Sometimes, Crazy People do Crazy Shit

Before we get started, a couple of things:

1. I can say "crazy" because I AM crazy; and,
2. I would never, ever want to hurt someone else's feelings, so anyone I talk about in this blog will never read this blog. I know this for a fact. I also won't be using names. I'll make names up.

So don't get all bunged up about the title or all that other shit. I'm not hurting anyone. You all should know by now I'd never do that.

Anyway, on to the crazy shit. There's a no-smoking-in-the-house policy here at my house. As there is at most houses, both group-living and private. Most people don't want their clothes and their hair smelling like ass. Myself included, and I smoke so yeah. But THIS house has a very SPECIAL reason for the no-smoking policy, and here it is: one of our residents is on oxygen. Which we all know is highly explosive. So we all obey the no smoking in the house rule because let's face it, even if we're nuts, we don't want to get roasted like chestnuts on an open fire.

However, there is one person in the house who seems to have a really difficult time following the rules pertaining to the "Let's Not Blow Up The House" theme. Who, you might ask, would do that? Why, it's none other than the person to whom the oxygen is hooked up. WHAT?????? That is correct. She has an oxygen tank next to her bed, complete with breathing machine, and she goes two doors down to the bathroom with a can of air freshener and smokes in the middle of the night.

The best part of all this is that this is one of my roommates. She sleeps in the bed RIGHT NEXT TO MINE. And that oxygen machine is on the floor between our beds. This makes me rather angry and more than a little nervous. (She also has difficulties with personal hygiene but whatever, that won't kill me - although the smell of rotten feet in a room occupied by a sensitive person - me - can be trying.) 

This person got caught dead ass the other night. The next morning she got asked about it and flat out lied. "No," she said. "Not me," she said. Then comes out to the back yard table and tells me she got caught but she's going to keep denying because it's the staff member's word against hers and "she's not licensed and she's a nigger anyway so no one will believe her." That's right, she said the "N Word" and I repeated it. This is to show you what I'm dealing with here. 

I'm no snitch but I got pissed off enough about this bitch putting my life at risk and being a bigoted asshole that I went to MY counselor and related the conversation. She said she'd take care of it. I doubt that.

I don't know what my point was in writing this blog, other than to show that all those warm and fuzzy TV shows about group living for the mentally ill are not always accurate, and that some of us are mean, vindictive, and have stinky feet and dirty sheets.

Have a nice day. I'll be back tomorrow unless I get blown up.

RESEARCH, Ladies. Research.

This Saturday just past, Chef Boyfriend (Christopher) and I celebrated our third year of living together in blissful, lustful, unapologetic and unmarried sin. Needless to say, neither set of parents threw a party. I didn't give a shit because we has all the party we need right up in this bedroom pretty much every night.


First of all, for those of you who never read my Disney-version of a blog (before Shit Your Mother Never Told You clued me in that at my most prolific, I'd be making about a buck fiddy on those ads so I might as well use the potty mouth, for which I am so infamous, to entertain my 3 or 4 readers), and for those who STILL didn't get it from my very first sentence, Christopher is a CHEF. Not a cook. A chef. Which means I get gourmet food as a matter of course, but on big deal shits like anniversaries, I get SUPER big deal gourmet feasts. So. Home comes the man who gave up half a walk-in closet for my shoes (and that was HIS idea, ladies) and says, "Let's go to the market so I can make you dinner." By all means, baby. By. All. Means. Next thing I know he's throwing shit in the cart in what seems to be willy-nilly (what a dumbass expression but whatever) fashion and we go pay (I deliberately ignored that part,as usual). He says, "Okay, I'll just jump in a quick shower (let us not forget he had just worked from 10:00 a.m. til 9:00 p.m. COOKING) and we'll eat." After 3 years, I no longer wonder how he does it, I just stand by drooling. Out he comes from the shower, all hot-looking in shorts and no shirt and all wet ("Screw dinner get in the bedroom.....") and begins the culinary magic. I do my little chop tarragon, slice mushrooms, get out the way....and in 20 minutes, he walks into the bedroom looking even hotter, because NOW he is carrying two orgasmic smelling trays laden with rare juicy wee lamb chops, grilled to perfection, on the bone, with asparagus with cremini and baby bella mushrooms, with garlic and sweet onions, grilled in butter, Served to me on a tray in bed. Followed by fresh figs, strawnerries, and stuff that is none of your business. Let us just say that between the aromas emanating from the kitchen, mouthful after mouthful of delish and fresh fruit being hand fed to me,after the rest of the evening, I was a smitten kitten all over again when I finally curled up purring and went to sleep.


Now lots of you are saying shit like, "Wow this bitch got lucky this time out." You MIGHT even be saying, "Good for you, after years with a crackhead who treated you like the only player in a game of Whack-a-Mole (I was the mole)." Maybe. But I'm gonna tell you the real secret to a happy, successful, serious relationship, whether a ring is ever in the offing or not (that is not a priority with me - although it I were to get married again he is the only man I would ever say yes to, and happily). The secret is simple: Research.


We live in the information age. The internet alone is a plethora of info on people, and I don't mean those douchenozzle dating sites where people put pictures of Johnny Depp and Anne Hathaway on their profiles, then say stupid shit like, "Sorry, baaaaaad hair day, wish I had a better one." Dude. We all know what Mr. Depp looks like and it is NOT YOU. If it were you wouldn't be trolling Plenty of Fish. No. I mean just a basic Google search can offer up a shit ton of clues to follow. So ....that's what I did.


We met in a professional setting and, while I am outrageous and sometimes a wee bit of a whore, I don't do the Fling Yourself at the Colleague thing. Aside from being whorish, it's stupid when you don't know the person. That shit gets mad messy. So....I found out his full name, made pleasant but non-committal and fully inane conversation for 10 minutes (music clues, book clues, blah) and disappeared. Because the guy was hot, in the way that I like hot. Ice blue eyes with a black fringe of lash, shaved head, dressed head to toe in black, funny, snarky, and the best hands I've ever seen. I love hands. And he has great hands, long fingers, well groomed nails without a manicure, expressive....oooh.


I went home to my laptop and started digging. I knew I'd be seeing him again in a couple of days and I wanted to be prepared. Now this might seem odd for a sub (in the bedroom I'm a sub, but so area lot of smart, mouthy bitches) but think about it. There are just so many shitty dates you can go on, so much shitty sex you can waste your time with. Within a couple of hours I'd found out that my first impression when I looked in his eyes and wanted to strip naked and do the Dance of the 7 Veils for him had been correct. He was brilliant. He could write. He had GREAT taste in music. Okay he had a girlfriend but that was on-again, off-again, she had hit on ME more than once (sorry but that is a bad sign). And so I hatched my plan to make it known that I was not only available, I was interested. In HIM. 


I brought an Anne Rice book to our next meeting. Memnoch. Which the good old innerwebz told me was his favorite. I dropped conversation starters that turned into 45 minute discussions. I made it a project. Because something inside told me that quite possibly, this was the guy that would be pretty much perfect for me. Who would never, ever bust me in the face or treat me like an imbecile despite being my intellectual superior. He put his hand on my lower back once and I nearly jumped through the roof. And I was in love with him long before our first dinner in the garden of a Japanese restaurant on a humid August night (although our REAL first date was popcorn and movies at his apartment and he made me laugh at Love in the Time of Cholera).When he drove me home and we had our first kiss I wanted to tell him to turn the car around and just take me home. To HIS home. That was the best first kiss I have ever had. I do not regret that I will never have another. Every single kiss is our first kiss.


Yes, research. I did research. Yet he never ceases to amaze me.It's been three years. I hear that after 5 there's an option to buy. I'm socking away that down payment now.