The Elusive Vagina Tribe of Africa

It was your average morning here at The House That Miss Spoken Built. The Boy was consuming his first round of sugar for the day, Boss Lady was eating cereal and contemplating the five day weather forecast and I was busy trying to mainline coffee while packing lunches and pulling clothes from the dryer.

Very typical.

Until Boss Lady said something that sounded like the word "vagina."

"What did you just say?"

"Vagina."

**Blink. Blink. Blow curl out of my eye.**

"Huh? Say it again."

"Vagina."

**Squinting my eyes, sure that my five year old is just fucking with me. Sip coffee. Act normal.**

"One more time ..."

"Vaaaagiiiinnnnnaaaa."

"Why are you talking about vaginas to your brother?"

"Because it's a tribe of people in Africa."

**Coffee slips from my lips straight down my shirt. Fuck.**

"Who told you that? Somebody at school?"

"No, my brain told me."

"Well, your brain is wrong because there is no such thing as a Vagina Tribe in Africa or any other place."

"Yes there is, Mom."

"No. A vagina is where you pee from. Your lady parts. Boys have penises, girls have vaginas. I of course have fine china."

**Tilts her head to the side, looks at me and considers how stupid I may or may not be.**

"Not China, Mom .... Africa. Duh."

In Anything-But-Vagina related news, today is My Gay's 26th birthday! That makes him a whopping 33 in gay years. Tonight we'll be celebrating at Reno's finest gay bar which means I should really finish vagazzling my African Tribe.

Happy Birthday, Mark!!! Here's hoping you don't puke on your shoes tonight!!

Not Exactly Bonnie and Clyde

With a heavy sigh, I return from yet another extended vacation from my blog. A furlough from extracting the funny from ordinary moments. A sabbatical from analyzing this life that is all mine.

Here's what you missed:

My Gay and I committed a federal offense when we stole a huge box that had been sitting in front of what we used to refer to as The Meth Lab. It was a neighboring townhome occupied by drug dealers community college students who would throw barbeques at midnight and their girlfriends, unsteady in their stilettos and skinny jeans, would point their camera phones to the sky and take pictures of clouds. They were evicted but soon thereafter, a large package arrived at their door. And there is sat, taunting me. For months I would walk by and look at it from afar wondering what could possibly be inside. Black tar heroin maybe? A baby monkey perhaps? Tea cups from Grandma? What the fuck?? Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I enlisted My Gay into my dirty crime world and together we walked moved like Ninja warriors, grabbed the box and ran like girls disappeared like thieves in the night. With fingers crossed in hopes of discovering a year's supply of Xanax or at the very least a case of wine, we dug into the box and found .... a fucking ham. A six month old ham, dammit.

Later that night we took our two-person crime wave to a gay bar and got ridiculously drunk and made fun of a man who looked like he had hookers in his basement.

Not exactly Bonnie and Clyde but it's hard to be super bad ass gangsters with ABBA dominating the scene. It's not exactly the soundtrack for criminals. Next time, we're going hardcore. Like Pet Shop Boys hardcore.

Sometimes you're better off dead. There's a gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head ...

Menopausing Cheerleaders and Unconscious Gay Men: Happy Easter!

As of late, creating posts worth reading are getting harder and harder to come by. I find myself sitting in front of the computer screen with my coffee getting cold, just staring at the goddamned cursor as it disappears and reappears. It mocks me. Bastard.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Translation: You Suck. You Suck. You Suck.

Maybe I should tell you about the half time show at the Reno Big Horns D-League basketball game.

The theme was cheerleading. Actually, it was more like a cheerleading age progression, timeline, chronology type of display. It started with tiny little four year olds, decked out in glitter and pigtails. Then it moved on to something in the middle school range where the girls did some routine that included folding chairs and I'm guessing Hannah Montana G-strings. All pretty standard stuff. That is, until Bust A Move started thumping over the arena and four women strutted onto the court wearing lycra pants, sporting six inch roots and a high school graduation date somewhere in the early 70s. Sister Mercy, what a show. Taking mouthfuls of my $8 beer, I watched in total amazement as these women pumped, and gyrated and hip-hopped all over that poor floor. But I can't even rag on them too much because Easter afternoon, I could be found in my garage sipping vodka and dancing to Planet Rock. Fortunately, I left my lycra biker shorts in the 80s where they belong because really, the only people allowed to rock that look are people who actually ride bikes.

Or, I could tell you a story about My Gay who was also sipping vodka that fateful afternoon except he was mixing his with Acai Cleansing Pills and diet black cherry soda. Somewhere between his "total cleanse," and his attempts at purging the vodka with his fist down his throat, he passed out for ten minutes on my bathroom floor.

Because nothing says "Welcome Back, Jesus!" like a gay man passed out in the crapper.

My Gay, Lady Gaga and the Texas Roadhouse: A Love Story

Last week My Gay turned 25. By everybody else's standards he's irritatingly young but, as I mentioned, he's gay so he's all aflutter with concerns that he might be past his Purchase By date. Whatever. I'm 37 so in Gay Land, I'm already expired. Soured. Curdled.

Regardless, it's a day of celebration or at the very least consumption. I checked out our Babbleville Local Directory of Crappy Happenings but alas, the Gay Rodeo was nowhere to be found. Because what better way to say Happy Birthday than with a little bit of this:

And a whole lot of this:

I had to settle for the culinary stylings of the Texas Roadhouse which was fine by me because with My Gay and Puppet Boy in tow, I was confident we could bring some Brokeback swagger wherever we went. And at this point, I'd go anywhere if it meant getting my posterior out of this house and my feet into these Fergalicious Red Croc heels. 

Ahhhh ..... heels. Paired with Mac's Viva Glam Matte Red Lipstick.

Sweet nectar of love.......

The Roadhouse did not disappoint. I feasted (yes.... feasted) on the world's most well endowed chicken smothered in Guaranteed-To-Make-Your-Ass-Wider White Gravy with a side of Straight-To-The-Thighs Mashed Potatoes. Lady Gaga was our bartender. My Gay line danced with the staff while twirling his napkin in the air and also rode on a saddle that they wheeled to our table while we sang his Birthday praises. My little Annie Oakley is all done and grownded up. Sniff. Sniff. 

P.S. Told you we could bring a little Rainbow colored funk to the joint.  Yee-haw bitches!