I Like to Go Swimmin’ with Bare Naked Wimmin’

If I had a million dollars

I’d be rich

If I had a man who loved me

I’m only somewhat of a bitch

If the sun above us

Burned the retinas from our eyes

The brain would be the only thing

To keep all smart and wise

If I had a green dress

And not just green dress understand

Maybe with some weight loss

I’d truly find a man

His eyes might be unsighted

Scorched out from a star

And that honest mystery date

Could see things as they are

For now things are sheer darkness

Bare Naked Lady though I am

No matter how I try or don’t

Still life I have to cram

Make it all in one day

Since tomorrow may not come

If I had a million dollars

Could be life still be so numb.

But I fucking doubt it.

~Miss R

The Death of Frank

Frank: RIP you piece of crap

It was getting dark, becoming very cold, and the truck completely ate shit near the sixty five hundred foot level of the mountains. The old beat-up vehicle sat still on a rutted washed-out dirt road. There were no road signs although a few late season souls were camped some miles behind them.

The two been driving these roads looking for crystals. An easy to get to and fun day he’d said. The woman was in severe pain, bouncing and being tossed by the ruts and holes of the fire roads they’d been traveling  Her boyfriend showed no concern, even when she begged him to turn back.

Things hadn’t been going well at home. Lots of arguments. Little talk. The couple had started out with the mutual love of the outdoors, listening to live music and fabulous, fetishistic sex;  this had dissipated into two people sharing a house. Sharing isn’t the right word. Occupying a shared space. Neither of them happy, just existing,

He would come home from work, peek his head into the bedroom and say hello. No more kisses or hugs, not for a long time. She spent the majority of time in bed weeping. The combination of daily pain from a neck and cervical operation and an inability to stop memories of the life she had once enjoyed. The physical agony was never ending, as was the depression. A mobius strip of hell on earth, without a viable answer to escape.

He probably felt just as miserable. Perhaps not. He seemed content to be by himself every night in another room. She never knew because they never talked beyond the superficial.

‘What do you want for dinner?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘There’s not much in the fridge, but I can make you some eggs and bacon’
‘I don’t want any fucking eggs and bacon’

‘You shouldn’t have thrown away every cent on the fast food lunches, DVDs, dinners out with your friends,  Frank and god knows what else.’
‘Well you shouldn’t spend all of your money on weed and cigarettes!”
“At least I put my money aside so the rent and electricity are paid on time. I’m sick of being broke to cover your half of the bills. Yeah you eventually pay up, but sure as hell never on time.”

So it went.

Frank is his truck. Short for Frankenstein. A piece of $500.00 steel crap but her lover could fix anything. Except himself, her or anything that contained DNA. Computers, a car, truck, bike rack, electrical panel, a house you name it. But personal relationships were beyond his purview. As time went on hers were forgotten as well.

The sun went down and the cold Nevada mountain nights set in. Reno is at almost 5000 feet in elevation and they were far higher than that on the back roads outside of Verdi. When leaving the freeway and starting up to the old crystal areas and mines they’d crossed into California. Not an hour from Donner Summit. This is where the truck died.

People back east and in Los Angeles are always stunned to hear stories of streets not being plowed, too much snow to get out of the driveway and pile-ups on the freeway during Reno’s winter.

Reno is an eight hour drive from Las Vegas. Please pass this along to any friends in Hollywood. The couple had seen an old  episode of CSI in which Grisham was handling a case. A sign loomed against his headlights saying ‘Sparks.’

Sparks is the town abutting Reno. As I said, eight hours from Vegas and at least 9 counties past Clark. They had both laughed upon seeing that.

It was getting darker and colder. The man lit a fire in the dried out meadow next to the dirt road. It wasn’t hot enough to warm their feet, being started with dead vegetation. There was no wood or  gasoline.

In retrospect it would have been a wonderful way to be found. Nothing like a roaring forest fire to bring the helicopters and fire marshal. Except for the whole lawsuit and life-long payments to the county for starting a goddamned forest fire and the reparations required. Although at that point the woman didn’t really give a damn.

There were no blankets, food (not an issue yet because they’d stopped for a cheap lunch on the way out of Reno), water, a tent and worst of all no pain medication. Not even an aspirin.

There WAS cell phone service out there. Pure freak of nature.

Bad part was that the day was Sunday. BBQ’s and cocktails for her friends. Shooting expeditions, football and cocktails for his. No one was home to answer a phone, or better yet, they were already too blasted to leave home. Not to mention find two stranded people with no idea of where they were. Yeah,  definite lack of road signs.

The couple was finally found later that evening, by one of his friends. Turns out the battery had fallen over and leaked acid over some of the electrical wires. The guys fixed that. The truck was almost to paved road when the transmission went. Death number two.

At about midnight they were both home and in bed. He on his side of the big bed, she on her side. The day unfolded because he had been complaining for weeks that they never did anything that HE wanted to do.

Looking down upon them you would notice a goofy smile, lasting but a moment, on her face.

~Miss R

Burning Man 2009

I met a gorgeous GORGEOUS young guy from New Zealand (at my age this means he was in his early 30’s. Maybe. Maybe late 20’s but who’s counting) while bartending.

This was at about 3:00 a.m. after the Burning Band (I play flute) gig when I showed up at camp with NO uniform or clothes except my name tag on my bra. Which as we all know basically says “If found wandering in a black-out please return to Spanky’s”

The hottie and I hit it off and when I closed up Spanky’s at 6:00 a.m. he came back to my RV. Well….. he’d been up too late. Uh huh.
I was nestled in the area with OC Charlie, Gina, Birdsong, Catfish, Lucky Bastard and the main Spanky’s thoroughfare.

I come out of the RV at 7:00 a.m. and OC Charlie, Gina and Birdsong are sitting outside our RV’s having a beer. As you do.
Charlie says “Hey Rach how’s it going in there?”
I say “Not so good dude. The guy’s having serious problems gimme a beer.”
After hanging out with my Spanker friends for a while I return to the RV.
Suddenly I hear – on a fucking Bullhorn- Charlie’s voice

This entire scenario went on for at least 5 hours. The poor bastard (gorgeous did I mention that) finally said good-bye in between bullhorn blasts and the rest of the camp looking over to see who was being ummmmm Blasted At.

Final Note: He came back 2 days later wondering where I was and asking if he could  join Spanky’s Village next year.
Mission Accomplished.

Craigslist? Oh dear god

So here’s the problem.

Once again I find myself sans boyfriend or dates. Okay, it’s not as if this hasn’t been a given in the last few years but it’s really getting to me now. Hell if I know why.

I’ve  given the heave-ho to the  few of the boy-toy/dinner dates over the past year or so. What’s the point? 

There was no future in any of them. Hell there was no present. Try discussing Mahler, Hawking or Bukowski  with a snow-boarding-hey-dude guy who’s idea of art is the new label cover on a bottle of $10.00 wine.

At least they looked good.  Of course so do I. With the lights off or my corset cinched tightly, then the lights dimmed.

So let’s say, just for a left-field example, that you were a late forty-something, eccentric, neurotic, darkly witty, moderately talented, exceptionally brilliant woman? Carrying around 20 pounds extra on her frame.  Oh, and you don’t like meeting guys in bars, your weekly outing consists of wrapping yourself up in a parka and a pair of skis to hit the slopes, or going to freaking Costco?

The roomie says ‘Oh Rach guys still hit on you.’ Yes they do! They’re


b)on day pass from the Helen Keller Institute

c)Northern Nevada Mental Health and Retard Services clients

Here’s the bottom line: I’m about ready to try…. Craigslist.

Don’t say it. I know. I’ve tried it before. Hell, it’s more than a crap shoot. It’s more like Russian roulette. With a fixed table.  And misshapen balls. But those are more balls than I’ve seen in a helluva long time.

Jimmy the Greek wouldn’t front me $5.00. That was before he was dead.

People my age are married, or divorced and married again. And divorced. Wait. So was I. Forget that. The point is that it’s a bitch to find so much as a date, nevermind a steady relationship. I can go out to a bar tonight and get laid but fuck that, pardon the pun. I’m getting too old for that crap. Not the fucking, the one night stands. Hell, I’m tired of being alone. Two of my marriages sucked but hopefully I’ve learned something. If not, at least I can check out those balls.


Attention! General Boredom and Major Apathy!

Survey Says….

1. It’s 2AM on the weekend, and you are not home. You are more than likely:
dead in a ditch covered with petrol

2. What’s the last thing you spent more than $100 on?
car insurance. grrrrrr

3. What do your bank checks look like?

4. Where did the shirt you are currently wearing come from?
hot topic in denver

5. Name something that is on your Christmas wish list
peace and love for all mankind. Not really. Fuck that. A car would be good though

6. What color is your toothbrush?
what toothbrush

7. Name something you collect.
Ouija boards. And dust.

8. Last restaurant you ate at?
Legal Seafood in Boston. Nowhere in fucking Reno that’s for sure.

9. Last person you bought a Birthday card for?
my niece

10. What is your worst bad habit?
that is almost a double negative you cretin. So, I’m gonna say grammer.

11. Name a magazine you subscribe to?

12. Your favorite pizza toppings?
Extra cheese

13. Who’s number were you looking up the last time you used a phone book?
Who the hell uses a phonebook? Google!

14. Who is the person that you love most?
My daughter

15. What is the last thing you cooked?
Baked Ziti with a ricotta cheese, garlic and mushroom sauce.

16. Name something you wouldn’t want to buy used?
a dildo

17. Which shoe do you put on first?

18. What is the last thing you remember losing?
my mind. I think it’s under the couch though

19. What is the ugliest piece of furniture in your house?
the tv/stereo cabinet

20. Last thing you bought and ended up returning?
a boyfriend

21. What perfume/cologne do you wear?
Coco Chanel or Opium

22. Your favorite board game?
I hate board games since I used to sell them in my store

23. Last board game you played?

24. Where did your vehicle come from?
a fucking retard

25. If a movie was made about your life what would the theme song be?
over my head

26. You’re sad, who can cheer you up easily?
~c or ~t or ~j

27. What was the color of the bridesmaid dresses of the last wedding you went to?
who does that kind of crap at my age? Most are on marriage number 2 and 3 these days.

28. What house cleaning chore do you hate to do the most?
Scrubbing the floors. I keep wrecking my stockings in that French maid outfit.

29. What is your favorite way to eat chicken?

30. It is your birthday. You hope the cake is?
filled with men!

Currently listening:

Wincing the Night Away

By: The Shins

Release date: 23 January, 2007

DX-7s injuries and other nonsense

As if it’s not enough that I’m covered head to toe in bruises from bouncing up and down on a trampoline (don’t try this at home kids. Not if you’re over 40) I just fell off my back steps onto rough, dirty and broken-up asphalt.
Now I am also covered in scrapes and blood.
Well, the blood is just kind of seeping at this point. I also ruined one of my very favorite books as it was in my hand at the time. It’s now bound in shredded paper and blood splatter.
Or as Henry Lee would say… brud spratter.
And no I have not been drinking. Just brain drained from a day at this computer.

Other than that today has consisted of a walk and much swearing over Tinfoil Hat Client Guy and his fucking Winchester Mystery Website.
This goddamned thing will NEVER be done. Writing the code isn’t bad; it’s the research and trying to find catalog numbers which don’t match up from one source to another.

The best thing today was getting my DX-7 back… in working condition. Ahhhhhh that IS nice.
TK has been working on it for months, and it had been at his house in various states of disrepair.
The sad part was that with the keyboard TK also dropped off every possible personal item of mine which remained at his place.
Hell I already knew it was over but gah that was like ripping open a newly sewn incision. Perhaps the fall this afternoon and resulting scrapes and cuts are the physical manifestation. Or perhaps I just indulge in too many metaphors.

I did receive a Fabulous Parting Gift though! TK made me a copy of the newest Donald Fagan CD (which rocks and I’ve been listening to it all day), along with a copy of Q’s Jook Joint; a Quincy Jones CD with every possible fine musician playing on it.

“So Rachael Thanks for playing my Game! We’re sorry you’re such a complete Loser but here’s a copy of our Home Game! Good Luck in all your future endeavors.”

I exit. Stage right.

Alright where the hell did I put the Neosporin and Band-aids?

~miss r

Currently listening :
Morph the Cat
By Donald Fagen
Release date: By 14 March, 2006

The movie of my life

Thanks Janie!

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic
Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy – your life appeals to a select few. But if someone’s obsessed with you, look out!
Your fans are downright freaky.

Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Currently listening:

Excitable Boy
By: Warren Zevon
Release date: 25 October, 1990

thanks janie

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic

Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy – your life appeals to a select few.
But if someone’s obsessed with you, look out! Your fans are downright freaky.Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

If you really wanted to fuck me up you should have gotten to me earlier

I’ve been thinking a lot recently.

Too much so, as I’ve been unable to sleep for more than an hour or so all week. All this with no hugs, human touch or Court TV as a distraction.

Also, when Miss R thinks it’s a case of someone working without the proper tools.

Be that as it may I’ve some to a few inescapable conclusions:

  1. Some people are happy loners because humanity is a back-stabbing unforgiving species with no conscience nor genuine interest in working together or working things out.
  2. Some people are incapable of being alone because they are needy fuckers with no sense of humor or talents of any kind
  3. Sleeping by myself every night sucks and walking up in a big bed alone is horrible. Yeah yeah yeah this seems to be a recurring theme. Get used to it.
  4. After being unceremoniously dumped by someone you’re able to observe nothing but couples. You never see single people on the streets, in films (unless they are reunited at the end of course as it’s Hollywood), or in your reading.
  5. Too much Bukowski and Dorothy Parker are giving me the idea that alcoholism, broken hearts, constant thoughts of suicide and bad dietary habits are a norm to strive for. Hi Norm. Sadly these two individuals were both talented and able to make a living through their art. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck for me.
  6. I am one of the people who apparently does not do well alone. Was it the 20+ years of marriage? 13 years of raising a child and then having to send her away? I think it’s a function of my dysfunction. There’s a hoary old saying: No one can love you until you love yourself.

Some days I like myself alright, but that’s usually when comparing myself to the homeless dude on 4th street. I can find comfort in my intelligence and then realize that it has gotten me exactly… nowhere. Years of therapy, analysis and cognitive re-training have as yet been unable to convince me otherwise. Is it me? Yeah it is. Damn I hate taking responsibility for my own crap.

Now there’s a fucking cheery thought for this morning.

On the good side Tinfoil Hat Client did show up today. With no fucking warning as usual.

Listened to two hours of his ranting about the site, verbal abuse, lectures on world-wide pandemics, how ‘they’ are spying on his private emails, … well you get the picture.

At the end of this diatribe and 4 pages of notes for my use I DID receive a check.
Jesus. I have GOT to get into another line of work.


My laundry is going round and round in the sauna-like laundry room as we speak and the house is clean.

Had a few responses on the car but who knows if any are viable.
I DO still have my piano though and will put in some practice time this afternoon.

I should go to the gym as well but really don’t care today.
It isn’t as if I go anywhere or strive to meet anyone new.

Seems I have taken off a few pounds since working out this week though. Despite my culinary experiments.

Yeppers that whole routine idea was a great one last week. Okay there are two over-riding reasons for the sturm and drang today:

  1. Today marks my two year anniversary in Reno. Ugh.
  2. Tomorrow is my daughter’s birthday and once again I will miss it


Both of these together make for a serious slide into the abyss. I need to cheer up right?
I could get hit by a bus tomorrow! Whoa even tonight if I play my cards right.

Of course I’d have to actually leave the house.

~Miss R

My W4M CL post

I pulled the aforementioned post from Craigslist since there were actually more than 75 responses within 15 hours and as per usual, most of them were ‘dick pics.’ It does no longer exist there so you’ll never know what I wrote.

You’re better off that way anyway.

Fooled ya. Kept the original


Are you a Musician?

Stay the hell away.
This goes especially for woodwind players, brass players, percussionists, string players and pianists.

Educated strangely attractive darkly humorous and peculiarly deranged SWF 45 seeks someone to laugh with while cruising cemeteries and guessing how the corpses met their demise.

Please send list of your ten favorite books.

I don’t really give a damn but want to know if there’s anything worth keeping when you leave me.
your grave stone

dammit have to pull the ad

Holy crap. I’m gonna have to pull that CL ad.
I’ve actually received a few replies from men who sound interesting and found the fucking post funny –not just bizarre.
There have been over 20 replies in the last 6 hours.

Now I may be a bitch but I’m not gonna do something to lead people on.
Unless of course there’s something in it for me.
Okay not really.

Goddamned conscience gets me every time.

Oh well it seemed like a good idea this morning. I had to post an ad for the Jeep anyway and I was feeling particularly sarcastic and playful.

Well, here are a few of the replies so far. I’m gonna pull the thing down tonight at midnight.
Some of the replies are so retarded that it’s not worth the effort to re-type or copy and paste.
Some are from known (if you read CL) Reno psychos.
Here for your edification are a random sampling of the unknown. The unloved. The-Unhinged-for-Good-Reason single Reno guy…

Say good night Gracie.
Good night Gracie.

by the way the **** indicates my thoughts and/or repsonse to the writer.

REPLIES du jour

1. how bout harmonica ?
worst book read karan …….
p.s it’s not the dead you have to worry about,it’s the living …..

**** hmmmmmm last I checked the harmonica was a musical instrument, as opposed to the accordion of course. Does he mean the Q’uaran? Or some porn star named karan?

2. im not a musician just a plain jane im 39 very staBLE


**** holy Christ you have GOT to be kidding me. James Bond? So much for public school education James

3. 24/m/Reno. What do you do in the boneyard (for my own morbid curiousity)? Your posting looked intresting.

**** yikes clearly another graduate of UNR. Or not. He’s 24 and my post states I’m 45??

4. Now that’s a different post.

**** This is my favorite so far. To the point. No come-on. Just a comment. This is actually what I was hoping for in the way of replies. Nothing serious just a few bemused words from a reader.

5. Your name would not be Mary Miller by any chance, would it?

**** Oh I have the most evil urge to write back and say… YES! That IS me. how have you been?

6. I don’t believe I have ever seen an add like this before.

**** another good one

Well kids it’s time to watch a movie. Or comb the cat. Or write back to the guys who took my ad at face value and were intriguing. I gotta come clean here.
I’m not ready for intriguing.
Or a relationship with anyone but TK.

Think I’ll pour another glass of club soda.
Went to the gym this afternoon in a fit of masochism so I deserve that club soda dammit. Not to mention a cigarette.
Thought I said not to mention it.

~Miss “fuckitall I have a conscience” R

Sunday Jazz

I almost didn’t walk over to the Sands tonight for jazz.
Great band too. The Ron Star Quintet.
Yet I did!

If He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named were there then he could perhaps believe I was stalking him. I don’t want that. I still care for him of course.

I do want to listen to music though.
If only there were more hours in the day. Between writing stream of consciousness crap, attempting to play the piano, checking my fading tan and meds, working on the last portions of Tinfoil Hat Client’s site, grieving, isolating and hanging on the cross there’s not a minute left for serious stalking.

The Sands is not that far, maybe two miles max.
Just that in heels, even small-summer-sandal-short ones it can be trying and the threat of blisters looms large. There’s a reason for the risk though:
Heels make your ass look just a bit higher and of course if you have good legs (my only attractive physical feature) then wearing flats is just plain stupid. I’m feeling pretty horrible about myself lately and anything but attractive, so even the small fix of heeled sandals can make my step a bit lighter.
Oh yeah I also suffer from White Girl Syndrome. No junk in the trunk. No booty. Heels have gotta help.

The music was fabulous last night. The trumpet player was amazing as was the keyboardist. I’ll definitely make a point to see the Ron Star Quintet again.

Afterwards I went to Wingfield Park for an Artown piece by the Platt Brothers. The park is on the way home from the Sands.
Ummm I was not impressed with the show however and left before it was over. The park was full though. Lots of people with their lawn chairs, all ages, colors and economic strata represented. The sun was going down and the clouds were glorious in their shapes and rosy shades of color.

Lemme tell you about Steve or should I say Skeeve.

There’s this guy that I’d met before at one of the Sands Pool Parties, when I was there with TK (oh fuckit I can mention his name. This is my story after all).
Steve is a whack-job of extra-ordinary magnitude.
He hands TK and I his card and it says something along the lines of….. Author. Musician. Psychiatrist and World Traveler.
I shit you not. The guy is a walking ball of dull ego.
On that night he immediately starts to hit on me, while I’m sitting with TK. After we’d all chatted and listened to the band for a while he came to a startling conclusion.
TK was not gay. Duh. He quickly made his exit after that revelation.

So last night I arrive at the Sands, take off my iPod and throw it into my purse, grab something to drink and find a chair over to the side where I could just listen to the music.
After happily enjoying a great sax solo there appears directly in front of me… Steve.
“Where’s TK?” he says.
“I don’t know. He broke up with me.” I reply.
Now that was just fucking dumb on my part and you can see what’s coming right?
Memo to Self: Wear one of my old wedding rings the next time I go out anywhere.

So Steve sits down and starts in blah blah blah and I’m nodding and smiling the smile of a lobotomy patient and thinking the entire time ‘will you PLEASE just shut the fuck up and listen to the music.’
He didn’t though.

I got to hear ‘we have so much in common’ about 20 times, ‘are you hungry we can grab some dinner’ at least 5 times and ‘can I give you money for a drink’.
What the hell?!
Who does that? Can I give you money for a drink?
You freak of nature didn’t your parents teach you any manners?

What is wrong with me that I cannot simply say “you are an amazing example of an obtuse asshole. Now please go away.”
I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings and am a total chicken.

On the plus side I did get a ride to Wingfield Park with the idiot. We traded phone numbers when I left so he can ‘go over my resume’ and give me some tips, him not knowing I screen my calls.
I was happily at home alone before dark and made myself something to eat. Not before I threw away Skeeve’s phone number though.

How can a person go through life with the personality of a cement brick and absolutely no sense of humor, tact, rationale or sense of others? Add to this he’s not only mentally repugnant he is physically unattractive as well.
So I feel better about myself this morning. I can safely say… At least I’m not Steve.

He did bestow upon me food for a blog though.
Hey thanks Steve.

~Miss R

Sunday is Wash Day!

Today started the same as every other day in the past few weeks.
I open my eyes, the television is on (what’s a timer), the cat sheds happily at the foot of the bed and I’m okay.
For about thirty fucking seconds.

So I haul my lazy ass out of bed, push the button (Max) on the coffee pot and listen to it make a sound reminiscent of a goddamned B-52 taking off.
It’s a cuisinart with the built-in grinder. Do NOT buy one of these things. The sheer complexity of washing it far outweighs the joy of getting out of bed and pushing the button. Max.

My mother calls. It’s Sunday so she’s up bright and early in her usual attempt to make my life a living hell. Oh god why does she hate my sister? If only she hated me as well.
After 30 minutes of ‘Have you gotten a job? When is your next doctor’s appointment? Are you taking the fish oil capsules I’m sending? Don’t cry for any man. You’re not a loser. You’re just….”
Thanks mom. What you meant to say was… how come I’m not up to your standards.
It’s been this way since I was a kid though.
Straight A’s? Not good enough. What? Why don’t you have any friends like your sister?
Going away to college at 15? Not good enough. What? You’re not going to stay at home with me for two years and go to junior college first you’re just going across the country by YOURSELF? (at this point I always hear… “Ren you EEEDIOT”…)
You’re playing piano in LA/NYC/Long Beach/Bumfuck Nowhere and making money at it? Not good enough. What? You haven’t applied to Med School?

How can my own mother make me feel like shit when I’m in my 40’s? Does it ever end?
Memo to Self: Feed mayonnaise to tuna. No wait wrong movie.
When my own daughter is 45 do NOT call her every friggin day to remind her of what she has not accomplished.
OR maybe I will bwahahahahahahahahaha

Luckily my father isn’t as bad. He’s just a bona fide whack-job psychiatrist. My mom loves me, and helps me but she’s a pain in the ass.
Being the family’s beloved Black Sheep has it’s own horrors believe me.
If/When my parents finally kick off I’ll be bereft. For now though Jesus Jumping Christ!

It appears as though yesterday was not especially productive on Planet Rachael.
Yesterday was spent indoors watching DVDs with the blinds closed and doses of Xanax.
The People’s Drug.
In an attempt to remedy this I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Alright the sleeves part is strictly metaphorical. It’s too damned hot to wear anything, especially with sleeves.
In the space of an hour I’d:
cleaned the cat box (oh happy day said Lizzie Borden), vacuumed, removed all traces of cat hair from the couch and foot of the bed, taken out the trash, had two minor break-drowns (oh happy clinical depression said I), combed aforementioned poker-playing card-cheating feline and started the laundry.

Let’s talk about the laundry. In particular the whites.
I live in an apartment building four-plex thingy with a rooming house next door. We all share the same two washers and dryers .Eeeeew another rant for another afternoon right there.
A wash is a buck and a dry is a buck.
Except if you’re OCD like me and put in that additional quarter for the extra rinse cycle on the sheets or towel loads.
Plus it takes me four hours to do three loads because I am constantly running across the parking lot, up the stairs to the laundry room, and checking the 100% cotton clothes to pull them out before they shrink. Laundry day looks like fucking Mardi Gras in this apartment, except that instead of beads festooning the doorways there are camis, bras, stockings and skirts.

Anyway, there are no clean white socks left in this house. Or white panties or white shirts, of which I own two. Hey, the curvy and voluptuous (this goes for full-on fatties too) should never wear that color.
Bad bad bad. Might as well wash myself up on the beach stuck with a fucking harpoon. While clad in horizontal alternating yellow and green stripes.

I may have a retardation problem when it comes to picking husbands but I DO know a tad about style.

So the whites don’t amount to even a half load of laundry and you can’t hand wash the fuckers because I use bleach on them, AND who the hell is going to wash the socks they wear at the gym in cold water and Woolite? Not I.
I will not wash them Sam I Am
I will not wash white socks by hand.

The dilemma: Do I spend another two bucks and one hour on such a paltry quantity of laundry?
The answer: No.

So I still have a load of whites to be done.
Anyone have a washer and dryer I can use? Wearing tan socks to the gym is tackier than stalking an ex.

With that I shall cease my blathering for the afternoon. It’s time to put on a pair of shorts, tank top and some sneakers for a walk down to the Sands Regency. On Sunday night they have free jazz by the pool.
The only downside is that I may run into he-who-may-not-be-named and he’ll think I’m stalking him.
Fucking small-town Reno and the lack of music venues.

He can always leave if he’s that uncomfortable yes?
Or I could.
Or he can blow me.
Or I could blow him.

Any of the above choices would be okay .

~Miss R

Currently listening :
Yes, Virginia…
By The Dresden Dolls
Release date: 18 April, 2006