you not, this is the epitomy of my love life. Sigh.
Here are some examples:
Boyfriend #1: The Immature Bastard
This boyfriend wasn't really actually ever my "official" boyfriend, but we dated off and on for a few years. He was a habitual liar, charming, but a liar nonetheless, who was semi-obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. Bad things that he did to me included stealing my car from my place of employment and rear-ending his ex's car, used me for countless rides to I don't even know where, and repeatedly lied about any and everything. I suspect he probably stole from me a couple of times, and then there was that time I caught him reading my journal. (Ha! The prick got what he deserved). Worse things that I did to him to teach him a lesson: left him on the side of a major interstate when he wouldn't stop speaking to me disrespectfully, created a list with my best friend of reasons why I couldn't have sex with him (this made the "I have to wash my hair excuse" pale in comparison to any excuses we made up), had some of my "boys" teach him a lesson about lying and stealing, and called the cops to report that he had driven through an apartment community gate along with a full-description of his soon to be disabled non-registered and non-licensed car. Needless to say, we eventually parted ways and fell out of touch...amicably, I'll add. He went on to finish Real Estate school (before the market got too bad), moved to another state, and now has a beautiful daughter. He was the boyfriend who just needed some maturing under his belt.
Boyfriend #2: The Inexperienced Drug-Addict
My inexperienced drug-addict boyfriend had a good heart and was a free spirit looking for a fun time. He also apparently did way too much Acid in high-school. I never was quite certain if he was just that dumb and goofy, or if he was the way he was because of all of the drugs he had ingested over the years. I was only the second girl to date him (Boyfriend #1 made sure to tell me this and that everyone thought he was gay because of this-they were "friends") so he was very inexperienced in the, ahem, love department...almost comically so. We didn't date long because he was always looking for a party and a place to get high. Somehow he managed to stay out of jail and keep a job while we were together. He was the one who called me randomly every few months to ask to see me or to just keep in touch, and, of course, look for a party. He too now has a child, and just recently got married.
Boyfriend #3: The Drama-King/Alcoholic
This boyfriend went to a small college within commuting distance of one of the top party schools in the United States. He was older than me, cocky as hell, and as far as I could see, someone who posed a challenge that needed to be put in his place. I should have known that when he showed up for our first date with a soda in his hand that something was up. See, he was 21 and I was only 19. I think we went bowling and he ended up going home. I never saw him sober again after that. Once, I found him lying in between the couch and the coffee table in my living room babbling some nonsense about how I needed to go to the party school because where I was attending college didn't matter. My roommate came out of her bedroom to see what the problem was and immediately started laughing. He talked constantly during his drunken rambles of wanting to be a Firefighter, but alcohol was far more important it seemed, because all he did was just that-talk. And drink.
On what was to be our one-year anniversary, I foolishly booked a room at a nice hotel in the downtown area near where we lived. I had my mom go with me to the nearest liquor store to purchase Moet (big in all the rap songs of that time) and a bottle of Martini and Rossi Asti (still my favorite drink). I got dressed up nice, fixed my hair (that's BIG for me!) and drove downtown. The jerk never showed or returned my calls. According to my phone bill when I checked out of the room (yes, it was $1 for each local call) I called him 11 times, and I'm not going to lie, probably left some pretty psycho messages on his voicemail. I never heard back from him. Nevertheless, I called Boyfriend #1, who in turn sent some friends of his downtown and we partied in the hotel room...couldn't let a $200+ suite go to waste all because some guy was a pussy, right?
By the way, this boyfriend emailed me THREE YEARS LATER to apologize for standing me up that night. He also mentioned that he was a recovering alcoholic, and that he had finally made it as a Firefighter. These days, he's a Sergeant in a nice neighborhood not far from where we both grew up and has a girlfriend. See, sometimes drama kings make it just fine.
Boyfriend #4: The Lazy One with the Nonchalant Attitude
This boyfriend also turned out to be a drug addict (see description of Boyfriend #2); however, he was in denial and told both me and everyone he met that he was a "recovering addict". He worked, but never hard, and always at mediocre jobs. Oddly enough, he was fired from at least three of these jobs (that I know of) during the five years that we were together. Did I mention that two of these times was allegedly for stealing, which he, of course, denied.
He was a nice guy, a push-over, and gave me all of the space in the world. He had no ambitions, no goals, and was completely content to go through life just, well, going through life. Obsessed with computers and online games, I'm pretty sure any stress he ever felt was taken out on obscure, secret missions or frolicking in the woods shooting at God knows what with strangers in Zimbabwe (is that still a Country?), Canada, and a few cities over.
After losing his last job, I pretty much forced him into applying at a major Drugstore chain where I had previously worked as a Shift Manager. The old Assistant Manager of the store I had worked at hired him, and the lazy guy I had known for more than four years became obsessed with his new "leadership" role and began to look at his job as a career.
During our relationship, he had also gone from athletically fit (not slim by any means) to more than just a teddy bear. I won't lie, I gained some weight too. When it became too much, I purchased a treadmill and gym memberships for us both. He became exercise-crazed and lost, I'd say, probably at least 40 pounds. Eventually our relationship fizzled, yet he stayed with me because he was too lazy to break up with me. I swear, I heard the biggest sigh of relief come out of his mouth when I told him I couldn't be with him anymore. He is now the Store Manager of a location for that major Drugstore chain in the same city where Boyfriend #3 is a firefighter. He also has a new girlfriend of 7 or 8 months and remains mum on the question I often ask to mess with him-is she the one?
Boyfriend #5: The Current Boyfriend
Oh wait, he might be reading this. Ha, you didn't really think I'd write about him yet, did you? This blog, after all, is about my exes. I'll update you though once I've nurtured this "fixer-upper" into doing his thing and sent him off to the next girl to marry and live his happily-after-ever and blah, blah, blah.
Me? I'm S4L...Single for Life. But hey, at least I'm doing my good deeds for mankind, and making some girls out there very happy and content with what used to be just an "eh" kind of guy. After all, this is obviously God's calling to me in life, and I would never let Him down.
Happy, not lonely,
Freeway Fairington
It's almost ironic now, but my seventeen year old self once made a collage of words and images, and on this particular collage (which still hangs prominently in my old bedroom at my parent's house) there is a comic strip. Orange in background, it presents an awkward party scene: girl standing and looking desperate to get away; geeky guy standing in front of her, drink in hand and pocket protector on his short-sleeved 1950s-style dress shirt saying, "Are you interested in a fixer-upper?". I kid you not, this is the epitomy of my love life. Sigh.
Here are some examples:
Boyfriend #1: The Immature Bastard
This boyfriend wasn't really actually ever my "official" boyfriend, but we dated off and on for a few years. He was a habitual liar, charming, but a liar nonetheless, who was semi-obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. Bad things that he did to me included stealing my car from my place of employment and rear-ending his ex's car, used me for countless rides to I don't even know where, and repeatedly lied about any and everything. I suspect he probably stole from me a couple of times, and then there was that time I caught him reading my journal. (Ha! The prick got what he deserved). Worse things that I did to him to teach him a lesson: left him on the side of a major interstate when he wouldn't stop speaking to me disrespectfully, created a list with my best friend of reasons why I couldn't have sex with him (this made the "I have to wash my hair excuse" pale in comparison to any excuses we made up), had some of my "boys" teach him a lesson about lying and stealing, and called the cops to report that he had driven through an apartment community gate along with a full-description of his soon to be disabled non-registered and non-licensed car. Needless to say, we eventually parted ways and fell out of touch...amicably, I'll add. He went on to finish Real Estate school (before the market got too bad), moved to another state, and now has a beautiful daughter. He was the boyfriend who just needed some maturing under his belt.
Boyfriend #2: The Inexperienced Drug-Addict
My inexperienced drug-addict boyfriend had a good heart and was a free spirit looking for a fun time. He also apparently did way too much Acid in high-school. I never was quite certain if he was just that dumb and goofy, or if he was the way he was because of all of the drugs he had ingested over the years. I was only the second girl to date him (Boyfriend #1 made sure to tell me this and that everyone thought he was gay because of this-they were "friends") so he was very inexperienced in the, ahem, love department...almost comically so. We didn't date long because he was always looking for a party and a place to get high. Somehow he managed to stay out of jail and keep a job while we were together. He was the one who called me randomly every few months to ask to see me or to just keep in touch, and, of course, look for a party. He too now has a child, and just recently got married.
Boyfriend #3: The Drama-King/Alcoholic
This boyfriend went to a small college within commuting distance of one of the top party schools in the United States. He was older than me, cocky as hell, and as far as I could see, someone who posed a challenge that needed to be put in his place. I should have known that when he showed up for our first date with a soda in his hand that something was up. See, he was 21 and I was only 19. I think we went bowling and he ended up going home. I never saw him sober again after that. Once, I found him lying in between the couch and the coffee table in my living room babbling some nonsense about how I needed to go to the party school because where I was attending college didn't matter. My roommate came out of her bedroom to see what the problem was and immediately started laughing. He talked constantly during his drunken rambles of wanting to be a Firefighter, but alcohol was far more important it seemed, because all he did was just that-talk. And drink.
On what was to be our one-year anniversary, I foolishly booked a room at a nice hotel in the downtown area near where we lived. I had my mom go with me to the nearest liquor store to purchase Moet (big in all the rap songs of that time) and a bottle of Martini and Rossi Asti (still my favorite drink). I got dressed up nice, fixed my hair (that's BIG for me!) and drove downtown. The jerk never showed or returned my calls. According to my phone bill when I checked out of the room (yes, it was $1 for each local call) I called him 11 times, and I'm not going to lie, probably left some pretty psycho messages on his voicemail. I never heard back from him. Nevertheless, I called Boyfriend #1, who in turn sent some friends of his downtown and we partied in the hotel room...couldn't let a $200+ suite go to waste all because some guy was a pussy, right?
By the way, this boyfriend emailed me THREE YEARS LATER to apologize for standing me up that night. He also mentioned that he was a recovering alcoholic, and that he had finally made it as a Firefighter. These days, he's a Sergeant in a nice neighborhood not far from where we both grew up and has a girlfriend. See, sometimes drama kings make it just fine.
Boyfriend #4: The Lazy One with the Nonchalant Attitude
This boyfriend also turned out to be a drug addict (see description of Boyfriend #2); however, he was in denial and told both me and everyone he met that he was a "recovering addict". He worked, but never hard, and always at mediocre jobs. Oddly enough, he was fired from at least three of these jobs (that I know of) during the five years that we were together. Did I mention that two of these times was allegedly for stealing, which he, of course, denied.
He was a nice guy, a push-over, and gave me all of the space in the world. He had no ambitions, no goals, and was completely content to go through life just, well, going through life. Obsessed with computers and online games, I'm pretty sure any stress he ever felt was taken out on obscure, secret missions or frolicking in the woods shooting at God knows what with strangers in Zimbabwe (is that still a Country?), Canada, and a few cities over.
After losing his last job, I pretty much forced him into applying at a major Drugstore chain where I had previously worked as a Shift Manager. The old Assistant Manager of the store I had worked at hired him, and the lazy guy I had known for more than four years became obsessed with his new "leadership" role and began to look at his job as a career.
During our relationship, he had also gone from athletically fit (not slim by any means) to more than just a teddy bear. I won't lie, I gained some weight too. When it became too much, I purchased a treadmill and gym memberships for us both. He became exercise-crazed and lost, I'd say, probably at least 40 pounds. Eventually our relationship fizzled, yet he stayed with me because he was too lazy to break up with me. I swear, I heard the biggest sigh of relief come out of his mouth when I told him I couldn't be with him anymore. He is now the Store Manager of a location for that major Drugstore chain in the same city where Boyfriend #3 is a firefighter. He also has a new girlfriend of 7 or 8 months and remains mum on the question I often ask to mess with him-is she the one?
Boyfriend #5: The Current Boyfriend
Oh wait, he might be reading this. Ha, you didn't really think I'd write about him yet, did you? This blog, after all, is about my exes. I'll update you though once I've nurtured this "fixer-upper" into doing his thing and sent him off to the next girl to marry and live his happily-after-ever and blah, blah, blah.
Me? I'm S4L...Single for Life. But hey, at least I'm doing my good deeds for mankind, and making some girls out there very happy and content with what used to be just an "eh" kind of guy. After all, this is obviously God's calling to me in life, and I would never let Him down.
Happy, not lonely,
Freeway Fairington
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