Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Star date…O’ Fat 30. Try as I might to capture random fat cells and share them with you, it’s been too long. Let’s start with a bit of recent trauma, shall we? Scene: Random mandatory fun in the form of a public birthday party for the town I live in. Translation…cake. Everyone knows how I feel about cake. In particular cheap over frosted grocery store birthday cake. Nectar of the Gods. One would assume if it was one’s 50th birthday and that “one” was a large town… that would equate to a large birthday cake in need of consumption . Not so much. Instead, a room of strangers and random pint sized desserts. Tolerable but not ideal. Filling the sugar tank would require multiple trips to the fakey dessert bar. If you think I’m about to share some dramatic story about getting busted on my 18th trip to the banana cream pie table…think again. This trauma involves “Coochie.” And it wasn’t my coochie, for the record.
My friend Trish says people seek me out in order to provide me with material to share with the world. Normally I wouldn’t subscribe to such a theory, however after tallying up the number of random strangers who approach me, over share and overwhelm me with amazing stories, I’m forced to agree with her. Plus she likes Def Leppard so that makes her an”Oz” like expert in my book. Anywho, Coochie. And I know exactly what you are thinking. No I did not flash my beav for cake. Only bcs there wasn’t any cake. We covered this. Let’s be clear, I would bare all for cake. In any event, I give you Coochie. The real deal coolest Coochie I’ve ever seen. And I don’t go around looking for them, fyi. I told you I prefer Dick to Harry. Stay with me. So I walk up to this woman I think I know. Thinking always gets me in trouble. Most people who aren’t sure of something ask others and cease to approach. Not me. When I want something I tend to bum rush and tackle. I’m food aggressive. It spills over into other areas of my life from time to time. Not ideal. So I approach said 75yearoldish woman, looking her up and down to reassure myself she is the lady from my neighborhood. Before I can get the words out of my mouth, she smiles and grabs my hair. Interesting. Never had that happen before. Let’s see…I’m fairly confident I’m not sleeping with her husband, I don’t have ghetto extensions or any extensions for that matter and I’m not into kinky shit with old ladies so why is this hussy pulling on my weave? Hmmm. She screams with excitement, “It’s you! You have hair!” Both of these statements appear to be accurate and bizarre all at the same time. I reply, “Of course I have hair!” She says, “Oh bcs Linda and I see you running in the neighborhood and we thought you had cancer.” However, my husband said he thinks you have hip issues bcs you limp when you run.” Floored.
Stopped in my tracks, speechless for the 1st time in my life and wondering how 2 people with over 140 years between them have decided I have an incurable disease and bad hips…I change up the flow. “So what is your name anyway?” “Coochie.” “Excuse me?” Did this woman just call me a pussy and cover it up with a youthful quip? “Coochie.” Nice. Not only did she project the word “Coochie” across a room of over 100 people…she did it twice. Somehow I was getting blamed for this and for the first time ever…IT WASN’T MY FAULT! Hell I was just diagnosed terminal by an old vajayjay, her walking buddy Linda and her decrepit husband! That’s a fine how do ya do! Coochie went on to explain that she sees me running in the morning in my “do rag.” She thought I was wearing it bcs I had cancer. Clearly the only conclusion a civilized senior citizen would draw. When she shared this information with her husband he informed her of my limp like run. Instead of revealing my true SIF identity thus explaining the perplexing issues surrounding my very existence, I acknowledged stage 27 Beaver Cancer and how it caused my hips to give out. I’m not sure she even heard or saw me.I fear she lives in an alternate universe. But that hussy can yank on some hair! After sharing my new Coochie with friends, we learned she is also a raging alcoholic! The woman gives out jello shooters at Halloween and drinks in her garage! If loving Coochie makes me a lesbian…I am a full on Lickalotapuss. Love me some Cooch!
You think I make this shit up? I wish. I am the Larry David of the Outer Banks. Just the other day I was walking my dog and another one of my neighbors decided to “open mouth insert foot.” I know what you are thinking…how can you handle all this running and walking with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip? Dedication. My beaver may have had a chance for survival had it been exercised. That just wasn’t in the cards. I have accepted my fate as have my neighbors. Scandal. So…back to dog walking. There’s a very nice lady who walks her dog at O’ Dark 30 every morning. We usually exchange words about the weather and whatever else rolls off my halitosis laden tongue at that hour. On this particular day, I passed her, making a joke about her dog coming to me instead of to my dog. To this she responds “Yup..goes straight for the big girl.” I’m sorry? I had to stop my right roundhouse from engaging and kicking her ass. I instantly convinced myself “Big Girl” meant “human adult like person” and smiled. I didn’t get the chance to tell her I gained all my weight after contracting beaver cancer. That’s how you get it you know…contraction. Some dumb guy sticking his dick all over town and Viola…beaver cancer/bad hips. I was sure the rumors had spread through the hood after Coochie got a hold of me. Apparently not. Apparently getting up and running at 530am, walking your dog and boxing at night still qualifies you to be code named “Big Girl.” I now carry arsenic dog treats for her pooch. I got your big girl.
I’m starting to think it’s not just the neighborhood I live in. I fear this madness is spreading to other neighborhoods in my town. I was having lunch with my friend Sharon who lives a few subdivisions down. She informed me her husband was bitten by a tick and is now allergic to meat. Fuckin tick! Now the vermin of the world are working against the SIF/BIF? What up with that? Bugs that bite you and make you allergic to food? I would like to request a giant chunk be taken out of my ass by whatever specimen makes me allergic to fried chicken and birthday cake! Come quick! While I feared the end of the world crowd to be militant and over jealous…this revelation has got me thinking. Bugs that make you unable to eat? It’s very
Sci-Fi. And I don’t appreciate it one bit. I’m sure Coochie knows all about them. She’s probably breeding them in her garage whilst she knocks back a 12 pack and fifth of Vodka. I think when I see her next I will let my hair down and bare my Coochie. What will the neighbors say? “Oh that’s just the girl with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip,” I fear. Anything is better than being called fat.