Shameless


Humility and frequent hearty laughter are priceless and critical ingredients in the happiness sunshine cake recipe.  Since you can never have too much, and nothing says funny and hubris-free like a good gut-busting, tummy-aching laugh at yourself…

Let’s go.

Join me as I spin a few tales about lessons learned through trial and comical error, all fueled by my motto of “Worst case scenario, it’ll make a great story someday.”  Yes, all this stuff really happened.  The common denominators are yours truly with a sprinkling of my optimistic/ 5-year old within/ idiocy for good measure.  I don’t do shame, am a hot mess of hotmessdedness and would have it no other way.

Five funny lessons learned…

Why I don’t do come-hither: Deciding to turn “on” my sexy (<–fallacy: Sexy stays lit) for a sizzling evening, the plan was to throw myself onto my love-interest’s bed, silent-screen star-style, and do the finger-beckon with smoldering gaze.  How about instead, my overzealous self hit the bed so hard I bounced into the wall on the other side… Except it wasn’t a wall it was a window.  Thank the LorT it was closed. Halleluyer.

Yes indeed.  For dessert: Chuckle a la mode.

Why I don’t hit on men: I was wrapping up a single gal’s night out with a diner trip, making serious google-flirt-eyes with a good-looking man seated alone across the room.  Fueled by my motto of good story promise, my not-so brilliant plan was to do a bathroom run, and on the way back ask for his number.   Well.  On the way back, I politely interrupted the waitress to drop my line.

She politely explained he was her boyfriend.

Wow.

I couldn’t turn around and go back to the restroom, so I apologized, did the walk of shame back to my table, handled my awkward moment-management in their full view and felt rather tard-ish.

Yes, yes.  Giggles all around.

Why I don’t party with sheltered rich girls: Much younger and partygoerwisdom-free, one night fraught with stupidity ended up as follows. I (sober and protesting too much), together with three or four drunken women dressed in full club regalia(<–read: Hooker-uniforms)  walked back and forth along a four-block area of Hollywood Blvd. no less than four times within a two hour span… Only to stop at a payphone in front of an adult video store to make a call, and… Of course.

Get propositioned by a growing crowd of Johns.  Let’s just say the melanin balance shifted in me to reverse historical oppression that night and all parties left safe and sound.

Oh it goes on, diverse and ever-sillier… Another chortle for you?

Why I don’t do stranger’s theme parties: It took two tries to get this one right, ’cause it masqueraded as Why I don’t do Stranger’s New Year’s Eve Parties. (Also true.)  First, was a New Year’s Eve gone right, then wrong, then right, then horribly wrong in a short evening’s time.  Let’s just say I, together with four of my common-sense wielding girlfriends… Got all gussied up in full formal regalia (evening gown and the like) yay!  When we got to the event, everyone else’s invitation seemed to have read ultra-casual low key: T-shirts, jeans and sneakers encouraged.  We chose to bridge the formality gap with likka.  I lost my phone that night.

The nail in the stranger theme party coffin came when on a separate occasion, I went in full costume as a sexy schoolgirl to a costume not-costume party. Turned out no one felt like dressing up.  This is also why I don’t do costumes nor follow themes that might make me look like crap.  Somehow, it’s easier to cop a, “Well it could be worse” when you don’t literally look like a flippin’ clown.

Mmmhmmmm.  More guffaws here please.

Why I don’t do pseudonyms: I grappled with the name for this blog and other internet stuff and realized it keeps me somewhat grounded, which I need.   Por ejemplo, one summer a sibling connected me to an agent looking for songwriters.  I turned into the ultimate ghostwriter alter-ego disaster.  Like Malibu’s Most Wanted meets old ladies with plastic surgery on ‘roids.  My imaginative side treats pseudonyms like a fun license for craziness.  It’s like suddenly reverting to two-year-old superhero games of infinite possibility…  For stoopitity.  Gone was the love and sunshine.  Replaced by a crappier version of Forty Percent with a heavy lacing of… Wait for it… Barbershop style five and six part harmony.  Oh, does that not make sense?

Picture with your ear’s eye, this chorus to a song:

You neva gonna

(Barbershop harmony) See me come up on you

Trust they neva gon’ find you

(Barbershop harmony) Nobody here can save you

You can’t stop me

(Barbershop harmony) I’m that gangsta

(Commence Cee-walking)

Yes.

Sorry to make your ears bleed, but that is indeed, (Barbershop harmony with jazz slide and spirit fingers)

Gaaaaaaaaangstaaaaaaa.

 

Thank you for laughing.

My little chuckle enthusiasts.

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4 Replies to “Shameless”

    1. Yehhh… I’m too optimistic to grasp the “What were you thinking” message. Dad put it best: “Weenskers, I don’t think that what you recorded sounded like you meant for it to.” WOW. 😛

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