The Ramblings of Ridiculicious

International Humorist

oh I miss you
ridiculicious

Holy cannoli! It's been forever since I wrote here. But I'm writing on my phone. Full detail tomorrow. Boy do I miss it here.

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Cabbagetown Walk
ridiculicious
When the Mayor (my dog) and I go on walks in Cabbagetown, we have a little routine. First we go up the hill from my house and pass the white trash house on the right  where I pick up the trash they've thrown on the ground and put it in the garbage that they can't seem to hit through their meth haze. I then secretly think about burning down their house and blaming it on a meth lab explosion and we carry on with our walk.

We make our way up to Gaskil Street with the all the shotgun houses painted pink and red and blue and green and stop at the tiny one-room church. Usually, there is gospel music booming out on the street and happy black faces spilling out, shaking hands and laughing. If no one is at the church, I stop by the old ticketing station next door and pet the three stray kitties who live on the porch, while the Mayor crosses the street and says hi to Sugar, Susan's dog. Then the Mayor jogs back across the street smiling and we head up the street until we pass Chan Marshall's house, the singer for Cat Power, where he usually takes a pee on her flowering bush (not a euphemism), before we make our way to Mitchell and Mario's house.

Mitchell and Mario are a father/son construction team and they are usually on their porch greeting everyone while the make their beautiful creations. When they aren't making furniture, Mitchell is feeding the birds from his porch swing.  Mitchell has taken to putting a dog bowl outside his house so that all the neighborhood doggies can get a fresh drink of water on their walks.  "Hey Gorgeous,"  he usually calls out. But he's never talking to me, he's talking to my dog. And my dog runs up his porch and lets Mitchell pat him on the head a few times before he trots back down and we continue our walk.

After Mitchell's, we hit Carroll Street, lined with double-porch houses, painted purple and sage and baby blue. Band fliers are stapled to every single telephone pole. We pass Little's Park where we see John has hacked a little bit more on the the giant dead tree he hates. Or we see hyper-gay Troy, outside watering his plants in 40 degrees wearing nothing but a Speedo and his own name tattooed on his back (so no one will forget his name). 

We pass the cafe where all the patrons sitting outside pet the Mayor and tell me how gorgeous he is.  He tries to lift his leg on the restaurant door and every time I pull him away.  We pass the pizza parlor, the hair dresser, the tattoo parlor and Little's Grocery Store where you can go in and order a slushie.

The Mayor says Hi to the scooter kids who hang outside the tattoo parlor and we make our way up to the Milltown Tavern where I usually see Bill drinking a beer with his dog Lucy. Bill goes there every day to drink one to ten beers before his dog walk. He lives with his OCD partner Adam and I think he just goes there to get a moment of peace. In fact, I think his dog walks last about 4 hours.

As I walk up the hill, the huge Cotton Mill lofts loom to my left. And if I make it at the right time of day, I usually see Pat, who for the last 5 years, I thought was a man, but is really a woman. She has the worst bow legs I've ever seen in real life. I've seen better bow legs in cartoons. If I act like I don't see her (which I usually do), I can get out of a conversation about her project to make edible puppets (which I proudly exclaimed, would in fact  be actual meat puppets.) Or her latest sci fi movie that she's written. Or any of the other sad, lonely things a woman with bow legs who looks like a man wants to talk about.

I pass walls of terrible graffiti and some really good graffiti and barking dogs and Easter-egg colored houses with antique rocking chair porches and giant trees that overhang them and dribble down leaves and cones and sweet gum pods. The Mayor and I say hi to everyone we see and he usually gets a pat on the head. We pass the small park and another one-room church where someone carved in the concrete: "And god loves you to."  Their God doesn't judge you for shitty grammar, but mine does. 

After the neighborhood tour, we make it to the big park where we see all the Mayor's friends and all the neighborhood kids and parents and we all sit there and talk for an hour or so until the sun sets behind the giant Oak tree. The Mayor usually finds a stick to chew on and I gossip with all the neighbors while they drink their portable cocktails and right now, while I'm pregnant, I watch them. The trees are all starting to bloom, and it's nice and warm, so we are starting to stay a little longer in the park.  Which is nice, because I get to see all the babies grow into little people and all the dogs get a little slower and all the people change a little bit, but not too much.

On the way home, the Mayor walks much slower because he is pouting about having to go home or he might be just old (which I refuse to believe). He stops by Debbie's to see her dog Max and Hope's to see her old dogs and then we walk past another one-room church stoop where someone who might look a little inbred is always sitting.

We walk up to the old storefront where I used to live and where I wrote in the wet concrete: "I was here and so was Flynn (A.K.A the Mayor)."  We make our way back to our street and I see the Trash trying to get their electricity on by hotwiring the telephone pole (can't wait for that Darwin's Award) or throwing more trash in the street or breeding more inbred meth heads and I curse them and silently think about burning down their house and make my way back home, concentrating on the good houses on my right as I look down lovingly at my furry friend, the Mayor.

Screening came back normal!
ridiculicious
Whee! Doctor said I had the results of 20 year old. They do it as a risk. So the risk for downs was 1-3500 and the risk for the two other chromosomal disorders was 1- 2500.  So I'm not going to go for the amnio or CVS which is super scary and miscarriage causing. Go me! One more week and I'm out of the first trimester. You know what this means? I'm taking this pregnancy seriously. Yep. I am officially pregnant.

Okay now I just need to get a jobby and my stress level will dissipate tremendously.

Odd?
ridiculicious
Here was the weirdest thing that happened today: I took an art class from a painter with Parkenson's and she told me to color in the lines. But she couldn't.

The next second odd thing was a guy who waved a towel at me on the Freeway trying to get me to stop. No! Uh-uh. I  won't fall for the old waving a towell trick. That's just asking for rape.

Twitter?
ridiculicious
Is anyone here on Twitter. I'm ridiculicious of course.  Follow me.   www.twitter.com (for those of you who need to get on).

Sobriety
ridiculicious

I was completely sober last night.  Now I know what a cold sweat is like. 

I brought two girlfriends with me to the first stop – a neighborhood mixer. We entered the cramped house and a short, fat gay guy walked right up to me and asked if I smoked. I looked down at my purse where my cigarettes were poking out. I was obligated to give him one.  I hate that shit. This gesture made him Velcro himself to me all night.

First conversation with him: “What kind of penises do you like?  Do you like them manscaped or not?”  Why do gay men think they can talk to me about sex?
“I like penises in general,” I said.  I hoped this  response would keep the door closed for more dick talk.  It didn’t. He apparently liked dicks short, fat and hairless. Swell.
“Hey, I left my, um, plate? In the kitchen.” I said.

In the kitchen, my first conversation was with a tall, hip man who said he had seen me around, "Are you a newscaster?" he asked me. Jesus. 

I moved on to two attractive guys who were in their early 20’s. I got giddy for a second. “Man, there is a shit load of alcohol here,” said one. The other guy adjusted his baseball hat and grinned at me.
“Kay, I have to pee.” I said.


My girlfriends were huddled around the drinks, pouring one after the other. So, I made my way to the food table and wondered how I could eat the whole table without notice and without also gaining weight. I ate two strawberries instead. A small child with an ugly, knitted hat tugged on my leg. I thought it was a cat at first. "Hi" I said. The thing looked up at me and smiled. "What's your name?" I asked. 
"Tree," it said. I unpeeled it from my leg and ran to the bathroom.

I took a deep breath and unzipped my pants. The bathroom door didn't close all the way and a guy with a full beard and "cool" glasses walked in on me mid-stream.  "Oh sorry," he said, I was just coming in to light up."  He stood there gaping. “You smoke?”
"Hey? Do you think you could get the fuck out of here?"  He apologized and closed the door way too slowly. 
I finished and went back out to the food table. I grabbed a brownie and gobbled it up.

I had a few more conversations about dogs (a safe topic for all audiences) and then asked my friends if we could go somewhere else. They were clearly irritated that I was disrupting their free drinking binge. "Where are we going to go?" they asked.  I wondered why it was always up to me to find entertainment for everyone.

We decided to go to the Northside Tavern - a bluesy dive bar on the other side of the city. My friends were already hammered and we had to stop and pee three times on the way there. It was 15 minute drive.  I've done this to people. 

When we got to the place, it was crowded and smoky and the most horrible white-bred blues band was playing. I wanted to find a dark corner to sit down and watch people, but my friends wouldn't let me, “Come dance. Come on!” they yelled
“Yeah. No,” I said.
“Come on!” they cheered, “You don’t have to drink to dance.”
“Look, I’m not white. I can’t dance to this.”  They didn’t hear me, but they finally decided to dance without me.

A drunken, hippie couple singled out my singleness: “Are you alone,” asked the woman part of the couple. I sensed the swinger in her. I told her my friends were dancing. “How come you’re not dancing?”
“I have no rhythm.” My pseudo honesty opened the floodgates.
“Well, I found my rhythm…” she slurred,  “…I was thrown to the wolves as a child, but somehow I made it."  She was apparently orphaned and had to live on the streets at age 14.  She looked like she had been orphaned and forced to live on the streets.  She had two children who were close to my age and she was only 48.  "I finally met the love of my life last year," she spat out, "Swami." She pointed to the old hippy with a Grateful Dead jacket and bells on his tennis shoes. "He's old. But he still gets it on."
"Awesome," I said.
"Come dance," she grabbed my hand.
"Yeah. No."
"Come on!" She insisted.  Her hippie husband sensed my allergic reaction to her touch and  finally pulled her away.

A handsome drunk man came up to me and asked if I wanted to dance. "Nope," I said.
"Come on!" he said tugging my hand. He would not take no for an answer.
I finally blurted out, "I had knee surgery yesterday."
"Can I get your number then?" he asked.
"I have four kids," I said.
He looked confused. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to have four kids."
He still looked confused. Then he grinned and said, "I don't care. I like kids."
Oh but you will care tomorrow morning when you sober up. “Hey. I don’t want to dance. I don’t want you to call me. Do I need to say something mean now?”
He shrugged his shoulders and skipped over to my friend who gladly took his hand and gyrated up against him for the next hour.

I finally had enough when a wasted ball of a mess of a couple fell on me whilst trying to fuck on the dance floor.  “Hey gotta go!” I announced to my friends.  On the way out the door, the hippie lady grabbed my hand and said: "Don't worry, you'll find your rhythm Baby."

I wanted to yell back, “When I find it, I’m still not gonna dance to a motherfucking white-bred blues band!”


A One-Legged Effeminate Cyclist
ridiculicious

We've had a rather serious crime spree in Cabbagetown, Georgia.  So far, just about everyone has had something to say about it on the neighborhood website.  Reading my neighbors' comments has me even more convinced I'm living in an alternate universe.

For example, Troy, the gay hotel designer with his own name tattooed on his back (so his boyfriends won't forget his name),  is furious because people are leaving stuff in their cars -- just inviting crooks to steal. This just doesn't show street sense people!  He had this to say about the crimes:

If you wouldn't have left anything in your car, would it have happened? I guess it is like the tree in the woods; would the tree have made a noise if it fell and you were not there to hear it? I find it amazing how street people/people without a roof or a common means to survive have reduced their life to simplicity and people with college educations/careers/live outside their means, acquire credit card debt, commit adultery, 1 out of 2 marriages ends up in divorce......knowledge/education/street sense, I wonder. We are all victims if we chose.  Or we could be responsible and live a choice-driven life. I ponder.

Good point Troy! And can you share some of that weed!

Laura the middle-aged mortgage lender who IS SO OVER MEN IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY responded:

Troy, I think you are  WAY off base. If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, it still fell. You're missing the point. If the car is left unattended, and a THIEF steals something out of the car (which is against the law) he is sill stealing. There's a great song by Kelly Clarkson, "Because of you, I am afraid." You would have to live in a perpetual state of paranoia not to be able to run into your house for a few minutes without locking our car. It would be a horrible mental/emotional existence. No one did anything to bring anything on themselves. To suggest otherwise is ridiculous.

You know when someone brings up Kelly Clarkson, they have got to be angry. And they probably need to get laid.

Indian Ad Executive, Jiri, has a plan to deal with the crime. He wants everyone to pinpoint on Google maps where the crimes are so that we can find the perp. He adds:

...after we catch the guy, I will drop him off at Troy's house so we can all fire up a fatty and debate the beauty of living a life of simplicity and perfection.

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. --Antione de Saint-Exupery


Catching a thief -- what a good excuse to smoke a joint!  But I have nothing more to add and hence nothing more to take away from his comments.

Here's what's been stolen in the last few weeks:  My owner's manual and bag of pink Walmart tights for my Halloween Poodle costume; several catalytic converters; a bag of Halloween candy; some Atlanta Falcon's vouchers and some credit card sales' receipts.  These extreme thefts have prompted everyone to post descriptions of suspicious people in the neighborhood:

I saw a man put a dufflebag next to my car and he was peeing in the windows of other cars on our street. A neighbor saw him work his way down the street looking in car windows. The neighbor was in the process of calling 9-1-1 when I started locking my car over and over again so that it would beep.  The man slowly retreated, picked up his dufflebag and left. The cops said they have sent a car to patrol the area and a description has been given to the cops.  -- Lynn on Gaskill

Wow, stealing and peeing in windows. That's too much. I hope, at the very least, he washed his hands.

I did see a suspicious man last night on Gaskill Street outside my house around 9 p.m. He was walking very fast and I think I startled him. He asked me for money while I was at my car. He was about 5'7", an African-American male wearing glasses. He said he lived in the neighborhood, down the street as he pointed to Carrol Street. He was very strange. - Matt on Tye

Jiri responds:

Was there something very wrong with his lip? Did he give you a story about being co-infected with Hepatitis? If it is who I think it is then he is probably not the perp: I don't think this poor guy would be capable...he is very sad.

Sad indeed. Now I know who stole my fucking pink tights. Another Cabbagetowner writes:

Normally, I would’ve shrugged it off, but I saw this guy peering (not peeing) in my car windows and because of the recent spate of break-ins, I called the cops.  As we approached, he attempted to pedal off up Tennelle. I say attempted to, because he was having a hard time riding the bike...since he only had ONE LEG.That’s right, be on the lookout for a one-legged, shifty looking dude on a bike.  Middle aged, scruffy-faced black guy, smoking a cigarette and wearing a knit cap.

So it seems we have a girly, one-legged cyclist with a potential cleft-palate stealing our shit.  How does he do it? Ride a bike with one leg and smoke!?  And wear a knit hat!?  And carry a bag full of catalytic converters!? And why can't I catch a glimpse of this dude?

As a result of all this crime, a group of vigilante Cabbagetowners who call themselves the C-town Ninjas, have decided to dress in black at night, put some laptops in an open car and wait for the guy to peddle up and break in. They  plan to film the break-in... mostly because Rob on Berean Street just bought a hot new night- vision camcorder that he wants to try out.  Strangely enough, the C-town Ninjas have yet to catch the guy. Especially since he's only got one leg.

As I say... an alternate universe.

Hearing Things
ridiculicious
Here is what I didn't hear last night:  someone breaking in my car;  my neighbor's alarm going off for hours; and the police knocking on my door.

A couple of months ago, I got super sick and lost my hearing in one ear.  Since then, I hear nothing but the ocean in my right ear.  This has some advantages.  Ear plugs for concerts last twice as long because I only need to use one at a time.  If I fall asleep on my left side, I can't hear a single thing but the ocean which makes for a very peaceful night's sleep. And I don't have to listen to people blathering on -- as long as they sit to my right side that is.

I've noticed though that when someone wants to tell  me secret, they always go for the deaf ear -- no matter how I am facing them. Once, someone told me they had monkey caged in their basement. The thing that struck me as weird was they don't even have a basement!  And there was the time when someone told me they were thinking about killing themselves and I just smiled and nodded not sure what they said for sure. And that time a guy whispered in my ear and I thought he asked me if I wanted to see the dead.  The look on my face was probably not what he expected.

I smile and nod. And they get up and leave. You can call it unfortunate, but I call it fortunate.

It's like my grandfather who had what I call "Selective Hearing."  He was only deaf when he felt like it, like when my grandmother asked him to do some shit around the house.  My deafness is real, but who says I have to ask what someone really said. It's so much more fun to guess what people say.

Yep, you can tell me a secret now and I will take it to the vault. Mostly, because I have no idea what you just told me.

In some ways, I think it's Karma. For months, when the horrible construction was going on in my neighborhood and the beep beep beeping from the trucks backing up stabbed my soul repeatedly, I wished I were deaf. Be careful what you wish for.

So anyway with my deafness, I didn't hear the windows crashing in, nor the alarm, nor the police last night. And I'm okay with that. I really am.

I Do Not Have Ants in My Pants
ridiculicious
     So today, the pest control guy finally came to spray for the millions of ants that have been crawling out of such places as the sink and the dishwasher.  The guy looked just like he stepped out of a William Bourroughs' novel. I suppose you can't really have a normal pest control guy, but this guy was downright spooky.

     He arrived with his "kit" and placed it down on the kitchen floor so he could sit on it. "Okay then, I guess I'll leave you to it," I said and walked back to my office. 

     About five minutes later I hear:  "Ma'am?"  I go out to the kitchen and he's still sitting on his kit. He points to the fridge where there is a picture of my friend Peter on Halloween, wearing  this hilarious mask that looks like he's undergoing a facial. Complete with the cucumbers on the eyes and everything. "Is that you?"  he asks pointing to the picture.
      "Uh-no, "  I say, "That's my friend Peter." And why the fuck are you looking at my fridge? Spray dammit and get the hell out of here.
      "Phew!" he says, "I thought that was you!  I was worried there for a minute. "  Then he laughs in this high-pitched squeal.  I give him a funny look and then return to my office.

     About 15 minutes later, I assume that he is gone, so I go into the kitchen and he's still sitting there on his case.  "What are you doing ?" I say.  He tells me he's trying to see or hear the pests in question. I say, "You do know you are spraying for ants right? I mean they are right there on the floor!"  He nods and shushes me. I walk back to my office, grabbing my cell phone off the kitchen table on the way, in case I have to dial 911.

     Five minutes later, he comes back to my bedroom where my office is. He is holding this glue gun-looking thing and  he says, "Okay, I'm ready to spray!"  He's actually holding it like it's his cock.
     "Wait!," I cry, "You don't need to spray in my bedroom. Spray in the kitchen! Where the food and the ants are!"  I push him out of my bedroom.  "You know I have a dog," I say this hoping this will deter him from raping me. I point to my dog who is passed out on my bed with his tongue out.
     "Oh!" he laughs, "This stuff won't hurt your dog."  I usher him back to the kitchen.

     Five minutes after that, I go to the kitchen and he's packing up his case. "Okay, that'll do it!" he says. "You should really see a difference in 30 days." Thirty days! Of course I'll see a difference, the damn things will be wintering in Florida by then.
    
      Then he says:  "But I want you to call me in five days so I know how it's going."  Then he carefully writes out his name and phone number in red pen on my empty Lean Cuisine box in the kitchen. The minute he leaves, I throw the number and the box in the trash.

     Now, I feel like I've got to call a pest control guy to get rid of the pest control guy. 

Please at least tell us what it's for!
ridiculicious
Someone just put this on our neighborhood list serv:

Hi!

If anyone has a suit of armor I can borrow, I would be much obliged.

Sincerely,

XXXX.


In response I wrote:


You can borrow mine, but it's a size small and you have to dry-clean it when you are done.

Thanks,

Ridiculcious

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