Hello! And a very good morning to you, my dear friend! I told you I’d be talking to you again soon-- here, on day 2 of the "blogging" me,I am coming to you with countless amazing, ground-breaking entry topics swimming in my head. So many that I am finding myself almost overwhelmed deciding exactly which to dedicate this last Wednesday of Lent to expand upon . . .
I have decided to do a series, in part, about what I think I most need in my life right now . . . and by “I” naturally I mean all of us. While you go through the short list I’m sure you have in your head, I’ll give you a moment. Fiancé? nope. more Yurman? Well, not at this juncture, my wrists are heavy enough with what I’ve got, duh.
Really, the only thing besides a professional lotion-er (more about this at another time) is, wait for it . . . a celebrity feud. Yes, I know-- I’m so right. This topic will have to be expanded over the course of numerous posts. Why? Because surprisingly, I will have to do a little research. First off, I am (unfortunately . . . or fortunately for some) not a celebrity in the sense most people think of. Secondly, everyone loves me or is too afraid to challenge me. No, seriously, scoff if you want, but its true.
Ever since I got in my first fight , I have intimidated the shit out of people -- and I had a boy's haircut then-- so it couldn't have been the mind-blowing natural body and volume in my locks.
To quickly give you the heads up, my first fight went a little something like this: ‘twas a cool April day in 1995-- for the hell of it, lets say it was fourteen years ago this very day. Now, growing up, the only thing my mother ever told me was that I was never allowed to throw the first punch-- in anything, metaphorically, physically, mentally, literally, you name it, I was always told to wait for an attack (however it took shape) and then beat the fucking shit out of my challenger. My mother at the time dressed my plump frame in sweat suit coordinates featuring her very own ice cream cone puff-paint designs!
She probably knew I would get a slew of comments from those too jealous (or lacking the persistence) to finish every single bite of every single meal, or those not brave enough to resemble a cueball but still don a swimsuit and win state championships in backstroke every year. Now that you are equipped with the background of my elementary life, you can imagine how I was a force to be reckoned with.
It was on this particular afternoon that a neighbor of mine (who's own sexuality was questionable, even back then, but not because you couldn’t tell if she was male or female . . . again, I apologize for the digression . . . ) followed me closely off the bus and purposefully stepped on the back of my new, white, lace-up Keds. I immediately stopped the bus line, turned around, looked down (I was also blessed to be tall for my age) and gave this bitch the most menacing look I could manage. After we hopped onto the sidewalk and I bent down to re-tie my now smudged sneaks I saw her imitation Keds step right in front of me and hear her shrill voice yell "Hey! Get your ass off my property!"
Now, small readers from heaven, I'll be totally honest with you. Her house was at least .3 of a mile away. Initially I worried that this bitch was crazy, therefore I questioned if the matter was even worth a response. Naturally, I decided to assess further. Standing up to my full five foot five inches of intimidating bulk, I looked her in the eye (okay, really, the top of the head, this was prior to her contracting lice, thank heavens) and said so very slowly-- "What did you just say to me?" Thinking this would be enough to scare this ho away, thereby saving my new kicks from any further damage, I start to turn and walk away. I had fixed my shoes and re-scrunched my socks and was going to head home for five to six servings of Oreo's. She, however, had other plans. Homegirl gets in my face, standing on her tip-toes and repeats her initial statement, this time however, I could feel the challenge in her voice. Now, many of you wouldn’t have been offended with such language, but, I had just received my first holy communion a year or two prior to this incident, and a fifth grader using profanity--especially at me, was not something I felt comfortable with. I threw down my Eastpak and reminded her that the 'property' we were standing on was not anywhere near hers, after which, I balled my fists and raised them in fight position (thanks for that lesson, Mom!). This silly bitch continues to stand in front of me for a minute, trying to size up the fact that I was a good . . . 80 pounds heavier than her, and that my balled-up fist was literally (I kid you not) the size of her small, mousy, unattractive face. I continue to taunt her with the invitation for her to "put her dukes up." Poor thing, she must not have remembered that, having won medals in swimming (truly surprising, given my shape), I was fast in and out of water. I liken my stealth to be like that of an alligator . . . outlandishly speedy in water, but also capable of death, destruction and 35 miles an hour on land. She attempts to a swing at me--thereby throwing the first punch. And a poor punch at that! In not allowing myself to be the aggressor, she really did have a good shot of hitting me square in the jaw--of course, as her cause was ridiculous and unjust, she missed. After which, to make a long story short, I grabbed her fists, pushed her on the ground and spent a good 5 minutes kicking her and stepping on her head. Done and done. Thank the good Lord Joan had seen the entire thing and swung by to give me a high five and a ride home in our Dodge Caravan. I wasn't used to this praise from my mother, but-- I'll be honest, it felt good, damn good. High fives for straight A’s or reading at a 12th grade level in 5th grade? Never! But for beating the shit out of some hoodrat? Your girl got treated to ice cream. Anyway, from that point on, its always been the same. I hate to sound cocky (no, I actually don't hate to sound cocky) but, you know, I'll take it. Now, back to the mission at hand.
In pondering my quest for a celebrity “match of wits,” and, to be serious for a moment, I worry, at this juncture, that I will not be able to find anyone famous enough to waste my time with. I need someone I can get on television with and call a "silly ho" or "worthless bozo" or something good/creative like that. I also want to sleep with their boyfriend, therefore a woman is a must. Girls are better fighters anyway. The millions of men I have encountered have been so struck by my response 'jab' they bow out soon after . . . unless you tell them you're pregnant, at which point they just sob. Not. Worth. It.
In summation, I like how this goal is taking shape. I will spend the next few days thinking, contemplating, pondering and considering potential candidates. This will not be easy, but together, I know this will make all of our lives happier, healthier and far more complete.
You're welcome.
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