Don’t you just love that word? “Howdy”? Probably not, but maybe I can change your mind. My mamaw always used that word in greeting. “Howdy, Steph,” she’d say with a grin, in her warm, gravelly smoker’s voice. Steph. She just had to call me Steph. Hell, everyone did. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. But when Mamaw said, “Howdy, Steph!,” it didn’t matter.
I loved it. Some people teased her for it, but she kept on saying “howdy” anyway. And so I adopted it, early on. But I mostly only greeted her that way. Mostly.
Until she passed.
And now I say it at work, lots. “Howdy, Gary!” “Howdy, Richard!” “Howdy, y’all!”
People laugh, as though the joke’s on me for being weird. And I’m okay with that. Because Mamaw. I tell them about her when I can, but mostly I just grin and let them go on wondering what sort of weirdo says howdy anymore. And in those moments, I’m smirking with Mamaw and feel all warm and wistful.
So there. Howdy Peopleaneous!
An Adventurous Musical Meet & Greet
It’s been ages since we’ve done a Meet & Greet, so let’s do it! You know I like to mix music into them, so if you want to participate on that front as well it would be superduper! I’m thinking the theme for this Playlist Party slash Meet & Greet should be Adventure – Moving On – Starting Over. I need a playlist for songs like that – any genre is welcome. Even if it’s country, I’ll try not to cringe and call you names. Any genre, any time/decade. I’ll start us off in a minute.
But first, the Meet & Greet! Let’s see. These things usually need “Rules,” but I don’t like Rules. So let’s call them Meet & Greet Ideas:
Give us a link to your about or a favorite post of yours or both – and tell us a little about you if you’d like!
Give us a link to a blog you’re crazy about, or a post that touched you in some way, written by someone else – let’s spread the love!
Share a song about adventure or starting over. (If you don’t have a song idea, you’re still part of this Meet & Greet!)
Reblog or link to this post – let’s see how many new people we can meet y’all!
So let’s see. Lemme start us off by following the “rules,” myself:
My favorite recent post of mine: The Wallpaper. This one’s deeply personal to me, but I was also proud of and surprised by how it turned out.
A favorite blog of mine: Stupidity Hole. Go. Clicky. Now. I’ll wait. Waiting. Have you gone yet? Good. Are you back yet? Good.
Dude is awesome, and his writing and photography are fun, unique and fucking gorgeous. Check out this post where he talks about his photography, and make sure to check out his shop as well.
I own some of his prints, and they’re gorgeous. I’m frustrated as fuck that I can’t hang them yet. Soon! I’m keeping them protected until PNW. Then I can use them to start decorating my new pad. Word.
Now. Music. I’ll kick us off with a few jams about Starting Over, Moving On, Adventure… you get the idea.
To Starting Over
Promise, by Hey Rosetta!
Float On, by Modest Mouse
Time to Move On, by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers
The Getaway, by Leisure Cruise
Road Trippin’, by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Ramble On, by Led Zeppelin
There are so many, but I don’t want to list a couple dozen songs. I’d rather see what y’all come up with!
So come on. Share your blog links – tell us why you kick ass! Share someone else’s blog – tell us why he or she kicks ass! Share some music – tell us why it kicks ass!
In other words…come kick ass with me! Let’s see how many blog links we can generate this time!
This post brought to you by:
Asses, specifically those that kick or even those in need of kicking.
Stupidity Hole, because every ass needs a hole. Wait. No. That’s not the best way to introduce him. He’s more than just a hole. Lemme try again.
Brought to you by Stupidity Hole, because Pensive Pug. And also because he said I have to post something today. So I dragged his ass into it!
What up, homeslices. See how hip I am? I still say “what up” and am so gangsta I didn’t even use a question mark. Yeah, bitch.
So. Y’all already know I’ve been pushing myself lately. More than usual, I mean. You know I had the April thing get canceled and I carpéd the fuck out of those diems (I just indecently Latined all over your faces. You’re welcome.). With the haircut. Masturdating with Deadpool. At the bookstore. At the park. At the park again. I even willfully introduced myself to a stranger! And the little turtle peeking out of the shell didn’t get her little neck cleavered! Do wonders never cease?
They do not.
For the tale I am about to tell is a tale of public Stephanie in public at public places with public people doing public things.
Did I mention I did more things in public. Because I did.
I publicked my ass off. (That’s the correct way to past-tense verbify public. I know. I’m an expert on these matters.)
Ass Publicking Chapata One (That sounds so fucking wrong. So I’m leaving it.)
Rewind to Friday, April 22. That’s, what? Two Fridays ago? This dude suggested Happy Hour to me months ago, as a great way to loosen up, kick back and just enjoy life a bit. But I was adamant in my refusal. No. Fucking. Way. Was this ever going to happen. And then this dude pushed me to go “network” at Happy Hour for weeks. Relentlessly for weeks. WEEKS, I tell you! So I finally relented, but it was no easy task.
There’s a cool (and very popular) Irish pub within walking distance of my house. I’d been once before when the greatest history professor to ever walk the earth took all his Historiography grad students out for a couple of rounds on him. But that’s the only time I’d ever been.
Other than that, I was always on the outside looking in. I drive past the joint on a regular basis – in fact, I did so daily for several years.
But I was always outside.
At the people looking out.
At the people unwilling or unable or uncool enough.
To come in.
But this would be the day that I’d make the transition. I was fucking determined. But I was not going alone, damnit. That’s just pathetic. Single fat chick sitting alone at the bar during Happy Hour on Friday night? No.
So what’s a girl to do?
Round up a posse of course.
I was having a slow work day, so I wandered around the building herding geeks. Y’all know those little decorator crabs? The ones that wander around, plucking pretty debris from the seashore and affixing it to their shells? So that they may adorn themselves in their very surroundings and be hidden and protected?
That was me.
Unwilling to remove my shell, I wandered the building plucking rogue geeks and affixing them to my shell. They followed me around like Mother Fucking Goose. I was the Pied Fucking Piper of Geeks, trying to lead them down the path of rowdy drunken carousing.
At one point, I had about seven geeks straggling behind me. I’d formed my own posse. And we were going pubbing.
If we could get The Sloth to go.
See, these boys are a unit. And I was going to be the ultimate Dungeon Master, corralling them all for drinks and vulgarity and laughs.
Well, The Sloth would only agree to go if we could get Pookie to go.
So commenced The Hunt for Red October Pookie.
We couldn’t find him. I texted him silly pictures of The Sloth and Buttermilk doing slothy semi-gay things on warehouse equipment.
“LOLOLHAHAHA” came the mature and measured response.
Posse in tow, we rounded corner after corner until we had Pookie in our sights.
Naw man. It’s not pay week.
I told him I’d buy the first round.
I said, “I’m not being weird, you little fucker. Bring your damn girlfriend.”
He blushed again.
Well, I’d HAVE to bring my girlfriend.
I stared at him.
He blushed harder.
I stared at him.
He looked down at his book.
I stared at him.
I just really can’t. I’m broke! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!
“Pookie,” I glared into him with rage in my eyes and condescension dripping from my voice, “you’re dead to me. Now The Sloth won’t go. And then Buttermilk will back out. And then no one is going to go.”
What about Thundercat and Lebowski?
“I asked THEM before I asked YOU. But Thundercat is home alone with his spawn tonight, and Lebowski has to go to some viewing for a dead uncle he never met. You’re dead to me, you understand?”
As I walked away, he was laughing, blushing and apologizing.
I flipped him off without looking back.
So, as anticipated, everyone backed out. I nearly had The Sloth convinced, until he remembered he had other plans. Looking up at me from the filthy warehouse floor, looking every bit like he’d just disappointed the potty-mouthed version of Mother Teresa or gotten caught sniffing his finger after scratching his ass, all wide eyed and hesitant, he tells me…
Aw fuck, I wouldn’t have been able to go even if Pookie went. I promised Dangerhole I’d drink with him tonight.
“That’s a thing? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me right now, Sloth?”
Noooooooooo. It’s his drinking weekend, and last time I wasn’t there to keep him calm, he broke someone’s face and went to jail. That cost us a month of drinking money, man. I’m sorry, but I promised.
I called them all lousy motherfuckers, told them to enjoy their weekends jerking off in their mothers’ basements and stalked off. This whole mission lasted about two hours.
I had a decision to make, and fast.
To Happy Hour alone? Or to Home?
And then I remembered: you don’t have a home. You have a dwelling. A domicile. A house. Is that where you want to go? You want to go cry in bed? That’s preferable to going out just because you don’t have the support of a group of semi-friend stoner geekboys from work? You barely fucking know them anyway.
Decision made, I clocked out early and determined to open the place. It opens at 4:00, and I knew I simply Would Not Go if there was already a crowd before I got there. So if I was gonna tackle this, I was gonna do it on my own terms.
Fuck the Geek Squad.
Everything happened in slow motion:
I pulled into the parking lot.
I braked to a stop.
I put the car in park.
I looked at the guy unloading liquor from the back of a pickup.
I looked at him look at me.
I killed the ignition.
I palmed my keys and wallet.
I pushed my shades atop my head.
I opened the door.
I stepped out.
I closed the door.
I walked to the front (because I wasn’t a regular and didn’t realize there was a back entrance).
I opened the door.
I observed the old men at the bar.
I chose a stool near the register.
I sat on it.
I put my things down.
I made eye contact with the regulars observing me, the stranger.
I smiled back at the bartender.
Do y’all have cider?
I opened my very first bar tab.
Haha no, I’m not new in town. I’m just new. To going outside.
A big exhale.
My first sip.
And I was in.
Listening to the old men, who trickled in one at a time, talk about golf and wives and exes and crooked dicks and business trips gone wrong.
Right about the time I agreed to try Irish Champagne (apparently just some sort of Irish beer mixed with cider), Wes plopped down beside me.
Soft. Blonde. Blubbering. Gay. Twenty-something. College student. Clearly a regular. At some point, he simultaneously cracked open a Miller Lite and a lame joke. I laughed politely.
Then he showed me the picture he had up on his phone, “That’s my granddad.”
Is he flexing?
“Why is he in his tighty whities?
“Haha Haha………Haha. I don’t really know. I took a picture of the picture, and I think he must have been posing for grandma back then.”
The bartender, a chick, chimed in, “So that’s where you get it from.”
Haha no way, he was definitely posing for grandma, not some guy.
Much much laughter.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, “although…but I meant the flexing in your underwear.”
He laughed and agreed that must be the case.
Wait. Wait. You flex in your underwear? And people…people know this about you?
“Hahahahayeah, wanna see another one??”
And from that point forward, I called him Flexy Wes and finally just Flex.
At some point in the midst of all this, I took a phone call. Laughing my ass off, I went to one of the tables by the window for the call. And I saw it. I became aware of what I was doing.
I was one of the ones on the inside.
I was looking out.
At the ones looking in.
I was looking out.
At the ones unwilling or unable or afraid.
To come inside.
I wasn’t one of them anymore.
By the time Flex left, I was about four or five ciders in and was feeling righteously buzzed. Also, the Friday night crowd was fast filling up the place, and I felt it was time to make my exit.
Fucking proud of myself, too.
I sat in my car for quite a while, waiting out the buzz. It was worth it. Totally worth it.
Ass Publicking Chapata One, Part Two
I got home. Changed clothes. Plopped down in bed. Updated stupidityhole about my “networking.” Played on my iPad.
And then The Anklebiter texted (about two hours later). She had been updating me off and on throughout the evening, telling me that she would perhaps, maybe, eventually make her way to the pub. But she never did. She kept trying to get me to go to this big party. I refused.
And now she was texting.
“Where are youuuuuuuuuuuu?!???????? Are you in bed???????????????”
I replied, “How did you know?”
“LOLOLOLOL that’s where I’d be! Come back! We’re here! Pleeeeeease! It’s my biiiiiiiiiirthdaaaaaaaaaay!”
So you know what I did?
I went back out. Met up with The Anklebiter and her friends. Wished her a happy birthday. Had more drinks. Listened to the band. Had more laughs.
And had a fanfuckingtastic time.
Booyah. First Happy Hour a rousing success.
Ass Publicking Chapata Two
Chapata Two occurred this past Friday. And it was happening because of me. You see, I had asked a certain group of people to do Happy Hour with me before I ever tried to get the Geek Squad. But most of them had prior engagements and promised they could go out next week. But I couldn’t wait. I had to go that first night – it was a now or never kinda thing.
I no longer wanted to go, though. I knew it would be fun, but I had a raging day-after headache from the Modest Mouse concert I’d gone to the night before. I always have head-splitters on the day after a concert. (And I went to that fucker by myself, was the only one standing in my section, danced and sang and cheered and had a blast. An absolute blast.)
But I took care of my headache, drove home from out of town, gave myself a pep-talk and went to the pub.
And this time was soooo different.
It was me, Anklebiter and Her Little Dog Too, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong, The Woman Formerly Known as Crankles, UberGeek McHottiepants, and even my supervisor, McFly, for a half hour or so. (Thanks a lot, Anklebiter.)
And I laughed so hard my stomach and chest hurt.
And then I drank some more.
A lot more.
And then I laughed so hard we became that table. We were outside, under the covered patio part, and we were the obnoxious ones.
And it was one of the most fun nights I’ve had in my adult life. Hands down.
I got there before anyone else – had to open the place to quell my anxiety. Got a cider or two in, and the old men from the first Happy Hour talked to me this time. Called me a snob for drinking cider. And I called them cheap old fucks with their PBR.
When the crew got there, UberGeek McHottiepants made me follow through on my promise to do an Irish Carbomb with him. HOLY. SHIT.
Everyone laughed and asked, “how was it?”
And the antics continued. There’s photographic evidence of me cringing as I slammed the carbomb with Uber. There’s photographic evidence of me sucking on a lime wedge after slamming Patron with Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.
It was hilarious and vulgar and fucking fantastic. Uber and I made some of the dirtiest jokes…but we were at a separate table for a bit, so we had a blast making the others wonder what was so fucking funny.
Once the band started setting up, everyone wanted to leave and go to Anklebiter and Her Little Dog Too’s house. Everyone except Little Miss. She bailed. (And McFly had been long gone, though he did witness the carbomb.)
Ass Publicking Chapata Two, Part Two
I went because I didn’t have a choice. Uber and I couldn’t drive yet, so we rode with The Woman Formerly Known as Crankles over to Anklebiter’s place.
There was talk of Karaoke and mixed drinks.
But we mostly chilled and talked about the concert I’d gone to the night before, concerts, 90s bands, gardening.
We listened to music. They learned how vulgar I was (this group had no idea – well Uber did. And Little Miss did. But the rest had nooooo idea).
I only had one more drink once we got there, because I needed to sober up to drive.
It was nice. Chill. We played with the dogs and had a fuckton of laughs.
And it made me question my judgment of The Anklebiter. She’s not what I thought she was. She’s not what she presents as. Well she kind of is, but not in a malicious way.
Before we left, Anklebiter had us all take a group selfie. One of them has a dog licking my boob. And the other one has Her Little Dog Too’s bare abdomen in it.
Not low enough for Grandma’s mustache.
Ass Publicking (Future) Chapata Three
And tomorrow night?
Happy Hour at a Mexican restaurant for three dollar margaritas with The Anklebiter and The Woman Formerly Known as Crankles.
I don’t want to go. It’s going to be extremely crowded. But The Woman Formerly Known as is like me in the sense that she’s trying to put herself out there for the first time. I never knew that. But she shared it with me, because I told them it’s what I was doing. They knew, anyway. I’ve rejected everything I’ve ever been invited to – granted, it has never been much. But I’ve never participated.
So. Even though I hadn’t gotten along so well with The Woman Formerly Known As back when I first started working here (she reminded me of my mother – and that’s a bad thing), she’s working on herself just like I am. And she asked me to go, so I’m gonna go.
So. About that four-day weekend. I kinda went crazy, y’all. I did a lot of masturdation. And you know something? I’m a damn good date.
Mkay. Let’s see. (I’m putting dates on these, because this was actually the weekend before last. And I did more shit this past weekend!)
Thursday, April 14: Sassy and Pensive
I’ve already told you about the sassy new haircut I got last Thursday. That was on the 14th. So last last Thursday. And then later, I went to the bookstore, too! And bought books!
Friday, April 15: Date with Deadpool
I’ve also already told you about the Deadpool masturdate last last Friday, so let’s move right along.
The end credits had such cute (and vulgar) graphics. This was one of the only clear snaps I could get.
Saturday, April 16: Please sir, may I have some more…books?
I found myself lying in bed. All. Fucking. Day. Around 7 P.M., I had had enough. I was angry and disappointed with myself. So I got up, took a shower, and went to the bookstore. I didn’t know what else to do or where else to go, but I knew I needed to get my pathetic ass out of the bed and move. Also. It’s always fun checking out the cute geeks in the sci-fi/fantasy/comics section. Sometimes they’re so deliciously yummy, I want to kidnap them (don’t worry; they’re adults) and do things to them. So uhm. I bought more books. Quelle surprise!
Added three more to the TBR stack!
Looking forward to reading this when time allows. Speaking of time, that’s a “pocket watch” on a chain. I wear it around my neck to remind me that time our time on this earth is finite; it is precious and I must Carpe the fucking Diem. “There’s only lifetime. GO!”
Yes, I spent too much money. This is rare for me. But when I do decide to spend on myself, it usually happens in a splurgy burst. But I at least had coupons for books! So I didn’t do so bad at the bookstore.
I also justified it by using “spending money” I had set aside for the trip that wasn’t. I wanted to treat myself after some personal shit went down. And y’all, I ain’t even done. I’m tired of being in the backseat of my life (unless, of course, someone is back there with me) (even then, maybe I want to drive for a while, damnit).
No, I didn’t buy this. But seriously? Trigger Warning? Sex Inside? There’s sex ON THE COVER. But “trigger warning”? Good fucking grief. Overuse of “trigger” shit drives me nuts. And sex? This is Cosmo, people. It’s gonna be like, “10 things to make your husband less likely to fall asleep after cumming in 3 seconds flat.” or “5 tips on how to bedazzle your vajazzle.”
Anyway. Let’s get to the park, shall we?
Sunday, April 17: Parks & Masturdation, or One if by Land, Buddha if by Trees
This dude has been driving me batshit about getting the fuck outside. I make excuses. He tells me to piss off. I make more excuses. He says so the fuck what. I say, but I hate it here. I want to be in the Pacific Northwest! He says, but you’re not in the fucking Northwest. Get out and live now. I say my foot is broken; he says piss off and go hobble.
So you know what? I fucking hobbled my ass to the park last last Sunday. And unfortunately, I have to admit that the smug fucker was right. I couldn’t do much walking. My foot is legit still broken (had new x-rays and it’s finally and slowly healing, though – NO SURGERY! NO PINS!)
Anyhoodles. Park. I got my ass up. At oh…1 in the afternoon or some shit. But I did good. I went straight to the shower then straight to the park (with an intermission for getting dressed – it’s not that kinda park).
I grabbed my book, Buddha in a Teacup (which is bullshit so far – more later), and did a little wandering. Not much, mind you. My foot wouldn’t let me forget it’s broken. I went first through the greenhouse. It was always my favorite part of the park, though they’ve let it go to shit.
Lemme share some lovelies from that day:
That was park day numberus oneicus.
Monday, April 18: Parks & Masturdation, or Making Friends and Influencing People, or A Writing Assignment
Because some little shit couldn’t be satisfied, I went to the park two days in a row. (He also says go listen to High Pass Filter right now!) And I mentioned it to someone else…all like I know I should, but I don’t wanna and he was all but you must go! And you must write something while there! No reading! Must write! These demanding asshats, I’m telling you. I did go, and I did write. But I can’t share the writing yet, as it’s to be part of a collaborative something.
Lemme share a gratuitous amount of flower piccies, and then I’ll tell you about someone I met. It was one of those moments in life when you just know. You just fucking know. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
But first. Flower porn. GASP! New word! FLORN!
Ahhhh isn’t spring glorious? I fucking love flowers. Can you tell? No? Lemme show you some more.
KIDDING. Just kidding.
Lemme tell you about Anthony now. I had been watching him, you see, crafting the beginnings of a short story based on him. He had no idea, of course. I just saw him and was inspired. I caught a glimpse of him from my table. He was down fishing off this little covered pier thingy. It showed up in the picture up there with my notepad.
I actually snuck an excellent shot of him re-baiting his hook. It was the perfect shot of him in his element, but I won’t even show my face on the blog. Not my place to show his.
Anyway, the more I wrote, the more I felt compelled to meet the real man. Not the one I was making up.
This. What I’m about to tell you about is well and truly outside of even the remotest of my comfort zones. But I felt compelled, in the truest sense. I had to meet this man.
So, for what seemed ages, I gathered my courage.
And then I gathered my things.
And then I walked down that pier.
And then, heart pounding, I spoke,
Hi! Mind if I keep you company for a bit?
It’s a public pier in a public park, but he was alone. Serene. And compared to the weekend chaos at that peer, with all the kids and geese, I figured he was probably enjoying his solitude. His communion with nature.
But he turned to me and grinned, telling me “Sure!”
So I put my things down, and he said he’d seen me writing. Asked if I was in school. Hehe. I said no; I was just writing a story. So he told me about his granddaughter. She writes children’s books, but is having fits getting published.
We chatted for a while. He asked questions about me; I answered. He told me about himself. Turns out we work for the same company. He had been retired, but grew bored after a long relationship busted up and went back to work. In his sixties now, he expressed that sometimes he grows weary of having been in the same place all his life.
Only so many times you can see the same ole thing and not wonder what else is out there that you’re missin’ out on. Ain’t much time left, and I’m past retirement age. Got a brother in Minnesota, though. Sure do love it up there. Why not, right? But it’s a scary thing, so I don’t know if I have it in me.
Why not, indeed.
So I shared a bit of my story with him, and my desire to move to the Pacific Northwest. He asked why there, and I told him how I’d been in love with Oregon ever since watching The Goonies as a kid. And then once I visited the region, I fell even harder and knew a life change was in order.
He told me I’m young and should go for it.
So I pointed at the “pocket” watch on the chain around my neck. Held it up for him to see.
Do you know what this is?
He shook his head, “Naw. Reckon you gon’ tell me, though.”
I popped it open and showed him the watch. “And do you know why I wear it?,” I asked. He just looked at me, expectantly waiting.
I wear it to remind me that life is short. I wear it to remind me that our time on this earth is finite. I wear it to remind me that there’s no time like the present time. I wear it to remind me that there’s never a right time. There’s only right now. I wear it to remind me that as long as I continue ticking along with it, it’s not too late. So I’m moving to Oregon. And you’re moving to Minnesota. And we’re going to make it count.
He smiled a winsome smile, tilted his head and cast his line back into the water.
You know somethin’, young lady? I’m gon’ call my brother tonight. See what we can see.
He looked hopeful now, wistful. I smiled and gathered my things.
Then I shook his grimy bait hand, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and to have good luck with his fishing.
And hey, Anthony? Make it count. Let’s make it count.
He grinned back at me and said, “Never too late.”
This post brought to you by:
Tomàs, for encouraging me to write even when, especially when, I doubt my ability to write anything worth anything at all. For making me feel worthy, writing aside.
Stupidityhole for relentlessly pushing me to get the fuck out of bed and the fuck out of the house. Many. Many. Many times now. I am eternally grateful.
Dedicated to Anthony and everyone else who thinks it’s too fucking late. Grab life. Pluck it when it’s ripe; carpe the fucking diem.
Coming Soon: Masturdating at Happy Hour last Friday, complete with photos of old men flexing in their tighty-whities. Perhaps a recap of tomorrow night’s concert – yes, another masturdate, and then my group Happy Hour this coming Friday night! Oh. Oh yes. And allergic reactions and moronic recruiters and the relocation conundrum. Stay tuned! You know me. I’ll fill you in in a month or so. (Winky Face, bitches.)
Gather round, Peopleaneous, for I have a confession to make and news to share. I’ve played a little prank with the help of a fellow blogger. I’m pretty sure you know exactly whom I’m talking about. But don’t worry, I’ll tell you this time. Let’s get the confession out of the way, shall we? We shall indeed.
CONFESSIONS and TRICKERY
Confession 1: This one’s the real whammy – I didn’t go anywhere this past weekend, over Valentine’s Day / President’s Day. And I certainly didn’t go to meet a fellow blogger.
Confession 2: Josh and I noticed some time ago that people were leaping to conclusions about us and what may or may not be going on between us. Some of them kind of made sense, given the nature of our public conversations, banter, flirtations and challenges to each other. But some were wildly out there and hilarious in the far-fetched assumptions. So we decided to play a prank: to make you all think we were going to meet up over Valentine’s Day weekend.
Confession 3: Not only were Josh and I not together over the weekend, but I was right here in Louisiana – doing important shit around the house. And I actually had to work yesterday. President’s Day is typically only observed by government institutions, at least in these here yonder backwoods.
Confession 4: There is a real connection. Had we acknowledged it when we hatched the plan for the prank? I’m not telling. Is there now? I’m pretty sure that’s obvious enough that you know there is. And I don’t think either of us is trying to hide that fact.
Confession 5: Yesterday’s post should have been tagged “fiction.” But it wasn’t, as it was the final part of the prank. I wasn’t in any airport yesterday. I wasn’t on any airplane yesterday. Do I wish I was? I’ll leave that to your imagination. I’ll tell you one thing: I sure as fuck didn’t want to be at work. Ugh.
TRUTH and NEWS
Truth Nugget 1: I just spilled a lot of truth up there. First off, the intention was never to lie, but more to play a harmless prank that we both hope you’ll find amusing rather than insulting. From the beginning, we both planned to reveal the prank as soon as this past weekend had passed.
Truth Nugget 2: I am planning to move to the Seattle area. Sooner than later. And I have been longing to move to the Pacific Northwest for most of my life. It’s always been a dream of mine. This year I decided to take control of my life, stop wishing and start planning.
Truth Nugget 3: I spent the weekend packing my house and hauling shit to the storage unit I rented a couple of weeks ago. I’m not done, but I’ve already begun the first stages of the hard cleaning so that I can put the house on the market in the coming weeks.
Truth Nugget 4: I’ve already submitted my very first application to a job in Seattle. And it’s perfect for me. So fingers crossed, y’all.
Truth Nugget 5: Do I plan to meet Josh? I won’t speak for him. You can go read his post on this to see what you think. But for me? Sure. Why shouldn’t I? What does that mean? If anything? I’m not telling. At least not right now. I may or may not. Go ask Josh.
The readers that Josh and I have in common – hell the readers we have, period – know that we’re both irreverent, snarky, playful and mischievous at times. I promise you this: any time you’re pranked (which I have no plans for as yet), you will always be told in the end. And if it’s the Flat Out Truth, you’ll know that, too.
But the question remains: Just who was pranked in the end: you or us? That’s for us to know and you to find out. For now, we’ll all Float On okay.
Before I get into the post, I want you all to know how Truly Fucking Grateful I am for your outpouring of support, encouragement and just straight up being here for me. Completely unsolicited, you gathered ’round me and have kept me buoyed with your incredible show of love for someone who is (mostly) a stranger to you.
You have humbled me and proven me wrong, once again, about the quality of people in this world. I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it – some of the most awesome people on earth have inexplicably gathered in this little corner. And I am a lucky girl for being the recipient of your incredible kindness. Even if I don’t print off that post, I am printing off all of your words to me. You moved me to tears, made me laugh, showed solidarity and made damn sure I don’t feel alone. You rock. And I love you for it. Thank you, endlessly. Thank you.
Ahem. Now. About Josh. Before I slay him with music, let me say – in all sincerity – he has a kickass blog over at My Friday Post. Everyone has a few people they have to read, and Josh is one of mine. Good stuff over there, and if you don’t check him out and give him a follow…well, you suck. Go on. Get over there. I’ll wait. (I’m waiting. Fuck’s sake, you’re slow! Oh. There you are. Good. Let’s do this thang.)
As luck would have it, I was planning to do a music post today. I intended to solicit you, my fine feathered peoplleaneous, to assist me with building a playlist. But that will have to wait for another day, because a certain aforementioned someone has just thrown down.
Now. Josh would have you believe he is taking me up on a challenge I issued him.
Josh likes to tell stories.
Big fat whoppers of stories.
He threw shade with a backhanded compliment, like a pro. And when I called him out on it, he challenged me!
Exhibit B: If you dig down in the comments, you’ll see what I’m talkin’ about. And since I don’t want to make you work, let me show you:
“Just saying that was funny. I appreciate your open-minded musical tastes. I don’t know many people with musical tastes as varied as me, you seem to be near that level.” ~Josh
“But Stephanie!,” you exclaim. “He was totally complimenting you!” To which I direct you to that last little piece where he said I’m near his level! Near! He may as well have scraped me off the bottom of his shoe like an unwanted gob of double bubble!
I think we can all agree that was a direct challenge. And I accept! (What? Dude. It totally was! He started it! Just hush and enjoy the show, then!)
If you haven’t already done it, I suggest you read his “Generic Music Post” before continuing here. (Dudes, even his title is backhanded. Like he doesn’t even consider it a challenge. I see what he’s doing. I SEE!) You gotta check out his musical selection for Round 1 of our duel.
But now it’s my turn. Oh yes. Brace yourselves, because someone’s about to get slayed. And it ain’t gonna be me.
Here are some of my favorite listens, also in no particular order:
Alright, folks! That’s the end of Round 1. I guess y’all are supposed to vote or something. And I won’t even bribe you with cookies. (I bake the best cookies. But I’m not bribing you. I don’t need to. But I also bake brownies. And you know what I’m talkin’ about.)
We all know who won Round 1. And hey, Josh? I told ya, homeboy…