 | ||||||
| ||||||
| ||||||
| ||||||
| ||||||
Archives
Aug 30, 2006
Dear Diary,
I have been watching these old cartoons way too much. I am addicted! Between German homework and Mr. E not being home yet, what the hell else am I going to do?
Porky Pig. These are cartoons of Porky’s early years, before Petunia, his hunka hunka burnin’ bacon, was even introduced.
In “Toots, the Number 13 ½ Crack Train” Porky portrays Toot’s engineer. What? No, Diary, I do not know what the fuck a ‘Crack Train’ is. Nevertheless, Toots is one, bet your ass. Anyway, it seems that Porky and Toots share a special relationship. He gently pats her firm consol when she is huffing and puffing up some particularly steep incline, and he makes sure she has plenty of water to ‘keep that steam a’rollin.’ Toots is Porky’s ‘Special Girl’ and you can tell she likes it. She is comfortable with her position in his life.
One day as Porky and Toots are stopped at the station, filling up on water, Porky receives a telegram. Apparently, Porky is to roll up his tracks because there is a new train in town. According to the official telegram, “The Super Sonic High Speed Train is here to stay!” As Porky stares incredulously at this piece of filthy information, guess what happens next. Yup, the new train pulls up beside Toots. (You can tell Porky is incredulous too, because his hat blew off when he read the telegram.) The ‘Silver Fish’ is there in all its newly gleaming glory. This new train comes complete with a cigar chewing asshole/conductor. Said conductor sneers out the window at Toots and says, “Say! What is that? A percolator on a roller skate?”
Poor Toots visibly deflates with this cruel comment and the ensuing villainous laughter. Of course, Porky is livid at the treatment of his beloved train. He bravely makes the statement that Toots could beat the Silver Fish in a race any old day. The race is arranged by the magical appearance of a cheering crowd. The flag is waved and they’re off! The Silver Fish is completely smoking Toot’s until the racing trains piss off a huge pink bull that was grazing beside the tracks. You know the bull is pretty mad because of the steam coming out of his ears. He runs along behind the trains and rams Toots right in her caboose. This sends her flying, literally, above and in front of the Silver Fish. She reaches the finish line first!
The crowd goes nuts and the asshole conductor slinks away in shame. Porky is overwhelmed at the attention he is getting from all of the females around the finish line. Next scene is Porky driving the Silver Fish towing the battered Toots on a flat car. Toots has a sign hanging on her that reads, “Destination: The last roundhouse.”
Diary, I was just as stunned as you are. What happened? Why had Porky betrayed his precious Toots? Simple. Chicks. You can attract a hell of a lot more chicks driving a BMW instead of a Pinto. Porky is an opportunistic little fucker and is at the mercy of his hormones like any other male on the planet.
You know, Diary, I bet you that this little piece of film is where the term “Male chauvinist pig” comes from.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 28, 2006
Dear Diary,
Just NINE days until Mr. E gets home! Please don’t take offense if I ignore you for a few days once he does get back, Diary. You know how much I value our friendship, right? But let’s face it; Mr. is way better hung than you are.
I had a dream last night - I guess in anticipation of Mr. E’s return – and since my shrink always told me to write things down… well, here goes:
There was no sound as we walked along the path through the woods. The sun was allowed to touch the ground in a few spots where the trees had shifted their branches out of the way. Individual beams of warmth penetrated the heavy cover and we passed through all of them on the path. We made a game of it… hopscotch with sunbeams. I marveled at the difference in temperature between shade and sunlight.
Late autumn had given a surreal cast to the light around us. Our universe was made of oranges, browns, and golds. We turned off the path at our usual spot. The mining road was covered in sand. The face of the mountain had been stripped away to expose millions of tons of sandstone. I smiled at my friend’s mounting excitement. We always went to the next bend in the road, turned around, and raced until we could not run any further. He kept trying to turn around, but with a gentle nudge, I urged him forward. “No cheating,” I told him. He snorted with obvious disgust and that brought another smile to my face. “You know the rules, Sir William,” I said.
We reached the place where the road curved and I looked up to see a hawk gliding overhead. Every movement of my friend’s body was screaming, “Let’s GO!” We turned to face the way we had come and everything slowed down. Time seemed to stand still, the birds quieted, and the usual rustles and thumps that define forest sounds, vanished. We both concentrated on the spot in the road that curved gently out of our sight. Will was trembling with excitement by this time, and it was only our mutual respect that kept him from starting before I was ready.
I dropped my hands slightly and Will grew very still. I leaned slightly forward and supported my weight more on my legs, between my knees and upper thighs. When I was settled, I took a deep breath and whispered, “Now.” Will never ‘just started running.’ He launched himself forward with a power that never failed to humble me. Within four strides, Will was running flat out. I leaned still further forward and tried to shield my face from the wind; my eyes had teared up from the sharpness of it. His mane stung my cheeks in a hundred places at once. The air around us seemed to have dropped significantly in temperature and it bit through my heavy sweatshirt. It was a welcome feeling because my adrenaline rush had broken me out into a sweat. There is nothing more awe-inspiring to me than to be running with 1,300 lbs of uncontrolled muscle.
Will took me to a place that people rarely get to go. He allowed me to feel what it was like to be him. My heart was beating in rhythm with every stride he took. I could feel his body winding up and snapping forward, each muscle working with fluid power. Raw energy flowing from the earth, through him and into me, and yet he still maintained the seemingly effortless grace that is the horse. His breathing was in relaxed rhythm with his steps. A soft inhale as he stretched out his front legs, and a snorting exhale as he dug his hooves in and launched us still faster onward. Hypnotic. I was never certain when I went from being ‘rider’ to ‘passenger.’ Again, I was humbled that he would allow me to experience this with him. I surrendered my control to the trust I had in this massive animal. I was able to step outside myself for a brief moment. I became the thundering impact of his hooves on the ground and I felt the intensity and release of his energy as he stretched his neck out, trying to catch the wind. I was able to simply “be.”
You know, Diary, I don’t like to think about my past very much. However, these kinds of dreams I can deal with. I miss Will a lot… especially at this time of year.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 25, 2006
Dear Diary,
It was inevitable, it really was. I am getting bored in class and I’m finding ways to amuse myself. My favorite distraction is a 16-year-old Korean kid. He is taking the class with his 19-year-old brother and their father. The mother and their 5 year old little sister came in last Friday and they are just the nicest family! Dad and the boys know a little English, so we talk every day, especially me and the the younger brother. It seems my little friend has a bit of a crush on me. I wasn’t entirely sure until I winked at him one day during class when I caught him looking at me. The poor kiddo blushed to his toes.
I wouldn’t be messing with him so much, but he and his brother are the most adorable things, I swear. This past Monday they told me about taking a trip with the family on the weekend. They went to a “big rake with watah that shoot up… up!” Then they made motions of a fountain. I told them the English word for ‘fountain’ and they practiced that for a while. Of course, I just raved about how awesome and perfect their pronunciations were and had them both blushing. Later that day we had to do some German exercises with different people and the instructor put me with my little friend. I glanced at his father and he was grinning his ass off. I guess he noticed too. I shot a sideways grin at Dad and he actually giggled! Yeah, he noticed.
I make my own perfume and that day I had hosed myself down with honey and orange. I was wearing a lower cut (not too bad) shirt and Levi’s. I have been told I fill out a pair of jeans nicely, and with the cleavage and smelling good enough to eat, I suppose I may have been a bit distracting. Hell, I would do me… and I don’t even like girls! This poor kid was stuttering all over himself. I tried to make things better by touching him on the arm and telling him it was okay. I pretended as if I thought he was flustered over the exercise. He almost exploded, or imploded - I am not sure which, as if I had just plucked his cherry. Am I going to hell for that, Diary?
Anyway, I saw them later at the train station and they all bowed to me. My little friend tripped as they were walking away from me because he was looking back over his shoulder. His brother said something smart assed in Korean and got punched in the arm for the comment.
I have decided I probably won’t mess with him any more. Much.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 23, 2006
Dear Diary,
You know I would not want to have any other life than what I have now, right? I mean, I am married to my best friend and living a life that most people could only dream of. I just think that I’m going to have trouble fitting in with the kind of people (women) that I am going to meet. I asked Mr. E once why everyone we ever meet react the same way to me. The men look at me as if I am the most refreshing and fascinating thing they have ever seen, and the women look at me like I have fruit flies buzzing around my head. He said, “Because you’re not affected.” Uh huh… So I stared a hole through him until he explained. Apparently, most women living this military base lifestyle soon begin changing themselves to fit in with the other women who have done just the same. Soon, their hobbies and personalities change from what they once were, to getting together in groups and bitching about ‘domestic help.’ Diary, my friend, when Mr. E and I hire a maid (we have already talked about it) I guarantee I won’t be bitching about her. I don’t think I will ever be able to look at hired help as “servants.” They are doing a job, period, and they will be doing a job that I fucking hate! So instead of complaining about it, I will probably follow her around asking if she needs anything to drink and make sure she’s taking her vitamins and shit.
You know I have to go empty the dog a lot, and I have been able to observe many of these ladies. Well, this morning, the ‘Daycare Group’ stopped me. These are 30-something girls in women’s bodies that act as if they are the only creatures on earth to have ever shit out offspring. They drop their adorable little shaved monkeys off and then flock in front of the doors to the daycare and ‘chat.’ There is one woman whose voice I hear above all the rest. She’s a southern belle wannabe and has the most grating, annoying, fake-ass accent I have ever heard in my life. Whatever effect she is shooting for, with that obviously oh-so-carefully cultivated voice, she missed. I think she is probably going for ‘trilling’, but she has only succeeded in ‘feline sodomy’ so far. She is the only American I have met here that has a southern accent (albeit way the fuck over-acted). The woman that lives next door to us doesn’t even have an accent and she’s from Texas! I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have accents, but damn, if you are going to have one make it a good one! I think she uses it to stand out a little from the crowd or something. She is obviously an ex-cheerleader and way, way to fucking perky for that early in the morning.
I really do not know why she decided that today was the day to strike up a conversation with me. I’ve been walking by there with my dog every day for months. (We live in the building directly across from the daycare.) Of course, she only did it because she had an audience. “My! That’s a big dog!” I know for a fact that I visibly cringed. I do not do cheerleaders, I do not do mornings, and I certainly do NOT do perky. And fuck trying to do all three at once. Fantastic, I thought, she’s not only an annoying bitch; she’s an annoying genius bitch. Yippy fucking skippy and thank-you Queen Obvious! She was standing there with this expectant, yet blank look on her face. I didn’t know what she wanted… I mean, was I supposed to squeal with excitement and jump up and down like a tard and say, “Oh wow! That is unbelievable! You actually noticed that this 150lb Great Dane is big! How did you get so smart?” Kentucky fried dipshit. Anyway, I stopped walking and turned toward the hen party and said, “Why, yes she is!” Diary, you may not know this about me, but I can nail any accent perfectly, especially a southern one. Well, she served and I returned, so I figured I was in it until the end, feeling the coffee withdrawals kicking in. “Whatever do you feed it?” she drawled, trying to be charming, or quaint, or some shit. I replied in a perfectly matched tone, “Well we feed her dog food, of course!” and I giggled with the absurdity of the question and looked at her as if she had three heads.
I will give her props for one thing, though. She recovered quickly and turned her attention to my dog. “Hello, sweetie!” I tried not to gag. I have trained my dog to sit beside me when I stop and she had done just that. My big, beautiful, dignified, non-yappy dog just fucking sat there. Kentucky Fried looked up at me and I shrugged and said, “Well, ain’t that just somethin’? She usually loves people!” Truth is Anuschka really couldn’t care less. She likes people but does not piss all over herself if someone wants to pet her. “Nice talking with ya’ll! We should finish our walk now,” I said and dismissed all of them by walking away. I could feel the Hen Brigade following me with vacant stares.
Diary, if I ever start becoming ‘affected’ just drive a spike through my head, okay?
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 21, 2006
Dear Diary,
I’ve been watching a lot of cartoons lately. Not Scooby Doo, not the Smurfs, not even Looney Toons. I have been watching old cartoons. The ones that were conceived and drawn when radio plays (Little Orphan Annie, Lil Abner, etc.) were still on air, and religiously listened to, by everybody. Beautiful, non-complicated, animated short stories of nonsense. Nobody was trying to teach morals or ‘get a message across’ to kids. Pure, simple, silly entertainment was what it was all about.
Fantastically politically incorrect; these cartoons are refreshing in their brutal honesty.
Betty Boop - The scantily dressed, air-headed, huge eyed brunette in thigh-high’s who squeals periodically when being accosted by villains. Love her. Scene from one of her cartoons: the villainous “Black Bart” has kidnapped Poor Betty. (Oh noooo!) Bart has Betty tied to a pole in the middle of a warehouse and he performs a song and dance, explaining how she should marry him. Or else. Meanwhile, Betty is terrified and trying to get out of her restraints by gyrating against the pole; chest heaving, making little grunts, squeals, and sighs. That oughta make him let you go, Betty, old girl! Either that or stick a buck in your pantyline. Oh, hey Betty? Your garter belt is showing, sweetie. Nice gams, though!
Black Bart makes another appearance, opposite Betty, in another episode, as the holder of the mortgage on ‘Betty Boop’s Farm'. This time he is sporting the epithet, “Heeza Ratt.” Our heroine receives a telegram stating, ‘Pay the mortgage by tomorrow! Or Else!’ (“Or else” again. I shudder at the sinister implications! ) Heeza Ratt shows up as Betty is pacing and crying, trying to figure out her life; “How? Oh, how shall I pay the mortgage?” He tells her that he’ll forgive the small matter of the mortgage if she will just consent to be his wife! (Man, this guy is trying to get up Betty’s skirt in the worst way.) Of course she refuses because, “Heeza rat! A fink, I say! I wouldn’t marry you now, or any other day!” (I think Dr. Seuss was a Betty Boop stalker.) So Betty does what any self respecting girl in her position would do. She goes on stage to sing and shake her ass for the mortgage money. She is a class act. She also has a firm grasp on the cultural diversity that defines New York. She clearly illustrates this by wearing different costumes and paying homage to the main groups of immigrants that are a sign of the times.
First, we have the little Chinese fellas that will “Do you raundry all week for a dorrah!” Fuckin A! Sign me up! That’s one hell of a deal. She is a character actor of unrivaled talent, too. She pulls the corners of her eyes up with her delicate little fingers and wears a tiny white uniform with a matching white garter belt. Fantastic. Next comes the Irish cop, munching on a raw potato like it’s an apple. He is, very obviously intoxicated, and states to the audience that they “Needn’t fear and can sleep in safety because Patrick O’Patrick is on the beat!” (Betty had cleverly ripped off her previous outfit in one movement, exposing her police uniform with the badge cleverly attached to her police issue garter belt.) Last, but not least, Betty removes the police uniform with a flourish and exposes a pair of short pants attached to her ass with suspenders. The suspense is killing me - who is she now? But the bustier with the bowtie gives it away. She’s been magically transformed into an Italian Organ Grinder! After an uplifting, catchy tune about monkeys and spaghetti, she bows to the wildly cheering audience. Not only do they show their adoration with the roses that they toss on stage, but they also throw money. The farm is saved! Betty throws down a bitchen party to celebrate, and invites all the farm animals into the house. She isn’t even concerned about the possibility of cow shit on the floor.
I just love a happy ending, don’t you, Diary?
Man, Betty Boop... That was a real chick, and a role model for generations of sexy housewives to come.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 18, 2006
Dear Diary,
Remember God, Buddha, Allah, Aunt Mabel and the Easter Bunny? The Eos Roast Club? These clowns are also the ones responsible for putting your bed so far away from the light switch in your bedroom. You stand there, working up the nerve to turn that light off while calculating how many steps it is going to take from the doorway to the bed. You go over this every night because you know that one of these nights, your luck will run out and that thing under your bed will decide to eat you. You feel adrenaline coursing through your body and you start breathing faster, steeling yourself to snap that light off. You know that once the light is off, you are committed to the mad dash to the safety of your bed and the impenetrable, magic force field of your covers. “Now!” Your brain screams. You smack the light off and start running. You leap at the same spot you always do. You need to get as much airtime between the floor and the bed as possible, because that fucker that lives underneath has some long ass tentacles. Then they move the bed on you. There is no other way to explain it. You hit the floor, shoot your arms out and feel that the bed is no more than a few inches away. You also feel the thing under your bed, breathing right in your face. By the time you haul yourself up and into your bed, you have to pee so bad it hurts. No fucking way you are getting back out of that bed, though. The Goon Squad is laughing at this, too.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 16, 2006
Irony, Diary… I love irony.
Whether it be the “Ha ha! Karma just kicked you in the nuts!” type, or the “Ha ha! Man that was funny!” type, it’s all good. We have class for an hour and a half, take a half hour break, and then have class for another hour and a half. I go outside to have a cigarette, or five, and most times half the class comes out with me to have a ‘watch Eos smoke’ break. We just stand around and try to communicate with each other, using the German words o’ the day. It’s more funny than anything. Especially when the words are "cucumber" and "tongue".
Yesterday we got back to class and I could have sworn I smelled alcohol on the instructor's breath. I thought, “Nah!”
Today when we got back in from our break, I know I smelled alcohol. Plus, she was really giggly and had a slight flush to her face. I spent a solid ten minutes looking around the class to try and catch somebody else that had noticed it too. No such luck. I guess they were all, I dunno, paying attention, learning German or something. I started feeling a tad annoyed that nobody was paying attention to me.
Where was I going with this? Oh! Irony! Right.
Diary, have you ever been in a situation where you just fucking know something is going to happen and you concentrate all of your energy and will into making it not happen? It is my personal belief that the more you do that, the more likely it is that it will happen. Murphy's Law and all that. Think back to school, Diary… think back to not knowing the next question and just praying to God, Buddha, Allah, your Great Aunt Mabel, and the Easter Bunny that the teacher does not call on you. Of course, you are called on because God, Buddha, Allah, and the Easter Bunny are all sitting around smoking a bong and thinking how fucking hilarious it would be to see you shit yourself in front of the whole class. (Great Aunt Mabel wasn’t there at the time. They sent her on a Taco Bell run.)
Okay, where was I… oh, oh right. Irony. So the teacher is starting the "asking a question in German" thing, and you have to answer her, in German, and then ask, “And you?” as well. She looks directly at me and says, “Eos, what do you like to drink?” Fuck me. I mumbled something about liking coffee and tea and then stopped. She raises her drunk ass eyebrows at me, to continue, and I am having a hard time keeping a straight face by this time. “And you?” I say and cover it up with a cough. She says something about how she likes apple juice, and then continues with the rest of the class. I had to spend another fifteen minutes trying to shut my brain up. It was yelling, "YEAH! FERMENTED APPLE JUICE! HAHAHAHAHA”
My brain has an infectious laugh, Diary, so it was difficult not to get the dreaded ‘giggles’.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 14, 2006
Dear Diary,
Well, I completed my first week of school! I am surprised how much fun I’m having. I am even more surprised that I am actually learning something, ya know? I have also successfully braved the perils of Public Transporfuckingtation and I need to celebrate!
I gotta tell you, though… I had a major mind block earlier in the week. I actually got upset over it. German has masculine and feminine forms of nouns. Okay, great. I went through two years of Spanish class in high school and did not pay attention. I understand their feminine/masculine forms just fine. “El” or “La”, right? How much harder could this be? Well, as you know, I need to find a pattern in everything and my brain just has trouble grasping things that I cannot put into that ‘black or white’ category. German nouns are in the chartreuse salmon burnt umber lavender sunflower yellow category. My brain was so stuck on working out the patterns of feminine, masculine, and neuter nouns that I heard nothing else for the rest of the class. I got home and looked the shit up on the net. And I found the formula! Bleeeeeek! Ain’t none! When you learn the word for a noun, you had better learn the prefix that comes with it, or you’re screwed. Wish somebody had told me that before my poor little addled mind started to melt down.
Diary, why can’t everybody just speak American?
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 9, 2006
Dear Diary,
I had my first day of language class here in Frankfurt! Let me tell you, I was stunned at how the class was run! The instructor speaks nothing but German, period. In the class, we have 3 Americans, 1 Turk, 1 Russian, 1 Chinese, 2 South Koreans, 1 Vietnamese, 1 Spaniard, and one big kid that is from a Slavic country… can’t remember the name offhand. The class started with the instructor introducing herself and requesting that we all do the same, in German of course. She had this friggin dirty ass stuffed duck that she would throw to whoever was next. Now, stuffed animals are universal and everybody was nervous, so more than one of the girls in the class put the duck to their faces and giggled into it. Fucking. Sick.
Diary, you know that aunt and uncle you have that the family would only visit once a year when you were a kid? The ones that lived out in the middle of nowhere, and you had to spend hours in the car with your shit-eating brother only to finally get there and have to put up with your cousins as well. Remember that no matter what year it was, there was always a cousin still in diapers, running around with nothing on but that diaper and just filthy dirty from his bare feet to his crunchy booger-encrusted nose? Remember that nasty stuffed animal the kid always had clutched in his dirty little hands? IT WAS THIS DUCK!
The pace of the class was pretty brutal. Well for me anyway. It has been a looooong time since I have been in a classroom of any kind. At least I wasn’t the only one with my eyes all glassy, looking around as if I was lost. We got a break about an hour and a half into the class. We all went outside and we USA type folk flocked together quickly. But we wandered away just as fast. It’s a scream communicating to a Chinese girl that speaks no English and knows as much German as me. (Which ain’t much!)
I came home after class, emptied the dog, shot a quick email to Mr. E in Libya, ate lunch, and passed the fuck out. I have not done anything since being in Frankfurt! I need to get to bed before 1am too. I am going to have to get up at six to get my coffee IV going and shower and all that stuff. I guess it will get easier as the days go on but I’m old and this is, um… different.
My brain hurts, Diary.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 7, 2006
Dear Diary
I really want to get a job. I don't necessarily need a job but... well here's the reason. Mr. Eos and I were talking about me working and I said I would like to do that. He says, "Well baby, if you go back to work then we should hire someone to come in a time or two a week and clean – a maid.” A maid! I said, "Well honey, if you're sure we need one." Because I am THAT smooth. Bet you'll never guess who got a blowjob that night.
Just think about it. Coming home from a day of work and not having to worry about dusting, vacuuming, dishes, etc. Okay, loading the dishwasher isn't that difficult, but the plates very frequently have used food on them. Nothing makes my gorge rise faster than soggy food on a plate. Don't ask me why. Dusting isn't that hard either. I mean compressed air is good for more than cleaning your keyboard, am I right girls? No streaks! The only thing that actually requires some elbow grease is the vacuum. I like vacuuming though. It suits my need for instant gratification nicely. The only thing left to do is to hose the place off with Fabreeze right before Mr. Eos gets home. All you do is make sure you concentrate it right at the front door so that he gets blasted with the scent of 'clean' as he walks in. Also helps if I've not taken a shower all day and have to do that after he gets home. “I was just too busy to shower, honey!”
Of course, all of this takes about an hour to do right at the end of Mr. Eos' workday. That doesn't mean I've not been busy though. I've been sitting in front of my computer listening to Rammstein, feverishly typing my many thoughts to Word Pad. Also, the dog needs to be emptied a couple times a day. It ain't easy being me. Besides, dancing in my underwear to Ludacris, Aretha Franklin, Usher, DMX, Ella Fitzgerald, Nelly, and Method Man takes some time do to if you're gonna do it right. "Fly Girls-Milf Style." I'm going to put my own group together some day… just watch.
Have to switch things up a little bit when there's a kid in the house though. It's not possible to agree to Mr. Eos' exclamation of, "Wow, you've been busy today!" when there's a know-it-all 7 year old standing there. She's bound to chime in with, "Nuh-uh. Momma! All you did was..." Then I have to jump in and interrupt her with, "What did I tell you to do?" Blank look on the kid’s face because I didn't tell her to do anything. "Huh? I thought I asked you to do something in your bedroom?!" She looks confused and goes into her room. Manipulative on my part, yes, but she's young and she'll forget in time. Plus, I didn't get busted. Priorities, ya know?
The thing with the Eos Jr. doesn't happen often though. I can't listen to my music with her around. It's not easy explaining lyrics like, "Give it to me baby, nice and slow, climb on top and ride it like you're at a rodeo." Nor is it easy explaining what a 'nympho' is. And no, "Pussy Control" is not a song about kitty cats. It's pretty difficult to 'sing' to "Shut the Fuck Up" by Limp Bizkit & Method Man, in front of a kiddo. I don't even try that one.
Well, it's Monday, with no kiddo, and Mr. Eos is away. What to do?
I think I'll warm up with AC/DC.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 4th, 2006
Dear Diary,
Today was a disappointing day. I had such high hopes, and they were dashed in to a million tiny pieces of disenchantment.
Here’s what happened... Some people in my building just moved out. They were assigned to Africa. How cool is that? Anyway, as soon as someone moves out, their apartment is completely stripped down and repainted and all that other neat stuff. This morning, as I’m sitting and enjoying my coffee, I hear the sound of Italian men drifting in through the open dining room window. The voices are coming from the recently vacated apartment directly below ours! Holy Testosterone, Batman! I needed to get a look at these cats!
I had already taken the dog out once, so I couldn’t use her as an excuse to mosey down the stairs, without looking conspicuous. Never fear, though! I am resourceful and I had it covered. I would grab my backpack and just make a trip to the market! I figure if I get my bike out, I would find something on it that needed my attention as soon as I got it outside the door. I do not have to tell you, my dear Diary friend, that I am just that clever. So, I get ready and am soon in a prime location for Italian men-watching. I situate myself between their service truck and the front door. Sheer brilliance, Diary, if I may say so myself!
The suspense was killing me! I could still hear them in the apartment. Tall, beautiful, dark haired men, wearing tight Italian jeans and short-sleeved shirts with the sleeves rolled up, exposing rippling muscles. Broad shoulders and chests heaving with the effort of lifting paint brushes. An olive-skinned Adonis, posed alluringly, looking down at me from the second story window as he smiles a secret, sensual smile. My mind was racing with the scenarios!
Oh happy day, joy to the world, Hallelujah, praise God, and hold on to your estrogen, Eos! I heard them all coming down the stairs at the same time! Of course, I looked down at the front tire of my bike right away. I did not want to appear as if I was, ya know, waiting for them or anything. I saw out of the corner of my eye, three sets of legs filing out the front door of the building. They saw me (what a surprise, huh?) and I heard a smooth, resonant voice say, “Hello there.” I thought, “HOT DAMN!” Not only do I get to look at them, but one of ‘em speaks English! I looked up with my absolute best ‘yes-I-know-I’m-hot-but-you-know-you-can’t-have-me-so-I’ll-let-you-look-at-me-for-a-minute’ milf smile.
Fuck me running, Diary. They must have been related because they all looked the same. I am guessing their last name was, “Chernobylini.” Uni-brows for everybody! None of them was over 5’4” and they all weighed in the 125lb range. You know I’m a sucker for a dark haired man, Diary, but I could not find one redeeming physical quality on any of them. You know that feeling you get when you’re right in the middle of an incredible orgasm and you hear “Momma?” coming from the foot of your bed? Yeah, you catch my drift. I just got on my bike and pedaled away.
Mr. Eos has been gone for a month now, Diary. He’s got his work cut out for him when he gets home.
- - - - - - - - - -
Aug 2nd, 2006
Dear Diary,
I haven’t driven the car in Germany yet. One; There’s no need - everything is within bike riding distance. Two; I’m chickenshit. So today I decided that I was going to drive to the market. I got myself suitably psyched up for it and even burned a new CD for my trip.
Some relevant background info first: Mr. Eos and I are newlyweds. Newlyweds to the extent that when he was called to Libya, we didn’t have time to get me any of my ID cards. No biggie. Everybody knows me here, the Consulate knows I’m here... everything’s cool. We have our own security here, and it’s tight. No vehicle passes through the gate without being thoroughly checked inside and out. They even look under the hood and in the trunk, and run a mirror on wheels around to look under the car. (Those garbage trucks must be a bitch to search.) But I don’t have an ID card yet, so coming back in by car could present a problem. Last week I went to the main guard post and asked one of the guys that I’ve talked with before, about this. He said it was no problem; just let somebody know when I was leaving, and when I thought I’d be back, and they would make sure to be at the main gate around that time. Very sweet of him because I don’t know if that’s really allowed. But there were two other guards there at the time and they both agreed it was okay.
I got dressed and got ready to go and walked down to the main gate. And Napoleon was there. ‘Lil Nappy’, as I like to call him, is about 5 feet tall with much attitude. He was one of the guards there that time when I asked about being let back in so I thought, “Right on!” He listened to me for half a second and said, “Do you haf ID?” He knew damn well I didn’t. That was the whole point. So he informs me that he can’t let me back in. I smiled politely and said, “Thanks, just thought I would check.”
See, Lil Nappy has a problem with human beings in general. I think he’s pissed off because he’s short and ugly but that’s not my goddamn fault. He always looks at Mr. Eos like he’d enjoy punching him in the face. Grab a stool, baby boy, Mr. would break you in half. Nappy also always looks at me like I smell bad. I’m 5’7”, redhead, with cleavage, and the other guards get pretty goofy when I walk the dog by, or if I’m going somewhere on my bike. But Nappy doesn’t like me because of that, apparently.
On my way back to our apartment, I happened to run into the guard I actually talked to last week, and I told him what Nappy said. Of course I know that the other guards don’t like the little toad either. He sits in his little hut and listens to one of those radio stations that plays really bad classical music and has a female announcer that sounds like she’s three minutes away from lapsing into a Valium induced coma. I heard two of the guards talking one night, as I was walking the dog, saying that one of them had changed the station just to hear Nappy ‘squeal like a bitch’. Anyway, this other guard puffed his chest up with much chivalry and told me that I can go to the market because he will wait for me at the main entrance. I rewarded him with my best, beaming, ‘My Hero!’, smiled and cooed, “Awwww thank you! Do you need anything while I’m there?” He blushed and stammered out a, “Nein, but zat is very kind of you. Sank you.” I smiled and batted my eyes at him and walked away.
I drove to the market and didn’t even wreck the car once, nor run anybody over! I got some wonderful brochen and some kind of cheese that I have no clue what it is. I just hope it doesn’t smell like canned ass, like the last stuff I got. As I pulled up to the main gate I could see ‘my’ guard getting up from his chair right away, and I could see Lil Nappy’s eyes starting to bug out of his head. I was prepared for this because I’d been thinking about it non-stop since I left. I had the moon roof open and rolled down my window to exchange pleasantries with ‘my’ guard. I un-paused my super-special-going-to-the-market-for-the-first-time CD from the controls on the steering wheel and ‘Salt Shaker’ by Ying Yang Twinz came on. I had the bass turned way up, as well as the volume, and I had to sit there while my guard checked the car for me.
I hope Nappy’s ears bled.
A Day in the Life of Eos
