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So. I leave for Nashville, to rub elbows with people who are in. tim. idating. But I didn't know that before I went, because usually during bidness things, I play the sort of role wherein there are two sorts of actors: a) people who are big STARS and get all of the credit; and b) people who get the work done. I am a "b." I sometimes have to pinch myself quite hard during these meetings because they are the most horribly bowel-wrenchingly boring sessions of self-gratification and ego worship that one would ever care to imagine. I mean, imagine Nero with all of the positive qualities of Hitler and then toss in some Liz Taylor and a skosh of Colin Farrell. Multiply by 6. That's how much soul sucking-ly self-centeredness one usually finds in these places. But, you know, they pay me. But this time I was a little scared that Toto was going to pull aside the curtain.
So I get a phone call in the middle of the meeting from the greggers, who mostly knows better than to call me in such a meeting, so I assume he's mad at me (again) because he can't find the key to the lotion cabinet. I couldn't answer it because I was talking about the minor asteroid of crap that I know about to this dude who was sort of a Galactic Emperor, and I had forgotten to pack my hairbrush so I kept wondering how frizzy my hair was instead of concentrating on pretending like I knew what I was talking about. Or, to be fussy, pretending like I knew whereof I spoke, althoug dangling an occasional preposition is perfectly fine. Unless it makes you sound trashy. Anyhoo, the phone rang and I had to wait until a pee break to see what was the scoop, and as it turns out...
One. Of. My. Cats. Has. Returned.
To my two longtime readers, there is no mystery here (hi! or shout out! to be all ghetto cool), as I have explained in detail about my cats (3) going AWOL the day I returned from the dark place (England) (Brrrrr!). Speculation was that the pedophile (registered sex offender) who lives across the street from me (if you hate me, send the exploding crap to him -- it will really work out better in the long run [moo]) had killed and eaten them, or something equally heinous, but if you think about it rationally, that really never made any sense anyway. I mean, he can't even wipe his own bum. Seems they (cats) were just really pissed at me for leaving them in the competent care of someone else. So I got back from Nashville (where I did NOT see Dolly Parton nor Travis Tritt nor any other icon of country music) and wandered around my yard yelling for my cat, but I haven't seen her. But she's nearby. Yay.
So. Nashville. I don't know. It looked like the inside of a Marriott to me.
But, when I was going through security to get on the first plane I was quite certain that the girl in front of me was the very same stripper who had fondled, pinched, and squeezed my nipple on my very first trip to a strip club a couple of weeks ago. Really. I would recognize those boobs anywhere, even when they're restrained by a silky, thin halter top, straining to break free of their bounds. She was wearing VERY high heels (duh) and turned to me to ask if she should take off her shoes to go through the metal detector. I, thinking of her as I had first seen her, said "Baby, you need to take off ALL your clothes to go through that door." So, (cue the bass guitars) she began to strip. Suckers. Only in my mind.
A big ol' "Welcome Back to the World of the Living" to Dr. Big Beef, for whom I've been pining while he's very selfishly been on death's doorstep. Avoid that from now on, please. Your tales of hospital life are funny because they're sad and true. I, too, have had barium squirt out of every available orifice. Mmmmm.
By the way, my hair was quite frizzy in this meeting due to the forgotten hairbrush and the fact that I can't find anyone who knows how to manage the white girl 'fro.
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