You all know how I endeavor to educate you in some small way, to provide you with some tidbit of
useless useful information that you might share while idly standing at the office water cooler. While this one isn’t as interesting as say, the time we all learned about Spider Prostitution, it is worthy of sharing with you, and perhaps with your friends and coworkers. However, it does relate in a small way to office attire. Just wait, you’ll see. And you may never be the same. (I haven’t been, but then again this has been “a thing” for many years and, much like spider prostitution, I only learned about it much later in life. It’s likely you are more in touch with the world and already know about this.)
The day I learned about Toe Crack, also known as Toe Cleavage.
While standing around with a group of friends and acquaintances, I notice the acquaintance in front of me is staring at me feet. He’s staring hard.
To give you a little background, this is a “business casual/dressy” environment and I’m wearing an unremarkable outfit, common office attire. And a pair of blue suede, closed-toe pumps.
Pye and my blue suede shoes, with toe cleavage. Pye has a shoe fetish.
The guy briefly looks up to my face and promptly declares he loves how my feet look in the shoes.
This was more than your usual, “I like your (shoes/hair/eyes)” comment. He was practically salivating, much like someone who’s just seen an ice cream cone for the first time after months of sweltering hot summer. But, wait! There’s more…
Everyone told me “There’s a naked man in Quartzsite, Arizona. You’ve got to go there.”
Well, duh! Of course I do.
My friends, and folks I meet on my travels, give me some of the best tips. I love you people!
They were right, as usual: he was naked except for a hat, a necklace, and a small crocheted “sock” over his privates. (‘small’ is not a comment on the size of anything other than the sock)
I think there is a little satin bow on it, but I couldn’t look that closely without being accused of staring.
No, NO. On the sock.
Sheesh, I really have conditioned you all to go to the dark side first, haven’t I? You’re welcome.
He shaves. No, not his beard. (TMI? Sorry.)
The “sock” was held up by fishing line. Nothing covered his back side. But, wait! There’s more…
Cadillac Graveyard. Yup. Ass-end up. In the dirt.
Today, for your traveling pleasure I present you all with The 8 Weirdest Places In America that I plan to visit.
There’s 9 if you count this blog. Bonus for you!
As you know, I like touring brothels. I love seeing the weirdest of the weird, the strangest of the strange. No really, I’m freaky like that.
Particularly fond of these American Absurdities, I affectionately call this collection of bizarre sights and wacky places I’d like to visit ‘Cheezy Americana’. Vegas is a city based on Cheezy Americana. I love it in all it’s glittery and wacky tackiness.
Since you seem like my cheezy blog, I thought you all might like other things “Cheezy Americana”.
I made a list for you. You’re welcome. But, wait! There’s more…
Ahhh, childhood memories. So sweet, so innocent, so…
…much like a college frat party.
What is was like at Mom's.
For the most part, I lived a pretty sheltered life growing up in the Santa Barbara area until shortly before the age of 14. After my parents divorced when I was around eight, my younger sister, Chickenbone, and I lived with our mom most of the year. We had to be in the house at 5pm, and in bed at 8:00 or 8:30pm, depending on our age. We had chores to do every weekend and were fed health food.
McDonald’s was not on the menu. We stole candy from the local candy store because we were starved for sugar. (I hope the statute of limitations has run out ’cause I just totally confessed to a major crime. Again.)
Then I was sent to live with my father in Capitola, but for the next year my sister continued to live with my mother. Things were very different at Dad’s: My curfew for school nights was midnight, bedtime was up to me, I could eat whatever I wanted, and drink from the liquor cabinet.
When I graduated 8th grade, Dad bought me a beer to celebrate. But, wait! There’s more…
Checkers, The Kibble Wrangler
I am owned by a cat. Those of you who know me well know Checkers, The Kibble Wrangler, is my world.
Yes, I am a crazy cat lady.
Love me, love the cat. It’s a package deal.
Now that we’ve established that, realize that she can do little wrong. This will become evident as this story progresses.
My sister, Chickenbone, used to always ask, “How can you have a cat? There’s that whole stinky litter box that needs to be scooped all the time, there’s the barfing on the carpet. All that’s just gross.” (I retorted with some quip about children and diapers. I do not have kids. She now has a cat/litter box and a kid/diapers. I win.)
Yes, kitty poop is gross, as is the occasional cling-on (poo stuck to butt fur), but it’s so inconsequential when compared to the unconditional love she gives.
MY. WORLD., People.
This post is in honor of her approaching 16th birthday. Happy Birthday Checkers, from the interwebs! (Yup, she gets gifts and special treats on her birthday just like I do. Mine is coming before hers. Feel free to send gifts to both of us. My email address in on my About page. She wants a big cat tree. I want a tropical vacation.)
On with the cat-ass-trophe… But, wait! There’s more…
My First Brush With The Law…
Yes, I did say my “first” brush with the law. (Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Aren’t you glad your kid has a blog? That’s read internationally? (A shout out to my three foreign readers!) Cool stuff, huh?)
Huh, I thought they only came in fuzzy.
When I was around 13 I moved from the tranquility of mildly conservative Santa Barbara to the Dead-head, surfer town of Capitola to live with my father full time.
I went from living with a very strict parent in a conservative environment to living with a very “laissez faire” parent in a stoner town.
It’s no wonder I score polar opposites on personality tests – on the same test, or I score dead center.
Just imagine what it’s like inside my head…
You, wondering for a moment what it’s like inside my head: *thinking… imagining… letting out small scream*
But I digress…
Capitola was an awesome beach town to grow up in as a young teenager because you could walk everywhere. This was very helpful for someone who didn’t have a car. It made it MUCH easier to get into trouble.
Wonder what your kids are doing while you’re at work or not with them? Keep reading because my parents NEVER knew about this (until now)…. But, wait! There’s more…