Love, Jimmie

Crush: Addendums and Furtherances

02 Aug 2017 10 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, I'm Going Somewhere, Weight Loss Tags: Happy, Humor, Travel

There, I said it. I’m not sorry. I remain unfazed in the face of norovirus and rat reports. I would eat there every day if given the opportunity.

This ^ is a Chipotle Chicken Bowl

This ^ is some guacamole

Woney loves Chipotle, too, maybe with the same zeal that I have. This is convenient because soon she and I will strap ourselves in a plane to meet in Detroit, and we are hopeful to find a Chipotle. What, you don’t fly to Detroit to have lunch with a friend? Just me?

Below is a list of my friends who like Chipotle:

Woney
Squash
Nurse Bananahammock
Felix
Kindle
Freddie
Quan
Javier
Martie
Madre
Pooh
Tigger
Coach
Daisy

I feel like Daisy is the one I have to most persuasively convince that we won’t die of Ebola if we consume some guacamole on top of delicious spicy chicken, but despite her affection for reading the news, I can usually manage to drag her in there. That’s because I’m bossy and she is nice.

I don’t know how long her patience with me will last once she reads the below, though. I may lose her.

A story, by Daisy:

“I bet I saw Star Wars 52 times when I was a kid. I don’t know how my parents could afford it but my brother and I saw it every week for months. Brother had Star Wars posters in his room, tons of them, and I would stare at Luke Skywalker all the time. I loved him. I was eight, and this was real. I knew that he lived in California because I read it in Teen Beat, and I knew that when I got to California and he saw me, he would love me back. He would just know I was his and he was mine, I was certain.

“I asked my parents for a plane ticket. They were in the kitchen cooking spaghetti for dinner. When I asked, they laughed, a parents’ affection for their baby child. It took them too long to realize I was serious, that I was not going to be placated. They put down their stirring utensils and explained that I could not go to California. That was not possible. They probably touched my arm and looked me right in the eyes with love.

“I weighed maybe 60 pounds but I flung every bit of that 60 pounds down the hall and into my room where I planted my face into my pillow and wailed. I was devastated. That was my first real heartbreak. All of my dreams were dashed at age eight by my mean, mean parents who never let me fly to California to meet my love. I know exactly how Pooh feels.”

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A story, by Jimmie:

“I bet I saw Star Wars 28 times when I was a kid. Madre would make plans to go to the movies with her friends, and she would drop me and Martie off at the Luke Skywalker show and then go see her grown up movie sans children. It was the 70s; people did that back then.

“I loved Luke Skywalker. I always preferred blondes. I felt like if he had less nose and fewer ears, I could really fall in love with him, but he was still pretty cute. I’d have married him if he asked.”

I’m sorry, Daisy, but I loved him, too. Do you think we will come to blows over him? I never told you because I want to keep you as a friend, and everyone knows once you have a catfight over a man, you can’t be friends anymore. Sadly, I’d bet on you to win. You are scrappy and I’m a marshmallow.

Daisy is driving me to the airport so that I can meet Woney in Detroit. I might have misled you when I said we were meeting for lunch. We are meeting for lunch, but then we are going to strap ourselves into a plane to travel to Amsterdam and then do it again to travel to Bergen. That’s in Norway, bitches!

Bergen ^

Why Norway, you ask? Let me just tell you. Woney and I were planning our next big trip and we made fancy lists on Excel spreadsheets detailing our travel bucket lists, the money we’d need to get there, and what we could do there. Norway was not on the list. Spain was, though, and that was mostly because neither of us would have to drive and because it’s pretty. We were both gung ho about it until I found myself on Instagram following Pooh and Tigger and also some hot Norwegian guy named Lasse Matburg. Also gung ho about it until Madre and I took Pooh and Tigger to Key West last year and then decided to stay a week in JULY which is HOT and also FIERY and also HOT. I could not breathe, so when Woney called to yap, I opened with this:

“Oh, hello heifer, we are not going to Spain, FUCK THAT, it is hot as you-know-what down here and Spain is worse and I am not, I repeat, AM NOT going anywhere near the Equator, Woman, we are going to Norway where is it not hot plus there’s this Instagram model hottie named Lasse and I’d like to get a gander at those Nordic men, hey.”

And Woney said, “Well, hello to you, too. I could do Norway.”

So basically we picked it because it’s not hot and Lasse Matberg. Woney doesn’t like him at all which leaves more for me, yay! Plus I am bossy and Woney is nice.

I was lamenting to Daisy that I didn’t lose all those extra layers of fatty cushion I needed to so that I could look frail and cold in Norway and perhaps be comforted by Lasse or similar as I shivered on a fjord. Have any of you noticed that it is harder to find hottie hot hot men that that prefer squishy, white, middle aged women anymore? Anyway, I guess I lamented too much because this exchange happened with Daisy last week:

Is Daisy still being nice to me? Or is this a sick attempt by her to play upon my affections, my very 13-year-old teenage hormones/ heart longings in an effort to trick me into dying a horrible noro-Ebola virus death so she can have Luke Skywalker all to herself?

I still didn’t lose all the weight.

^Hot

^Fiery

In case it wasn’t clear, this ^ is fiery hot Lasse Matberg

I stole all these pictures from the innernet, Lord, please have mercy on my soul. And my ovaries.

They Will Kill Me If They Ever Read This

21 Jul 2017 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family Tags: Family

I really meant to add this to my last post but I got swept up in my feelings about crushes and forgot. I’d love to add the videos that I surreptitiously took of this forthcoming scenario but I feel that not only would I be killed but I’d be tortured beforehand by my very own Pooh and Tigger.

Pooh and Tigger are my nieces for anyone who is new, one a teenager, and one a pre-teen. As evidenced by Crush, they are typical teen and pre-teens who would DIE if they thought any of their friends read this. They can easily spend 25 of their daily 24 hours on their respective phones and still fuss about having to turn them off at night. Beauty regimens are becoming important, but mostly for Instagram photos. Both of them will live stream a spa night if we have one. Tigger has taught me how to have eyebrows because it seems that I’ve been walking around like a blonde Whoopi Goldberg for too many years. I love watching them grow up, sure, and I hate to be a cliché about it, but I do take an inordinate delight in watching them still be kids when that rare occasion comes along.

For example, just three short months ago the girls came up for a Nashville visit. After we stuffed ourselves with burrito-type meals at Chipotle and then exhausted ourselves shopping at an outdoor mall, we loaded up and headed to the house. The girls took about a five-minute rejuvenation rest and then planned the remainder of the evening. First up was the commercial they wanted to film for a paint drip preventer and after that it was concert/fan time. I’d like to tell you I knew what they were up to, and you know, those words make sense, but they might as well have been speaking Swahili. I didn’t know what a paint drip preventer was, nor did I understand what concert/fan time was. To share with you all, though, I rejuvenated on the sofa while taking copious mental notes and videos because this was probably the best night of my life.

After consuming 8 Starburst, Tigger folded her wrappers into some kind of wonky origami and then shoved a straw through it. Viola! A paint drip protector was born and it had to be documented! They took this very seriously. Pooh readied her camera, Tigger wrote a script, and then they both directed her infomercial debut. In black and white, Tigger sauntered down the stairs, expertly flipped her hair, and delivered her best spiel in a nasal voice. It was something along the lines of messy paint drips ruining your carpet and also your life but, and now we switched to color, for $19.99 (plus shipping & handling) you could get not one but two amazing paint drip preventers, organically made by hand from Starburst wrappers! By shoving the paint brush handle through the middle of the wrapper, the awkward and ridiculous painting method people have used for centuries would disappear and the brand new method nearly identical to the first would revolutionize your life! Tigger then demonstrated her patented technique by waving her straw cum paintbrush across my yellow walls. Eight takes, Pooh cutting bits here and there, the addition of sweeping music and ta da! We had an infomercial.

Oh, I wheezed. I wanted to contain it lest I stop the creative flow, but some wheeze slipped out. Tigger looked over at my prone self on the sofa and said, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I swallowed. “I think Seamus sneezed.”

Unfazed, they began anew.

“I’ll go up to the loft first,” Pooh instructed, “and you go hide in the laundry room until I announce that the show will begin.” Tigger trotted off to the laundry room and I’m not sure how it happened or what was even going on, by my stomach got that fizzy excited feeling. I paid rapt attention because this sounded a whole lot like concert/fan time was in the works.

Pooh got a couple of blankets and loped upstairs. One was hung over the railing and the other was donned as a cape, and then the announcements came. There was a drumbeat on the walls, a thrumming hum, and Pooh hollered the band intro. Tigger came galloping from the laundry room and while Pooh flailed around upstairs, hanging over the loft railing dancing and singing into a hairbrush, Tigger held up her hands and screamed like she was at a Twenty One Pilots concert. There was much jumping and waving of the cape and while Pooh sang Tigger went wild downstairs. I’m so glad neither of them had a lighter but I believe that centuries-old method of rock star solidarity went down the tubes with the invention of the cell phone flashlight. Once Pooh finished her set, they switched places and screamed like I would have at a Wham! show.

This went on for hours. I was delighted.

Later, after they had gone home, I picked up the assorted Starburst wrappers from the floor and folded the blankets. I packed the stray socks and moved toothbrushes back into their holders. My house always seems so quiet when they leave. Sometimes it is a relief and I lie like an X on the bed for hours, but after a while that X turns into a C and I have a little sniffle of joy and pain into the pillow.

Man, I love these children.

Crush

11 Jul 2017 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy Tags: Unrequited Love

Pooh and Tigger came for a Nashville visit a month ago, and to be honest, I really thought it was so that they could spend time with me. That’s been our pattern since birth, you see. Once a month we spend a weekend together for going on 15 years now. Turns out those kiddos did want to spend time with me, but that time needed to be in Franklin at Frothy Monkey and then in East Nashville near a wedding venue because either one or both members of Twenty One Pilots, or one of their siblings, was spotted at one or more of those locations, and there was a chance, the merest whiff of a shot, that we would spot Tyler Joseph or the other kid. Josh Dun, I think. I should be ashamed that I can’t remember his name because I spent 48 hours talking about the band just a few weeks ago, but in fairness, Tyler Joseph is Pooh’s favorite.

Twenty-One-Pilots_May-2015_Upset_SLB_006

Josh on left, Tyler on Right

When I was 13 I developed an obsession with George Michael. My father was sure it was unhealthy but then my father has never been a teenaged girl. Even though he gave himself eye sprains from the numerous bouts of eye rolling, he still gamely took me to the bookstore weekly so that I could buy the latest edition of Teen Beat which had loads of pictures of my boyfriend, George. One time I picked out a special Wham! edition Teen Beat and clutched it to my chest, terrified the store would sell out in the time it took my father to pick out his Hot Rod publication. I chattered with my dad all the way to the checkout line, all the way through it, and all the way home about how cuu-uuu-uuu-tteee George was in such-and-so picture, and when we got home I realized that I never released my eagle-strength grasp, thus we never paid for the magazine, thus my father had to drive me all the way back across town because I started crying because I was a thief. I wallpapered my section of my room, the ceiling over my bed, and made book covers from those pictures bought over the two years I lived with my father. I’m embarrassed to tell you that I also wrote fan mail and signed it: No One Loves Me, Jimmie. Oh, the drama. I would be DEVASTATED if I never heard back. I would DIE.

Newsflash: I didn’t die.

Hottie, Hot, Hot

Social media has changed the way we fangirl now, so Pooh in particular spends an inordinate amount of time stalking her crushes on Twitter, where she does not have an account, Instagram, where she has two, and Snapchat et al. When we walked into Frothy Monkey (the girls ordered very sophisticated bottled chocolate milks), Pooh was immediately thrown into paroxysms of near-hysteria because one of the brothers of one of the band members “stood RIGHT HERE yesterday!” We took selfies and stole cardboard coffee sleeves and gave two women the evil eye who dared sit where the brother sat just the day before. I can’t believe their shirts didn’t start a smoke wisp from the daggers Pooh shot their way. When the wedding venue showed up in a feed, Pooh’s hands started shaking and her breathing became labored. We drove by the location but could see nothing, so it was hard to tell if the tears in her eyes were from lack of seeing them or from the nearness of where they had potentially stood at some point over the weekend.

Just a few days ago, Pooh FaceTimed me three times in less than 24 hours to tell me about the eye photos with the slashes through it on the Twenty One Pilots Twitter page “which means something, what does it mean, Aunt Jimmie, I’m so excited, is it an album or new merch, what is it, I might die!” Then she frantically hung up and FaceTimed someone else and then got her mom and then me and then five more friends. I tell you, these celebrities nowadays know how to market themselves. I felt my own bit of hysteria over it and I can only name one Twenty One Pilots song and I never saw the eye.

The girl at the Frothy Monkey counter summed it up nicely when she said around Pooh’s hyperventilation, “Aw, I miss that in my own life. I loved that feeling and I remember it so well! It’s so exciting, and I envy them that. I truly do.” She was exactly right. I miss it, too.

Speaking of teenage hysteria and true love, you can imagine the blow I suffered when we lost my boyfriend, George, over Christmas. People wanted to talk smack about him, something they had done his whole life, but I ignored them. I don’t care that he was gay, I don’t care that he was arrested, I don’t care that he got fat. I loved him with the purest 13-year-old heart and it broke when he died.

Martie, too, has had her own crushes over the years, and while I’ve never understood them, I’ve respected them. Sure, Sam Elliott is interesting to look at and his voice is panty-dropping, but outside of that, I don’t get it. I’ll tease her but I know what is sacred and there are boundaries you simply don’t cross. Like me, this year Martie lost her big hero when Chris Cornell died. I saw it on the news that morning and within a very short time, I got the expected text: Jimmie . . . . Chris Cornell. I can’t stop crying.

r1289_fea_cornell_a-c8f5ec1b-7823-4cf3-8d90-a6efb330d280

Martie, for you

Chris Cornell was one of those icons that gets under your skin, in your blood, and Martie discovered him during a formative time in her life. She was branching out, making friends out of new people, traveling to concerts, and funnily enough, connecting with my long-ago boyfriend who was just as enamored but in the dude way. My sister and my boyfriend bonded in a way I could not, over their shared love of music. It was a marvelous time, because I could happily read a book and listen to Wham! while they rode the KDF bus to Lollapallooza for a series of grunge concerts, something you could not have paid me any amount of money to do. We all won.

Six months before Chris Cornell died, my ex-boyfriend died in a freak house fire, more of a loss for Martie than for me. Then she lost Chris Cornell. When Martie started crying over that whole lost era, a dam broke and it was not a good day. I couldn’t be there and I was the only one who would really get it, so Martie suffered on her deck by herself. Pooh, a typical teenager, came barreling by to ask for something, looked at her mom’s tear-stained face and cocked her head to the side, questioning and likely eye rolling on the inside.

“What’s wrong,” asked Pooh.

What’s wrong. Oh, what a question.

“Chris Cornell died,” Martie explained, and typical of teenagers, Pooh couldn’t see outside herself to get it. So Martie explained it in a way Pooh would get it.

“My Tyler Joseph just died, Pooh. He’s gone.”

And then Pooh did the best thing any teenager who gets it can do. She simply hugged her mom.

Online Dating: A Nashville Woman’s Perspective

07 Jul 2017 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, Alternatively, A Boy (As In, Not A Man), NOT a Boy Tags: Happy, Humor

Women’s biggest fear in online dating is that they will be harmed in some way, that they aren’t safe. Men’s biggest fear in online dating is that their date will be fat.

~astute observation made by someone whose name I cannot recall

In the interest of fairness regarding Wednesday’s post, my last bout of online dating resulted in dates with five very nice gentlemen. It didn’t seem that any of them cared about my fat although one of them did dump me right after he asked for a second date. It was my favorite way to get dumped, though! He explained that he had a great time, that he wanted to do it again, and asked if he was tall enough for me. I enthusiastically replied with all positive answers and then a few days later when I texted him, he wrote back, “Oh. Hey, girl.”

If ever I find myself on the dumpee end of a budding one-date relationship, I’m using that! “Oh. Hey, dude”. Effective, ain’t it?

Y’all, I don’t even know why I thought I wanted to date men right now. I feel like I’m an amazing person, not in an ego way, but in the way that I’ve worked hard to have a nice life, a good attitude, joy, and peace. That makes me pretty special, at least to me, because I’m as close to the person I want to be as I’ll ever get. Then something gets squirrely and I find myself hopeful with a dash of wild hair and hop online to peruse my selections, like in a grocery store aisle. Most of what I see is a huge disappointment. I mean, I’m always going to select Vlasic pickles over some generic wimpy-looking pickle, but at least in Kroger there are entire shelves devoted to the many variants of the Vlasic pickle and I can make my selections accordingly. In Nashville, the men selections are becoming increasingly the same, the wimpy-looking generic pickle, and those generic pickles are a pretty pathetic substitute for my really nice life full of joy and peace and contentment.

I’d like to paint a picture for those of you who have never online dated but are curious about it. I feel like doing some quick math here will demonstrate my point.

Conservatively speaking, I’ve swiped either yes or no on about 1,000 men. I’d say that 88.2% of those men’s profiles said one (not more) of the following:

*crickets*
I’m just me.
If you want to know anything, just ask.
I’m fluent in sarcasm.
I work hard and play hard.
I’m looking for my partner in crime.
Oh, and add five years to my age.
Facebook made my age younger than it really is and I can’t change it.
Looking for spontaneous and adventurous (note: this means hookup).

You are probably thinking, “I see nothing inherently wrong with any of those sentences.” I would agree except our reasonable math here will explain my dilemma. 88.2% of that 1,000 equals 882 men, which leaves 118 men who did not type out one of the above phrases. Or non-phrases if we are being picky. When you read the same phrases 882 times, you begin to see a pattern, and I’d venture to say it becomes tiresome after reading it the first 200 times.

Now, of those 1,000 men, roughly 60% of them are in Nashville to pursue some kind of career in music, or if not career, then at least fame. That means that they post country music rock star pictures of themselves on a mountain with their thumbs hooked in the pockets of their tight Buckle jeans and wearing hemp choker necklaces, usually with a hat of some sort pulled low over their eyes which are looking pensively off into the distance. Actually, that’s picture one. Picture two involves the instrument or mic of their choice and also usually involves someone’s arm in the right-hand corner raised up with a lighter. The amount of fame increases the amount of arms. Note I said fame, not skill. To continue our math, and to make it easy, let’s say that of those 118 men left who wrote more than one original complete sentence, 60% of them are pursuing some sort of music fame. That is 71 men.

It is relevant to note here that I will never date a musician. I have a thousand reasons for that, not least of which is the significant other is so far down on the priority list, after fame and fans and instruments, and groupies, and roadies and so on, that there might as well not be a significant other. So my pool of potentials now drops from 118 to 47.

Going back to our original numbers, I’d guess that 30% of the men online are either A) married (you can tell by the lack of photos or the lack of non-dog pictures) or B) in a polyamory relationship (most of them say their wives are okay with it, but call me skeptical.) I, for one, don’t share. No thanks. So using our math skillz, let’s say 30% of the remaining 47 men are not available for a single monogamous relationship. That leaves us with 33 men.

Now we must factor out my dealbreakers:

If I can’t see your eyes, I swipe no
If your name is Fred, I swipe no
If you have used every available filter readily available to you so that all of your pictures have BEER THIRTY emblazoned on the bottom, I swipe no
If you are an atheist, I swipe no
If you say your children are your entire world, I swipe no because clearly there is no room for anyone else in your life
If you say that at 50 you are hopeful to still start a family, I swipe no

I forgot to add in the scammers, all of which claim to be military men who have been stationed in a foreign country, because everyone knows that all lonely, sad, single women are patriots who cannot wait to send their money to the Nicaraguan claiming to be Army in Lebanon. For the sake of easy math, let’s combine them in with all of the above and give that group a conservative percentage of 20. That leaves me with 27 men from whom I can make my pickle selections, and 20 of them are terrified that their dates will be fat. So I got seven, five of whom I had at least one date with. And of those five, I am terribly afraid to report that not one of them is my person for one reason or another. Every single one of them lovely, a Claussen at the very least, but not mine. And typical for my experiences with online dating.

The funny part of me wants to say, “I’ll just move to Alaska where there are .2 women for every 100 men and I’ll be wildly popular!” But the real part of me wants to say, “You know what? I’m okay. I’m happy. I’ve worked hard to be this person and I like her. I like her friends. I like her family, and mostly I like her life. So thanks, generic pickle, but I’ll wait on my Vlasic because a squishy wimpy soggy pickle is no substitute for the real thing, and honestly, I’m pretty happy with this bowl of olives that is my current life right here in front of me that includes no pickle at all.”

I Don’t Know Why I Get So Hopeful

05 Jul 2017 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Alternatively, A Boy (As In, Not A Man), NOT a Boy Tags: Humor

I used to work with a man who always had a really great tan. He had pretty teeth, too, and he was tall and he did a bunch of rodeo riding in his spare time. The first time I met him he wore the Wranglers that only true cowboys can pull off, a belt buckle he’d won from one of his rodeo gigs and some boots, the good kind, the shit-kicker kind. I nearly passed out when we first came face-to-face because although I had talked on the business phone with him for years, and although I’d heard he was pretty, I was unprepared for all of that beauty housed in one man. Watching him walk across the room towards me made my ovaries whimper and I’m pretty sure another whimper flew out of my mouth, but I said “excuse me” like I had just burped and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know.

During that meeting he called me “baby” once. I think it was an accident but I still remember it like it just happened.

A few years later, when Boss and I changed companies, hot cowboy moved to Nashville to work with us in our new office and I got to see him every day. At first I walked around the office with my stomach sucked in all the time and I coiffed my hair into spectacular perfection every morning. After a few months, though, I realized that hot cowboy was still hot but only until he opened his mouth to say something and then somehow the hotness piggybacked out on his words and left him. He was still cute but I no longer religiously engaged my core, and some days I put my hair in a ponytail. That’s the thing about getting to know people. The insides don’t always match the outsides. He was good in motion if the motions you got to see were the cattle roping and the bowlegged swagger across a room, but he was no Dammit Todd. The motions stopped there.

That year we had a big old project out in the desert, and I was slated to pick him up from the airport after he had flown out to Utah for an airport inspection. He had a cocktail or two on the ride home so was pretty free with his words, and he told me that his girlfriend thought I was pretty, that he did, too, and that perhaps we should try this thing out called a “threesome.” After I finished wheezing with mirth, I said, “no thanks” and dropped him off at his car. Nothing was ever said again and I was relieved. I chalked it up to the alcohol and then made it a point to really pook my stomach out whilst walking around the office, and I wadded my hair in an unflattering mini-donut bun often.

Eventually Cowboy and I left that company and moved on to other life adventures. I fielded a couple of calls from Cowboy when he needed something related to the work we used to do, which was unique. He also let me know that he married a woman who owns a ranch and I was pleased for him as his work was always just a means to feed and keep show ponies. This was quite a few years ago and there was never again a whisper of suggestive talk, so I never worried about it again.

That’ll learn me.

This is a transcript of our last phone conversation, sometime last year.

Cowboy: Hey, Jimmie.

Jimmie: Hey, Cowboy! What’s up?

Cowboy: I’m in New Orleans, by myself, and its lonely here.

Jimmie: <cluing in right away, because I have gone down this road before with at least more than one online dater> That’s too bad. You should call your wife.

Cowboy: She’s boring.

Jimmie: Then don’t be boring when you talk to her. I’ll talk to you later.

Cowboy: Wait, I have a real question, an important one.

Jimmie: Yes?

Cowboy: Why did we never have sex?

Jimmie: Cowboy, no. I’m not talking about this with you.

Cowboy: But why didn’t we? I always wanted to.

Jimmie: We worked together! And now you are married, so later.

Cowboy: I’d still really like to see what you and I would be like.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Cowboy: It’s kind of hot to think about, right?

Jimmie: *crickets*

Cowboy: I’m kind of hot thinking about it right now, actually. I’m going to take my pants-

Jimmie: <firmly presses end button on cell phone><blocks number>

Why is it that I forget these things? Why do I get hopeful that men will be different as time passes? Why do I sign up for online dating, for crying out loud? It has never, not ever, been my best idea.

For you reading pleasure, below are some messages I received in my last go round of hopefulness.

Boy 1: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 2: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 3: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 4: Hey, how r u?

Jimmie: <contemplates answering because thinking this is as good at its going to get but *crickets*>

Boy 5: wyd?

Jimmie: I don’t even rate a full sentence?

Boy 5: *crickets*

Boy 6: BBC?

Jimmie: What is BBC?

Boy 6: Big Black Co-

Jimmie: <firmly presses the delete key>

Boy 7: Have you ever made love all night long?

Jimmie: Did you read my profile? Let’s level the playing field here. I’m celibate until I get married. Do you want to talk to me now?

Boy 7: *crickets*

Boy 8: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 9: Hi. I like your profile. How are you today? Would you like to email?

Jimmie: Praise the Lord, yes! I love full sentences! This is so great! Yes, how are you?!

Boy 9: blah, blah, blah, pretty, blah, blah, I like travel, poo-tee-weet, blargh

Jimmie: ditto

Boy 9: Before we go much further, I do have a question. I don’t want to waste your time. Do you like dominant men?

Jimmie: Dominant men? Did you just step into the sex talk because I have to tell you, I’m celibate until I marry and if you can’t deal, we can stop this train right here.

Boy 9: No, this has nothing to do with sex. I’m just dominant in every way.

Jimmie: Like, for the Lord? Like the head of the household thing? I may not be getting this.

Boy 9: Well, I’ll give you an example. If we are at a restaurant and you have to go to the bathroom, you’d ask my permission first.

Jimmie: <wheeze> Seriously?

Boy 9: Yes.

Jimmie: <wheeze> So if I needed shoes, I’d have to ask permission to buy them?

Boy 9: Yes.

Jimmie: <wheeze> <snort> <much eye rolling> I feel like you expect me to be flattered here because I seem “worthy,” but I think perhaps I’d be a little too spunky for you. I’ve lived alone a long time and I pretty much do what I want. I don’t think I’d be able to never question a decision or live without having a voice or worry about my needs being met.

Boy 9: Those things can happen.

Jimmie: Successfully? Can your partner be successful in those things?

Boy 9: Not really.

Jimmie: Thanks, but no thanks. That is no life for me.

Boy 9: I would be happy to train you.

Jimmie: <in the throes of apoplexy> <eye roll so hard it causes a sprain> No, thank you. I’m not interested.

Boy 9: If you change your mind, let me know. It’s never to late to learn something new.

Y’all. To late. TO late. Oh, hell no.

Jimmie: Look, here’s how I see this going down. You’d “instruct” me in something and you’d use improper grammar. I can’t deal with that. I’d have no choice but correct you. In turn I’m guessing you’d feel the need to “punish” me for speaking “without permission” and then I’m sorry, but I’d have no choice but to beat the shit out of you with a frying pan. Those are my rules. Do you think you can live with that?

This will shock you guys, truly, but this is what he said to me:

Boy 9: *crickets*

Somebody send me the link to this one when I sign up for some online dating thing next year. This one will work, too. Please and thank you.

Hello, Little Man

30 Jun 2017 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Uncategorized

I have a brand new cat I want to share with you! This sounds weird, but his name is Seamus and I’ve had him about eight years.

Doing his best to sit on my lap

If you’ll remember, Seamus was the cat who hid under my bed for four years. He got stuck behind the refrigerator for a day or two when we were new to each other, because he was so wary of me. Didn’t even warm up to me when I rescued him from behind there and gave him treats. He eventually slept on the bed as long as Murphy was there and once he accidentally took a nap on me but upon waking, realized his error and scampered in horror very quickly away. He did have some warm fuzzy moments with Woney, that heifer, a few years ago which really ticked me off because I have put in the work and the effort with that cat. For the last few years he has tolerated me and even liked me a little from a distance. I could pet him but we shared no warm fuzzy moments unless I turned on the sink for him or gave him canned peas.

For the first month after Murphy and I went to the vet and I came home alone, Seamus was a mess. A total mess. He wandered the house meowing forcefully at all hours of the night and it just broke my heart. He kept calling for Murphy and when Murphy didn’t answer, Seamus would jump on the bed and sniff for him. He’d roam then sleep in the dark curled up on one of my pillows I’d stuffed in my closet and then would roam some more. I think his appetite suffered, too, but it’s hard to tell when you go from two cats to one. The food bowl always looked full.

After a few weeks in a fit of discontent and anger, I guess, Seamus wallered onto my pillow and tried to snuggle me. I think he was just looking for something to annoy, something like Murphy who Seamus used to annoy all the time, and I was the only live being in the house. When cats snuggle humans it’s sweet and soft and kind of lazy, but when cats snuggle other cats it’s more forceful and annoying and involves a lot of scenting things by ramming their faces into hard objects, walls, corners, and books. I do believe it also involves rubbing those giant fang teeth into soft smushy parts like faces and bodies. Seamus did all of that to my face and my hands thinking I was a cat (and to be fair, there’s still a fine coating of Murphy fur everywhere) and then contented himself by selecting a wad of my hair with his paw and chewing on it. Like bubble gum. Smacking and everything. After a good half hour of that, he climbed onto my chest so he could have better access to my face and began rubbing his gigantic whiskers on my cheeks. I could barely breathe but I let him stay and after many, many minutes, he put his paw around my neck and went to sleep. We now do this every night and while it shouldn’t, it sometimes annoys me.

See, in the middle of the night I wake up to a cat purring in my ear. It sounds so sweet because who doesn’t like a cat who purrs? It’s just that Seamus purrs like a Bengal tiger. It’s huge. It’s loud. It’s forceful because the purring is usually is accompanied by a wet nose in my ear, claws in my hair and chest rumbles at a volume I’m fairly certain my neighbor can hear. This part I love – nearly every morning I wake up with a cat at least partly on my hip. He’s taken naps with me, where he’ll stuff himself into the crook of my arm and rest his head on my bicep then sleep so hard he snores. He comes running, his big fluffy tummy swaying, every night when I unlock the door. I’ve never had a cat greet me with such exuberance nor heard a cat purr as much as Seamus, not ever in my life. If I’m home, then he’s no more than two feet from me at any given time. I guess I will never pee alone again but I am used to that because I never peed alone with Murphy either.

I, of course, like to think it’s me Seamus is excited about. Murphy was a natural cat bonder who bonded not just with me but with Luke, with Sandi, with the neighbors down the road, with Pee-Tah, with Freddie. Etc. With Seamus, I really feel like he likes ME, and I don’t really want to hear any different, despite any evidence there is to the contrary, thanks. I don’t want to hear that I’m his Murphy substitute or that he’s just looking for something to cuddle because it’s his innate instinct to smother live beings with affection and teeth scraping.

So this is my new cat. What do you think? Should I keep him?

On my stomach

On my chest

On my side of the bed

On my hip

On my arm

One more on my stomach

Pee-Tah Moved

27 Jun 2017 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, I'm Going Somewhere Tags: Friends, Humor, Sad

I bet I didn’t tell most of you because I couldn’t really tell it without crying, but Pee-Tah moved away from me. He’s done it before and he’s very good about keeping in touch and visiting, but it still feels terrible when I want to go over to his apartment on a Friday night in my pajamas to watch Jason Bourne do unspeakable things to bad guys. Or speakable things. Jason Bourne is one of those guys who isn’t really all that good looking on the surface but then he does something like knock out a guy with one punch and you find yourself dealing with overactive ovaries and wondering why it all of the sudden got hot in the room and speculating about why you feel compelled to fling your bra at the television screen. Like how women react to Dammit Todd. Those people are the good-in-motion people.

Pee-Tah arranged nights with each of his close friends to pack a section of his apartment and then have dinner together. I was slated for the kitchen packing night which works out well for me because Pee-Tah has only expired foods in his pantry because he forgets to eat, but he has great appliances and gadgets, all clean, barely used. Packing his kitchen is easy. Toss the food and place the unopened gadgets, already packed securely in their original packaging into the storage bins, then tape, date and stack. After packing, we went to dinner and planned on talking about his new house, his new friends, the dates he had planned, but instead we decided to cry and touch fingers while people around us assumed we were a couple. In a way, we are.

“I didn’t realize everything I would be leaving,” Pee-Tah whispered. “I didn’t think about leaving you, really. I know we will see each other but right now you are just around the corner. You won’t be around the corner anymore.”

“I know,” I choked. “I can’t come lie on your bed and you can’t serenade me with the piano, and I can’t rummage in your cabinets and steal expired raisins. I can’t go to anybody else’s house in my pajamas and fling my bra at Jason Bourne. Even if I could, I don’t want to!”

We sniffled for a while, watched our poor waiter flit around desperately trying to take our orders, and then talked about the logistics of the trip. That made it worse because Pee-Tah said with a warbled voice, “Pilot Frank offered to ride with me in the moving truck so I wouldn’t have to go alone and I said no. Why did I say no?! I don’t want to do this by myself!”

“I don’t want you to, either!” I wailed.

Then we looked at each other, and looked away and then looked back and I said, “I can go.”

Pee-Tah didn’t even hesitate. “OKAY!” he hollered. “OKAY, CALL YOUR BOSS RIGHT NOW.” Because she is great, she also said, “You can go,” and our short notice travel plan was born.

I’d like to talk briefly here about the moving truck but I have to be honest with you, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that. You should’a seen that thing! It was huge! Enormous! Pee-Tah’s plan was to attach the tow trailer on the back for his car and have some good-in-motion moving men load the truck, and all of that worked out pretty well except for the part where Pee-Tah wasn’t fully packed yet and he and I loaded the last of it for a few hours.

I took a thousand pictures of that truck before ever clambering in it and when I say clambered, I mean clambered. Two steps with hand rails just to get to my seat, and my seat was a bench that I shared with Pee-Tah with storage underneath for our snacks and my purse. I worried about us driving that thing for 14 hours to Minneapolis. Would we be safe? Would the car be safe back there? Madre worried about us being safe, too. “Drive carefully,” she fretted. “Don’t go too fast,” she instructed.

Once we hit the road, I no longer worried. There wasn’t a soul on the road that could hit us at any speed and cause us any damage. That truck was a Sherman tank. That truck was a hoss. That truck was indestructible. The only worry about that truck was filling it up with diesel and I don’t even want to know how much of Pee-Tah’s money we spent on that bill.

That truck also rode like one of those fat shaker machines – you know, the kind where you can strap yourself in and then jiggle with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other and still get a full and effective workout? That kind. It was pretty loud, too, so Pee-Tah and I spent a lot of time speaking very deliberately and forcefully to one another while I shook my fat and Pee-Tah just shook his bones because he doesn’t have any fat. When our 14 hour drive turned into a 21 hour drive because we never got over 50 mph because of the enormity of the truck (“don’t drive too fast,” Madre said), Pee-Tah and I spent a lot of time doing singalongs to 80s ballads and 90s love songs. I sing great.

My favorite part of the trip, after spending 21 hours with Pee-Tah in a moving truck, and after sleeping about 8 hours total over two nights, and after the conversations we had about what we’d like God to say to us when we get to Heaven, and after we planned my next trip via plane to MSP, were the dinners we had at the truck stops. Truck stops, y’all! I had dinner at some truck stops! I love truck drivers. I always have. I’ve always felt very safe seeing those big rigs with all the lights on them when I’m driving in in the middle of the night in my small sedan. I know not everyone feels that way, but I always have. The truck stops were such a rewarding experience for me, but I am always particularly moved when I see someone in their element. Those men (and probably women!) could back those trucks into the skinniest of spots. They had beds in the back where they slept for the night on the exit ramps. Some of them brought family members and all of them were friendly. Plus I got to eat truck stop food which was not only plentiful but delicious. Well, as delicious as it can be when the partaker has given up all grains.

Pee-Tah and I woke up on our last morning together at 4:30 am. Something like that. We were puffy-eyed and sleepy but we had things to do: he had to complete a home inspection and I had to catch a plane. We performed our morning ablutions and ran out the door together where he fired up his big rig with a car attached, and I climbed into an Uber with a guy who desperately wanted to be an actor and wore all the gold chains and cologne to prove it. We didn’t cry, we did hug, and we took off for our business. It was the only way we could do it; otherwise we’d still be clenched in a lover-like embrace at the entrance of the Holiday Inn while people walked around us and wondered why we were boo-hooing like toddlers. Pee-Tah’s house was inspected and then purchased and my plane was caught. We talked later that night and were right on the edge of losing it when his mother arrived to help him move in. We talk every so often to make plans for my next flight out there so I can decorate my room. I have a room. It’s the one with the full size bed.

I’m okay. Pee-Tah is okay. This is what being a grown up is. We make our choices, the best ones we can, but we never lose sight of what is important. He is important to me and he always will be. He moved, but he’s never far away and I’m so damn thankful for that. Plus, we are good-in-motion people and you don’t just get over the good-in-motion people. You keep them, because they are the best.

Words of Wisdom, From Joe

18 May 2017 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Imparting Wisdom, Outings Tags: Humor

“Jimmie!” said Joe. “Did you know that macaroni has lots of calories?”

My supper club bunch and I were having dinner at Finezza’s (Italian – very good, highly recommend), and Joe had apparently watched a new documentary.

“Yes, I know,” I replied.

“It’s got more than the cheese! I thought macaroni and cheese was healthy!”

“No,” I replied smugly*, “noodles have a lot of empty calories. They are a great way to convey flavors to your mouth but the calorie payoff is pretty rough.”

*I can say this with smugness because I’ve recently given up all grains and if I don’t say it smugly, I might cry.

“Also, did you know that fruit juice is mostly sugar?” Joe was distraught.

“Yes, Joe, I know. It’s disappointing. It sounds so good for you but it’s really not,” I replied.

Joe shook his head mournfully. “No wonder I’ve gained so much weight,” he said (he hasn’t) and then he sighed.

The waiter rounded the table to take our orders and I wondered what Joe would eat. He’s a lot like Dammit Todd. His food is his focus until the meal is gone and there’s no talking to him until the last bite has been consumed. He thoroughly enjoys whatever he has ordered and it’s a pleasure to watch him at dinner.

“What will you have, sir?” she asked Joe.

“Lasagna, please. Extra cheese. And lemonade, thanks.”

Oh, Joe. I do love him.

Snarky

01 May 2017 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Health, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags: Beauty, Friends, Humor

This weekend I went shopping with Daisy. Often I like to shop for undergarments and often I drive my shopping partners nuts because I only wear matching sets. Finding matching sets isn’t always easy for me despite all those cute undercracker sets you see in Target. Those cute sets only come in size perky or petite, and this will surprise you, but I am neither.

I’ve been on a quest to find the right nude and white sets of undies. I’m sorry, this is TMI, but we are in the trenches now. Anyway, on my quest, I’ve recently purchased and worn a set of each, only to discover that the brassieres are at minimum a size too large, despite my having been measured by an “expert.” (“Expert” here means a shop girl holding a measuring tape and the measuring is done over the blouse, not “expert” like that high school football player who offered to “measure” me that one time because he “knows titties.”)

Daisy was off in the sized perky and petite bathing suits, rummaging for a suit for our pending Florida vacation, when a brassiere measuring “expert” approached me about the undergarments I was riffling through. “Would you like to try one of those?” she asked. “It’s the best brand. They fit like a dream.”

“Sure,” I said, because we all know that once a woman trails off into the bathing suit section, things can take a lengthy turn. It’s because women like being mean to themselves and criticizing all their perceived flaws, and I was going to let Daisy do that in peace because no amount of my telling her she’s perky and petite will make trying on a bathing suit any easier. What else was I going to do with my time but try on some bras? Plus, I was in the market for one.

The “expert” trundled me off to the dressing room to give me a thorough measuring and once she got a gander at my (super cute, almost perfectly fitting) bra, she began bellowing.

“WELL NO WONDER YOU ARE IN HERE. That bra fit is AWFUL. MY GOD, THIS IS TERRIBLE. You aren’t in the right size AT ALL. Look at that wide back! You need a triple D, with LOTS OF SUPPORT, GOODNESS!!!”

She waddled out of the dressing room after my thorough tongue-lashing during which I had to say, “Could you please not let everyone in the store hear my business? Could you please stop yelling?” and helped me select three bras. I picked the pretty ones and she picked the parachutes.

“Try these on,” she ordered. “They are meant to COVER THE BREAST UNLIKE THAT THING YOU HAVE ON THAT LETS THEM SHOW OUT THE TOP.” I clutched my three selections and shame-facedly made it back to the dressing room, me and my ill-fitted bosoms.

The first one, her selection, sure did fit like a dream, if a dream fits too large and droopy. My whole breast was swimming in there, and if any of you have breasts, you could have put one of yours off in there with mine. It isn’t often I put on an undergarment that is too large, but I have to say, that was heady stuff. I turned to the side to see how the breast just kind of pushed out from the body and then flopped over like a pancake on the lip of a plate. That was weird because my breasts don’t do that even on their own, even unfettered. I’m 44 but gravity hasn’t killed me yet.

The second one was just as bad. Maybe bigger in the cup size, though, and instead of making me look like I had pancakes for boobs, I looked like a little kid in my grandmother’s bra which was stuffed with pads and slightly pointy.

“How’s it going in there?” the sales lady hollered through the door.

“I look like a battle ax in these. I mean, the hooks on the back cover up the entire area between the top of my shoulder blade to the bottom of my rib cage. And the straps are like rip cords. Very sturdy and not at all flattering.” I was not impressed.

Neither was she. “YOUR ENTIRE BREAST IS FALLING OUT OF YOUR BRA. These are meant to be SUPPORTIVE, something you CLEARLY NEED.” I remembered how my breasts looked in my super cute, almost perfectly fitted t-shirt just five minutes ago when they were high and tight in my super cute, almost perfectly fitted bra and was puzzled.

I tried, though. “Sure, I’m with you, but this bra will stick out of my shirts because it comes up so high. The one I own is more of a lifter and separator, because I like my breasts placed in the breast region, not smashed down and covered to my neck, where, and this is weird, I don’t have any breasts. Does anyone have breasts up to their neck? Because this cup comes up to my neck.”

“You do what you want but I wear these all the time,” she sniffed, and then stiffly marched back to her cash register.

I tried on the pretty bra that I picked out and wouldn’t you know it really did fit like a dream. I didn’t look like a ‘ho, but then I didn’t look like Maxine either. I turned this way and that and admired how high and tight everything was, how I could breathe normally, how nothing fell out of the bottom, and then I took it off and hung it back on the hanger.

As I walked out of the dressing room, the sales lady called, “Did you like that one?”

“I did,” I replied.

“There is a free gift with purchase,” she enticed even though she was still offended.

“Ooh,” I mulled. “Is the free gift a matching panty?” I was intrigued and would have slapped down the ridiculous $65-per-bra lickety split if she had said yes. But she didn’t.

“No, it’s a lingerie bag. We don’t have matching panties for that bra.”

And that was that. Bra back on the rack, Daisy and I out, saleslady miffed.

That’s how it goes, folks. Never an easy answer for boobs like mine.

Good-bye, Little Man

15 Mar 2017 10 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Pets Tags: Cats

Hi, guys. I have some news.

Murphy is gone. I don’t want to cry so just please accept that he was an old man at 16, and that I never wanted either of my little men to be in any pain at any time. Letting him go was best for him and Murphy had always made it clear that his life was not about me, it was about him. He went to sleep peacefully in my arms as I rubbed his scruffy ear. It was his favorite thing in the world.

For those of you who are new, I adopted Murphy and Seamus when they were 7 and 8 years old. I bought a house and decided it needed a cat, so I wandered into the pet store to have a gander at the adopt-a-cat selections. I was looking for a nice, cozy, fat beast to lie around on my sofa and purr and generally make my house feel like it was really mine. The staff presented many selections, all of whom I loved, but most of whom I could see tearing up my furniture instead of lounging on it. When the staff presented two very mature kitties, I was taken. Seamus was promised to be a letdown because he didn’t do normal cat things, and Murphy was promised to be every cat lover’s dream. The two had to be adopted together, otherwise Seamus would have . . . . what? Fallen apart? Hidden forever? Expired from sorrow? I have no idea anymore. Their owner died and Seamus didn’t recover well and Murphy was his only steady source of comfort, so viola! I found myself with two cats.

Seamus really was weird and shy and hid under the bed for four years. That is not an exaggeration. Four years, and I’d only see him occasionally because he had to eat and poop. He’s good now, not a letdown at all, coming out often to eat and poop and also play with his stuffed crab and my ponytail holders and beg for treats. Murphy taught him the joys of drinking from the toilet so now he finds great fun in that. I’m terrified he’s going to slide in and get stuck because he’s as fat as a bear, but who am I to deny him his comforts?

And as it turns out, Murphy really was the cat lover’s dream. He was curious, as evidenced by the shreds he ripped through my curtains when he leapt from the dining room table to the top of the tabbed fabric panels over my glass doors. Ripped his way all the way down and then leapt again in a new spot to shred his way down on the other side. He was friendly, absolutely. I can’t tell you how many people in my neighborhood have entertained him in their homes or on their vehicles on a sunny day. He was a lover. So many fights happened in the neighborhood between Murphy and some nemesis who was encroaching on his girlfriends. Murphy would blow up like a watermelon, all hissing and fur, and get the crap beaten out of himself by a cat with real neuters and twice the weight. His poor little ears were full of dings and chips yet he always went back for more and then strutted around the house like a peacock with raggedy fur.

I said just a few days ago that when I expired, Murphy would go with me because his heart was broken. Well now he’s gone and broken mine. Of all the men who got to choose whether or not they loved me, Murphy did so the longest. We bonded on day one and if he ever caught me prone on the sofa or the bed, he’d drape himself across my legs or my chest and make biscuits, purring until he went to sleep. He never purred otherwise. If I wasn’t prone but upright, he’d perch near my head and make biscuits until he went to sleep. I never got to go the bathroom alone but always had an audience of Murphy at my feet, watching me with sleepy eyes. If we were outside together, he followed behind me wherever I walked and softly meowed at me to let me know he was there. On good days and on bad days, I could pick him up like a baby, head in the crook of my arm and paws up in the air, and rub his ears until his eyes glazed over and his paws splayed wide open. Like the most contented cat in the world.

Murphy lived his life full of zeal. There wasn’t a single part of it that he did not embrace with wild abandon. I’m so thankful he had a good life. I’m so thankful that I could give him the gift of peace when that good life was no longer an option. And I will have you note that my dreams of having a cozy, fat beast to lie around on my sofa and purr never did materialize but the one of making my house mine, well that one did. Ah, yes. Such is life with cats.

Salut, little Murph. I sure do miss you.