My current posting schedule is new content every Tuesday - but I had such a crazy evening last night that I felt compelled to share.
So I have a very dear friend who lives in quaint, conservative, wealthy suburb a few miles outside of Portland. (I guess that description is somewhat redundant, but you get the picture.) Anyhow, my friend and I were dining at a nice Italian eatery. We had a table right by the window. The place was packed with Thursday night early birds - aka senior citizens and families who wanted a bite to eat on a school night. And us.
My pal and I were chatting away about life when we noticed a shirtless youth pacing in front of the window. I assumed he was there to skateboard the cobblestone streets while simultaneously annoying the patrons of Cotton Top suppertime. However, after a few minutes, his movements became more agitated. When he wasn't stroking the metal picnic tables, he was gripping his hair and wailing. It was quite the compelling show.
Other diners began to notice, especially since he decided to pull his pants down to ass-crack level and show off his blue Fruit of the Looms. (We weren't close enough to see the brand of his underwear - I'm just guessing here.) Then he ran, at full speed, towards a waist-high pole. He threw himself over it, in an effort, I assume, to make himself barf.
Here's where I got up and asked the staff to call the police. The servers were cracking up, as it was pretty obvious he was on something. They were certain he was fine and pointed to a group of kids huddled across the street, laughing their asses off. Apparently this was junior's first trip - and he had some shitty friends who were not doing right by him.
A gentleman at the table behind us called 911. Meanwhile, at another window-side table, a mother and her two daughters began to realize something was seriously amiss. One of the girls kept asking her mom, "What's happening?" Shortly thereafter an ambulance, cop car and fire truck all showed up. The other girl was thrilled, saying, "This is the first time I've seen an ambulance in action!" Their enterprising mother grabbed the moment with gusto and said, "This is what happens when you try drugs. Let's go take a look at the young boy as he gets loaded into the ambulance." I was privy to a real-time "this is your brain on drugs/ after-school special" moment - I shit you not!
And here I thought I was going for a quiet dinner in the 'burbs. Instead I got a ringside seat to "Timmy's First Acid Tab." The outing was definitely worth it for my friend - who'd paid a babysitter for two hours of freedom. Sometimes you get leftovers - and sometimes you get a contact memory high. Ah, tripping balls - I doubt I'll ever experience you again, but I'm glad I got to see you last night. You are one entertaining minx! Now if only I could be a fly on the wall for when that kid finally comes down and realizes his buddies sold him out. Hey, at least the cops of this quiet town were able to spring into action for an evening.
[Photo Credit: Too bad he didn't have a cute, pink-haired guide!]
[The world debut of Vagina Chest went down last night at The Blue Monk, as part of the Unchaste Readers Series. Now that it's had its exclusive, I'm free to share it with you, dear reader. You're welcome!]
I had no idea that the simple act of snuggling against my husband at night would result in the dreaded condition of Vagina Chest. Apparently my décolletage is now like a well-loved rubber band. It's crumpled like crepe paper, and fallen faster than a disrupted soufflé. Over the years, as I've innocently snoozed while lying on my side, my epidermis has also decided to take the night off. There it lies, taking a nightly vacation beneath my pajama top.
I thought nothing of my décolletage until one morning when I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There, carved into my chest, was a deep V. "What the fuck?" I thought. "Surely that will fade." I checked on the situation later in the day only to find that the 22nd letter of the alphabet was still emblazoned on my chest. It happened the next day, and the next. I felt like a superhero; except instead of being gifted with x-ray vision or the ability to fly, I'd been endowed with the need for a wardrobe of turtlenecks and jaunty scarves.
Disturbed at the possibility of being the letter V's permanent ambassador, I started to do some research. This is what led me to Christian Slater's mother-in-law. While at the library, I stumbled across her book, Dayle Haddon's Ageless Beauty. As former L'Oreal spokes-model, Dayle had found a second career penning advice for the over-40 set who wished to retain that youthful glow. She writes, "Train yourself to sleep on your back. It might be uncomfortable at first, but the results will be worth it!" And, "Try to avoid smiling, unless in the most demanding of social situations." I thought she was fucking nuts, almost as nuts as her daughter, Ryan, was for marrying Christian Slater.
Well, it turns out Dayle was right. I indeed have been gifted with extra lines on the side of my body I favor most for sleep. I assume she's somewhere having the last laugh... or at least a gently released chuckle without the upturn of her mouth. If only I could've resisted the urge I've had since birth to sleep curled up in a tight ball, maybe I could've avoided Vagina Chest.
Unable to force myself to sleep on my back and unwilling to never crack a smile again, I abandoned Dayle and turned to StriVectin. StriVectin sounds like something former President Reagan would've outlawed during the Cold War, but it's really a thick lotion with purported "firming capabilities." It might as well come in a genie's bottle with three wishes, but I still traipsed to Sephora to buy my monthly supply.
Here's the thing about aging. Spoiler alert - it sucks. In addition to Vagina Chest, other things us ladies can look forward to are Mashed Potato Jaw, in which the jaw-line begins to sag, resembling my favorite dish at Thanksgiving, and Coconut Mustache, in which a woman must slather the area around her mouth with fatty oils in order to escape Feathered Lips. And, though Mashed Potato Jaw and Coconut Mustache might make it sound like your face has turned into an all-you-can-eat buffet, don't forget the caveat. Surprise! Your metabolism is going to die. I had a New Orleans style funeral for mine. The rum-infused Hurricanes didn't help with my chest, jaw or lip-line - but my metabolism got the send off it so richly deserved.
When I finally had to choose my bank account over StriVectin, I turned to prayer and, in the process, figured out who God is. He is, indeed, a white man in the sky. However, opposed to popular belief, he is not a gentle hippie with flowing locks. Instead he resembles Dick Cheney and is a cruel, misogynistic mastermind. It can only be the Dick Cheney of entities that would dare smite me with this condition. I refuse to believe any holy form with feminine energy would curse another woman with Vagina Chest.
What have I learned through all of this? Dayle Haddon looks younger than me, the Cold War would've been a lot more successful if it had been about cold creams and coconut oil remains calorie-free if you slather it around your lips rather than actually putting it in your mouth. I've also garnered a few tricks on staving off Vagina Chest. Ladies, here is the recap of my rituals:
massage - because why not?
the good old Clarisonic straight to the chest
fish oil (In capsule form. I'm not a Led Zeppelin groupie.)
And lots of prayer... to the altar of Jennifer Aniston
The diligent use of creams and tricks has forced the V to fade... for now. I've momentarily conquered Vagina Chest, but the second my husband gets confused and starts to angle his wedding tackle towards my upper V, I'll know the décolletage regimen has failed. And, much like Dick Cheney receiving a televised apology from the man he shot in the face, my chest will have me on my knees behind closed doors, begging for mercy.
[Image Credit: Couldn't have said it better myself!]