Scattegories - Bloggity Style
Right now I don't have anything mind-blogging to blog about and I"m still recovering from my first night of class...so I'm playing Scattergories--blogger style.. Here’s how you play. Use the first letter of your name to answer each of the following categories. They have to be real places, names, things. Obviously, the more creative the better!
What is your name? Miah
4 letter word: Moon
Vehicle: Mercedes
City:Miami
Boy Name: Murray
Girl Name: Madison
Stripper Name: Mind-Blowing Molly
Pimp Name: Macktastic
Animal: Meerkat
Occupation: Musician
Something you wear: Mock turtlenecks
Celebrity: Macy Gray
Food: Mexican peanuts
Drink: Moscato
Something cheap: Men
Something expensive: Me
Something found in a bathroom: Motions Shampoo
Reason for being late: making dinner
Something you shout: Meow!!
Want to play along?
Let me know if you are playing by leaving me a comment so I can come check yours out. Leave the link and I'll update this post with your link. If you don’t have a blog, just play along in the comments.
*M*
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
My Hellish evening looking for Paradise
So on Monday I started my first class. (I'll get to why I'm salty later). The class was supposed to meet in C214 from 4:14-6:45 pm according to the class bulletin. Three days before the class met, the professor sent an email that read "for our first class we are meeting at Paradise, then we'll walk to the commons to get food." Being new to Vegas and UNLV, I replied back to her message and asked where Paradise was located. She never replied.
I got to my class 30 minutes early, and for those of you who know me, you understand what a miracle that was. Since she never replied to my email, I went to the building and classroom listed on the class bulletin. I thought that maybe Paradise was a room in the building. I was wrong. At 4:10, when no one had showed up, I knew I was in the wrong place. I looked back at the email, trying to perhaps decipher a hidden code or clue. I got out my Super Secret Decoder Ring to help me break the e-mail code. No luck.
I asked a student where "Paradise" was located. She told me that there was no Paradise. I asked a second student where "Paradise" was. She looked at me quizzically and told me that there was no Paradise building on campus. I asked a third student where "Paradise" was. She told me it was a street.
Extremely irritated, I called my professor and left a message on her machine. I decided to go home. On my way back to my car i the cold cold wind, I asked a fourth student where the school of Education was--thinking that I could ask one of the secretaries. She pointed me in the right direction. On my way to the school of ed, I passed the library. Thinking that if anyone knew where "PAradise" was it woud be the librarian, I tromped inside. When asked about this mysterious "Paradise" place, the librarian looked confused and told me there was a Paradise campus. By this time I was HOT. She gave me driving directions to the Paradise campus.
I trudged back to my car, in the cold, and let a string of curses escape under my breath. Anyone who passed me at 4:45 pm on Monday may very well think there is a well-dressed black girl suffering from Turrett's syndrome roaming loose on the campus. I got in my car and it took me 15 minutes to drive across the street because the after-work traffic was so brutal.I couldn't make any left turns without being clipped, so I ended up driving around the block.
When I got to the Paradise campus (which consisted of one dilapidated building held up by what appeared to be hope) I prayed for serenity. I got out of my car for the second time and began looking once again for my class. Now I was an hour late. I walked in the building and looked around for a sign (remember, there was no room number in the email). There was no sign.
A gentleman at the front desk offered his assistance By now there was steam shooting from my ears. I told him I was looking for my class, EDA 701. He told me there were no classes. i told him that there had to be a class. He pulled out the master schedule and said "Nope. No class here." I showed him the email and he said "wait a minute., There's a Paradise Elementary school. Are you a teacher?" Unable to speak, I nodded "yes". He said "Try there. To get to PAradise Elementary School you have to drive across the street to the main campus. Don't even try to make a left turn, you'll get hit." He gave me a map and once again, I was off.
I ended up driving for another 20 minutes looking for the street where Paradise was located. Then I realized that the street I was looking for was missing a street sign. By now it was 5:45. I was 90 minutes late. After driving seemingly aimlessly around campus, I finally found a building which appeared to be an elementary school--but it had no sign. I parked and walked in. After wandering around the building for 5 minutes, I heard voices. I happened upon a class--tired, late, disheveled, and salty-- to hear "Are you here for EDA 701? I should have told you all that Paradise was an elementary school. Everyone was late. Make yourself comfortable."
*M*
I got to my class 30 minutes early, and for those of you who know me, you understand what a miracle that was. Since she never replied to my email, I went to the building and classroom listed on the class bulletin. I thought that maybe Paradise was a room in the building. I was wrong. At 4:10, when no one had showed up, I knew I was in the wrong place. I looked back at the email, trying to perhaps decipher a hidden code or clue. I got out my Super Secret Decoder Ring to help me break the e-mail code. No luck.
I asked a student where "Paradise" was located. She told me that there was no Paradise. I asked a second student where "Paradise" was. She looked at me quizzically and told me that there was no Paradise building on campus. I asked a third student where "Paradise" was. She told me it was a street.
Extremely irritated, I called my professor and left a message on her machine. I decided to go home. On my way back to my car i the cold cold wind, I asked a fourth student where the school of Education was--thinking that I could ask one of the secretaries. She pointed me in the right direction. On my way to the school of ed, I passed the library. Thinking that if anyone knew where "PAradise" was it woud be the librarian, I tromped inside. When asked about this mysterious "Paradise" place, the librarian looked confused and told me there was a Paradise campus. By this time I was HOT. She gave me driving directions to the Paradise campus.
I trudged back to my car, in the cold, and let a string of curses escape under my breath. Anyone who passed me at 4:45 pm on Monday may very well think there is a well-dressed black girl suffering from Turrett's syndrome roaming loose on the campus. I got in my car and it took me 15 minutes to drive across the street because the after-work traffic was so brutal.I couldn't make any left turns without being clipped, so I ended up driving around the block.
When I got to the Paradise campus (which consisted of one dilapidated building held up by what appeared to be hope) I prayed for serenity. I got out of my car for the second time and began looking once again for my class. Now I was an hour late. I walked in the building and looked around for a sign (remember, there was no room number in the email). There was no sign.
A gentleman at the front desk offered his assistance By now there was steam shooting from my ears. I told him I was looking for my class, EDA 701. He told me there were no classes. i told him that there had to be a class. He pulled out the master schedule and said "Nope. No class here." I showed him the email and he said "wait a minute., There's a Paradise Elementary school. Are you a teacher?" Unable to speak, I nodded "yes". He said "Try there. To get to PAradise Elementary School you have to drive across the street to the main campus. Don't even try to make a left turn, you'll get hit." He gave me a map and once again, I was off.
I ended up driving for another 20 minutes looking for the street where Paradise was located. Then I realized that the street I was looking for was missing a street sign. By now it was 5:45. I was 90 minutes late. After driving seemingly aimlessly around campus, I finally found a building which appeared to be an elementary school--but it had no sign. I parked and walked in. After wandering around the building for 5 minutes, I heard voices. I happened upon a class--tired, late, disheveled, and salty-- to hear "Are you here for EDA 701? I should have told you all that Paradise was an elementary school. Everyone was late. Make yourself comfortable."
*M*
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Wal-Mart
Yesterday I went to Wal-Mart (FYI, the only reason I'm writing this is because my friend Alford insisted that I did...) to do some light shopping. I needed the following items: trouser socks, Bolthouse Farms juice, Brown Rice flour, crudite, seeded hamburger buns, a water pitcher and a binder. I grabbed a cart when I entered the store and commenced shopping. About 30 minutes into the trip, I stopped to look at some black trouser socks. I left my cart in the main aisle and went down the smaller aisle to investigate the socks. I grabbed a black pair and meandered back to my cart.
I kept shopping. I added the flour, the crudite and the buns. I saw frozen veggies were on sale so I tossed those in the cart as well. This went on for about 20 minutes, me grabbing things I needed. Then, I looked at my cart. Inside the cart (in addition to the things I had just added) I noticed the following: a 36 case of Bounty paper towels, Iams dog food, 12 frozen dinners, Jim Bean's liquor, 8 cans of tuna, 1 bottle of ketchup among several other oddities that did not belong to me. I don't even own a dog. Then I realized that I had been wandering around Wal-Mart with someone else's cart, diligently shopping.
So, then I asked myself the obvious question: Where is my cart? I backtracked and found my original cart where I had left it, in the main aisle near the trouser socks.
oops.
*M*
I kept shopping. I added the flour, the crudite and the buns. I saw frozen veggies were on sale so I tossed those in the cart as well. This went on for about 20 minutes, me grabbing things I needed. Then, I looked at my cart. Inside the cart (in addition to the things I had just added) I noticed the following: a 36 case of Bounty paper towels, Iams dog food, 12 frozen dinners, Jim Bean's liquor, 8 cans of tuna, 1 bottle of ketchup among several other oddities that did not belong to me. I don't even own a dog. Then I realized that I had been wandering around Wal-Mart with someone else's cart, diligently shopping.
So, then I asked myself the obvious question: Where is my cart? I backtracked and found my original cart where I had left it, in the main aisle near the trouser socks.
oops.
*M*
Friday, January 25, 2008
On Why I Need a Gay Man...
I hate shopping. This revelation came as a suprise to me, because for years I thought I loved shopping. I mean, one could take a look at my bank account and spending habits and reasonably conclude that at the very least I enjoy the sport. However, the hard reality is this: I really do not like shopping.
Let me clarify: i love shopping for clothes and nothing gets me more excited than a good grocery store(Holiday Market, Papa Joe's, Whole Foods...). I hate shopping for furniture. Furniture shopping is tedious and it gives me a headache. The only reason I have the limited amount of furniture I do have is because someone else convinced me to buy it. My bedroom set? My mom and dad. My table and chair? Alana. My bar stools? A woman at work gave them to me. My TV? Thanks, Monica. That completes the furniture I curently have.
I need a computer desk. I have needed one for a minute and had planned on purchasing one in January. I went looking at computer desks and, as usual, got frustrated and irritated. Why are there so many choices? Should I get a wooden desk or a metal desk? Should I get a desk with a glass top or a desk with a hutch? What the hell is a hutch and do I need one? If I get a wooden desk, should I get wooded bookshelves? If I get a metal desk, will I be screwed when it comes to bookshelves because I do not want metal bookshelves? Should I get a desk that is 54" in height? What the hell does 54" in height really mean? Should I get a desk I can assemble? Would I really assemble it? Do I want a desk that I can roll from room to room?
Then I found a desk I really wanted. It was solid mahagony, heavy, stately--the desk said "work. hard work. important work." The desk was $1400. I left sans desk.
My thought process went on for an hour. At that point, in utter frustration, I left the fourth store and came home. Without a desk.
This is the reason I do not have a sofa, the reason I do not have curtains (I do have venetian blinds, but they came with the apartment), the reason I do not have a wall clock, the reason I do not have wall sconces, and on and on and on. I need a gay man to help me. I really find nothing fun or entertaining about this whole decorating business. I do not have an "eye." I do not "visualize." I do not have "perspective" or "depth." I do not really understand "complimentary color." Blah blah blah. I need a gay man with these things to help me first find a desk and then sort out the rest of my very barren apartment.
*M*
Let me clarify: i love shopping for clothes and nothing gets me more excited than a good grocery store(Holiday Market, Papa Joe's, Whole Foods...). I hate shopping for furniture. Furniture shopping is tedious and it gives me a headache. The only reason I have the limited amount of furniture I do have is because someone else convinced me to buy it. My bedroom set? My mom and dad. My table and chair? Alana. My bar stools? A woman at work gave them to me. My TV? Thanks, Monica. That completes the furniture I curently have.
I need a computer desk. I have needed one for a minute and had planned on purchasing one in January. I went looking at computer desks and, as usual, got frustrated and irritated. Why are there so many choices? Should I get a wooden desk or a metal desk? Should I get a desk with a glass top or a desk with a hutch? What the hell is a hutch and do I need one? If I get a wooden desk, should I get wooded bookshelves? If I get a metal desk, will I be screwed when it comes to bookshelves because I do not want metal bookshelves? Should I get a desk that is 54" in height? What the hell does 54" in height really mean? Should I get a desk I can assemble? Would I really assemble it? Do I want a desk that I can roll from room to room?
Then I found a desk I really wanted. It was solid mahagony, heavy, stately--the desk said "work. hard work. important work." The desk was $1400. I left sans desk.
My thought process went on for an hour. At that point, in utter frustration, I left the fourth store and came home. Without a desk.
This is the reason I do not have a sofa, the reason I do not have curtains (I do have venetian blinds, but they came with the apartment), the reason I do not have a wall clock, the reason I do not have wall sconces, and on and on and on. I need a gay man to help me. I really find nothing fun or entertaining about this whole decorating business. I do not have an "eye." I do not "visualize." I do not have "perspective" or "depth." I do not really understand "complimentary color." Blah blah blah. I need a gay man with these things to help me first find a desk and then sort out the rest of my very barren apartment.
*M*
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Bacon Candy
Just what we needed next: bacon candy. Today, as I was surfing the web for more useless information to clog my head with, I ambled across a recipe titled "bacon candy." Those who know me know that there was no way I was going to let that pass me by. So, of course I clicked on the recipe. It is as follows:
Ingredients
1 lb Bacon (not thick-cut)
1/4 cup Brown sugar
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
Slice bacon into 1/2 inch strips and dredge in brown sugar until thoroughly coated.
Crumple aluminum foil to allow for grease drainage and place it on a baking sheet. Lay out the bacon on this making sure not to overlap pieces.
Bake until crispy. Allow to cool and harden before serving. It will melt in your mouth!
I do not want my bacon to melt in my mouth. Then the recipe had the nerve to claim that if served at a party, "bacon candy" would be the first appetizer gone. I feel the need to say this explicitly: I forbid anyone reading this blog to serve anything called "bacon candy" at any gathering I am invited to. I forbid you to make any rendition of said "bacon candy." You may not seal your bacon in butterscotch, chocolate, licorice, fudge, peppermint, or a warm, snowy blanket of powdered sugar. You may not crumble it up and sprinkle on top of a Snickers, Laffy Taffy, or Peppermint Patties. These things are unacceptable.
*M*
LOL--for real, who's really in the kitchen right now pondering the possibility of making bacon candy?
Ingredients
1 lb Bacon (not thick-cut)
1/4 cup Brown sugar
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
Slice bacon into 1/2 inch strips and dredge in brown sugar until thoroughly coated.
Crumple aluminum foil to allow for grease drainage and place it on a baking sheet. Lay out the bacon on this making sure not to overlap pieces.
Bake until crispy. Allow to cool and harden before serving. It will melt in your mouth!
I do not want my bacon to melt in my mouth. Then the recipe had the nerve to claim that if served at a party, "bacon candy" would be the first appetizer gone. I feel the need to say this explicitly: I forbid anyone reading this blog to serve anything called "bacon candy" at any gathering I am invited to. I forbid you to make any rendition of said "bacon candy." You may not seal your bacon in butterscotch, chocolate, licorice, fudge, peppermint, or a warm, snowy blanket of powdered sugar. You may not crumble it up and sprinkle on top of a Snickers, Laffy Taffy, or Peppermint Patties. These things are unacceptable.
*M*
LOL--for real, who's really in the kitchen right now pondering the possibility of making bacon candy?
Nuts and Jackin'
Ahem.
Do you know what happens when you say the words "nuts" and "jackin" within the span of 15 words to 30, 13-year-old, pre-pubescent, sexually charged (at least that's my assumption by all the condoms I've seen this year) eighth graders?
Mayhem.
Today, I was trying to explain how to change a tire to my class. The conversation went something like this:
"First, you make sure the car is in park and off. Second, the loosen the lug nuts. Third you jack the car into the air and take off the lug nuts." At that point, peals of laughter exploded. Stupidly, I stopped. Then I stupidly said it again: "First, make sure the car is off. Second, loosed the nuts. Third, jack it in the air." Explosive, gut-busting laughter. So, instead I gave directions on how to bake a cake.
Now, here's a better question: What happens when a blogger writes the words "nuts" and "jackin" in the title of a blog that goes to a group of 30, 20-year-old-and- above post-pubescent, sexually charged (at least that's my assumption by some of the conversations I've had with some of you) adults?
*M*
Do you know what happens when you say the words "nuts" and "jackin" within the span of 15 words to 30, 13-year-old, pre-pubescent, sexually charged (at least that's my assumption by all the condoms I've seen this year) eighth graders?
Mayhem.
Today, I was trying to explain how to change a tire to my class. The conversation went something like this:
"First, you make sure the car is in park and off. Second, the loosen the lug nuts. Third you jack the car into the air and take off the lug nuts." At that point, peals of laughter exploded. Stupidly, I stopped. Then I stupidly said it again: "First, make sure the car is off. Second, loosed the nuts. Third, jack it in the air." Explosive, gut-busting laughter. So, instead I gave directions on how to bake a cake.
Now, here's a better question: What happens when a blogger writes the words "nuts" and "jackin" in the title of a blog that goes to a group of 30, 20-year-old-and- above post-pubescent, sexually charged (at least that's my assumption by some of the conversations I've had with some of you) adults?
*M*
Monday, January 21, 2008
Living Alone...
So as many of you know, I am currently living alone in Las Vegas. I"m not dating anyone and I don't have a boyfried (try not to dwell on the negative, please) so most days (and nights) it's just me and the plants.
Two nights ago, around 8:00 pm, a loud, harsh startled me. Not, expecting company, I walked to the door quite confused. Anywho, long story short, some kid was going door-to-door selling magazine subscriptions. I'm from Detroit and only 2 kinds of people come door-to-door: the Jehovah Witnesses (when they came at 8:00 am on Saturday mornings, my mom would turn off all the lights and we would all sit quietly) and the Mormons (young men in black pants, white button-downs and skinny black ties. Two were brave enough to come to my house at 8:00 pm one evening and got told to go where the sun don't shine). Essentially in my city, most people are not brave or stupid enough to come a-knockin'--especially in the evening when it is dark.
So, when I effectively shooed Opie away from my doorstep, with my knife in hand, I heard him go next door to my neighbor, an elderly woman. She let him in.
I waited about 6 minutes, looking out the window and praying that the police would be able to get some DNA from her fingernail scrapings when they found her chopped up in the desert. After I heard random magazine guy leave, I went to her apartment to make sure she was ok.
She was. And she had been suckered into buying two magazine subscriptions. This is the same woman who feeds the feral cats.
*M*
Two nights ago, around 8:00 pm, a loud, harsh startled me. Not, expecting company, I walked to the door quite confused. Anywho, long story short, some kid was going door-to-door selling magazine subscriptions. I'm from Detroit and only 2 kinds of people come door-to-door: the Jehovah Witnesses (when they came at 8:00 am on Saturday mornings, my mom would turn off all the lights and we would all sit quietly) and the Mormons (young men in black pants, white button-downs and skinny black ties. Two were brave enough to come to my house at 8:00 pm one evening and got told to go where the sun don't shine). Essentially in my city, most people are not brave or stupid enough to come a-knockin'--especially in the evening when it is dark.
So, when I effectively shooed Opie away from my doorstep, with my knife in hand, I heard him go next door to my neighbor, an elderly woman. She let him in.
I waited about 6 minutes, looking out the window and praying that the police would be able to get some DNA from her fingernail scrapings when they found her chopped up in the desert. After I heard random magazine guy leave, I went to her apartment to make sure she was ok.
She was. And she had been suckered into buying two magazine subscriptions. This is the same woman who feeds the feral cats.
*M*
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
It's not so much that I'm selfish, as much as it is I don't like sharing
So, kitten is gone.
I gave LG away to my friend Daphne yesterday. I thought it was the best decision for everyone involved.
There are just some things that I don't like and, quite frankly, don't really want to compromise on at this particular juncture in my life: being licked, groomed, kneaded and bathed by a cat; having a cat sleep on my pillow after it's just left it's litter box; having cat claws sink into and latch onto my very delicate skin, thus causing unsightly scratches and pain; hearing a kitten cry every night when it got locked out of the boudoir; watching a kitten leap onto my clean kitchen table and try to attack a glass vase of fresh cut flowers; having a cat jump on my lap when I'm on the toilet (of all the things I just mentioned, that was easily the worst); having a cat--albeit playfully--tear a run in my last pair of panty hose while I get dressed for work; and, tripping and almost busting my ass when kitten decides to shoot out from under the bed as I walk by.
Now, in all fairness, LG wasn't all bad. In fact, he/she was kind of cute and really endearing. Quite loveable. Warm. Soft. Cuddly. But, hey, sometimes you gotta say "you know what, this really isn't working out. It isn't you--it's me." There is something to be said for knowing when to cut your losses.
And, if I'm to tell the truth and shame the devil, yesterday I forgot about the cat and closed the door with its food and water. I felt so bad when I got in and saw the closed door. I immediately called Daphne, packed a bag with his/her belongings and got him emotionally ready for a new care giver.
We had a long talk. I think, in the end, he/she understood. It's for the best.
Maybe I"ll get a dog. Or a fish. Fish are easy and expendable.
*M*
I gave LG away to my friend Daphne yesterday. I thought it was the best decision for everyone involved.
There are just some things that I don't like and, quite frankly, don't really want to compromise on at this particular juncture in my life: being licked, groomed, kneaded and bathed by a cat; having a cat sleep on my pillow after it's just left it's litter box; having cat claws sink into and latch onto my very delicate skin, thus causing unsightly scratches and pain; hearing a kitten cry every night when it got locked out of the boudoir; watching a kitten leap onto my clean kitchen table and try to attack a glass vase of fresh cut flowers; having a cat jump on my lap when I'm on the toilet (of all the things I just mentioned, that was easily the worst); having a cat--albeit playfully--tear a run in my last pair of panty hose while I get dressed for work; and, tripping and almost busting my ass when kitten decides to shoot out from under the bed as I walk by.
Now, in all fairness, LG wasn't all bad. In fact, he/she was kind of cute and really endearing. Quite loveable. Warm. Soft. Cuddly. But, hey, sometimes you gotta say "you know what, this really isn't working out. It isn't you--it's me." There is something to be said for knowing when to cut your losses.
And, if I'm to tell the truth and shame the devil, yesterday I forgot about the cat and closed the door with its food and water. I felt so bad when I got in and saw the closed door. I immediately called Daphne, packed a bag with his/her belongings and got him emotionally ready for a new care giver.
We had a long talk. I think, in the end, he/she understood. It's for the best.
Maybe I"ll get a dog. Or a fish. Fish are easy and expendable.
*M*
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Ahhh...Parents
Note: To all of my friends who will one day have childen and those children will embark on that wonderful journey we call school, please don't be an ass to the teacher.
So last week I had a parent demand--by saying he's not demanding--me to change his daughter's Yearbook grade to an A. If not, he gave me an ultimatum: he would advise his daughter to leave my class.
Maybe he doesn't know that one monkey don't stop no show.
This child--I'll call her Penelope for short--is the same child who had James dress in her cheerleading uniform. I have honestly gotten over that. This child has had straight A's since 1st grade. She currently has a B+ in Yearbook. Her grade has nothing to do with the cheerleading debacle, but has to do with the fact that her spreads were not finished when the deadline came. So, she lost points.
Long story short, this child's parent told me that I was subjective, unfair and that I just don't like his daughter. I told him that his daughter was average. I don't think he liked that too much.
I also told him that she is in a class with other exceptional students. And, among other exceptionally bright kids, she's average--no better, no worse. Average.
Evidently, nothing pisses off a parent of an exceptional child more then getting the memo that said child is, well, average.
*M*
So last week I had a parent demand--by saying he's not demanding--me to change his daughter's Yearbook grade to an A. If not, he gave me an ultimatum: he would advise his daughter to leave my class.
Maybe he doesn't know that one monkey don't stop no show.
This child--I'll call her Penelope for short--is the same child who had James dress in her cheerleading uniform. I have honestly gotten over that. This child has had straight A's since 1st grade. She currently has a B+ in Yearbook. Her grade has nothing to do with the cheerleading debacle, but has to do with the fact that her spreads were not finished when the deadline came. So, she lost points.
Long story short, this child's parent told me that I was subjective, unfair and that I just don't like his daughter. I told him that his daughter was average. I don't think he liked that too much.
I also told him that she is in a class with other exceptional students. And, among other exceptionally bright kids, she's average--no better, no worse. Average.
Evidently, nothing pisses off a parent of an exceptional child more then getting the memo that said child is, well, average.
*M*
The Porn Convention
I don't know if you know this, but the annual porn convention is held in January each year in Vegas. This year marked the 25th annual AVN awards, complete with the following awards:
Best Amateur Release
Best Fem-Dom Strap On
Best MILF Series
Best Spanking
and those were the ones I felt comfortable to post on my blog. Anywho, I did not make my way to the convention center to hang out with the Jenna Jamisons and Skye Blue and Cherokee D'Ass' of the world. I actually stayed away from the convention, thinking I would be safe.
I was wrong.
Yesterday, as I was getting my nails done, at a spa far away from the convention center, a few porn stars walked in, I assume for a touch up before the big award night. If you have never seen a porn star in person, then you will not accurately be able to picture the following description:
I want you to imagine the largest pair of breasts you can. Fill them up with lead. Stick them to a body that is, at best, petite. Add 3 more sizes to the breasts. Make sure they stand completely out, like shelving. Then, imagine the shiniest pair of patent leather shoes you can. Give them 4 inch heels and ridiculous straps or laces or buckles. Then, imagine long hair. Longer. Longer. And longer. Make it stringy, multi-colored, and well, kind of gross. Now imagine a botox face job gone bad.
You have a porn star in real life.
Best Amateur Release
Best Fem-Dom Strap On
Best MILF Series
Best Spanking
and those were the ones I felt comfortable to post on my blog. Anywho, I did not make my way to the convention center to hang out with the Jenna Jamisons and Skye Blue and Cherokee D'Ass' of the world. I actually stayed away from the convention, thinking I would be safe.
I was wrong.
Yesterday, as I was getting my nails done, at a spa far away from the convention center, a few porn stars walked in, I assume for a touch up before the big award night. If you have never seen a porn star in person, then you will not accurately be able to picture the following description:
I want you to imagine the largest pair of breasts you can. Fill them up with lead. Stick them to a body that is, at best, petite. Add 3 more sizes to the breasts. Make sure they stand completely out, like shelving. Then, imagine the shiniest pair of patent leather shoes you can. Give them 4 inch heels and ridiculous straps or laces or buckles. Then, imagine long hair. Longer. Longer. And longer. Make it stringy, multi-colored, and well, kind of gross. Now imagine a botox face job gone bad.
You have a porn star in real life.
I got a Tranny Kitty
So last week a woman at my job sent out a posting offering a free kitten. Her cat had given birth and she wanted to give the kittens a loving home. So, naturally, she turned to teachers. (On a completely unrelated side note, last Friday a teacher said to me "Well, he's always smiling and happy. He's just retarded enough that he doesn't know the world completely sucks." about a person and not a cat. So maybe turning to teachers wasn't the best option.) I thought, I like kittens. I"m loving. I have a home.
So, I asked for one of the kittens. (Now, some of you are saying "Miah, you hate cats. That's been proven by your previous blogs about your extreme, deep hatred of feral cats. Well, faithful reader, you are half right. I do harbor a extreme, deep hatred of feral cats. But, I kind of like house cats and even house kittens. I loved my aunt's house cat Jade. She was independent and lazy and easy to get along with--not in the yard killing pidgeons and rats, but again I digress)
I was told that I could have one of the kittens. I decided to name it Penelope (thanks, Jaye!) or maybe Lady Godiva. It's all black with white paws. I went out and purchased kitty litter, a litter box, kitten food...all that jazz. Another teacher brought the kitten to school for me and I completely loved it. Absolutely adorable. No bigger than a football and very curious.
Then I found out he's a boy.
Well, I LIKE the name Penelope and I REALLY LIKE the name Lady Godiva. I named my boy kitten Lady Godiva, LG for short.
I have a tranny kitty.
So, I asked for one of the kittens. (Now, some of you are saying "Miah, you hate cats. That's been proven by your previous blogs about your extreme, deep hatred of feral cats. Well, faithful reader, you are half right. I do harbor a extreme, deep hatred of feral cats. But, I kind of like house cats and even house kittens. I loved my aunt's house cat Jade. She was independent and lazy and easy to get along with--not in the yard killing pidgeons and rats, but again I digress)
I was told that I could have one of the kittens. I decided to name it Penelope (thanks, Jaye!) or maybe Lady Godiva. It's all black with white paws. I went out and purchased kitty litter, a litter box, kitten food...all that jazz. Another teacher brought the kitten to school for me and I completely loved it. Absolutely adorable. No bigger than a football and very curious.
Then I found out he's a boy.
Well, I LIKE the name Penelope and I REALLY LIKE the name Lady Godiva. I named my boy kitten Lady Godiva, LG for short.
I have a tranny kitty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)