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2004-05-09 @ 7:55 p.m.
footloose and squeal-free

Anyone else naked?

Again, Witty? Sheesh, why don't you just move to a nudist colony where they have fur covered furniture.

But I am the proprietress of the Naked Typing Ring, which practically nobody seems interested in joining. It is summer now folks....please consider. I'll give you a cookie. :-)

I got some new brakes put on my car this morning. So if I slide into a tractor trailer loaded with dynamite, I now can't blame it on a brake malfunction.

Dante appeared around ten. Nothing better than having Joe Mechanic do the deed right in your driveway. He's kind of a nice specimen. A little skinny. George Clooney eyes, which always makes me swoon a bit. But he also has a lengthy ZZ Top beard. Its about 6-7 inches long. Ick. Not really into facial hair. Married Guy has whiskers too. Ick, but well, since its him, ok.

Dante made quick work of those nasty old brakes. He's a friendly guy, willing to talk to a shy girl, which is nice. I feel comfortable around him. He's been doing my car work for about five years. He knows I don't have much so he always gives me a break on labor.

So soon I was footloose and squeal-free on the brakes, and heading out to some garage sales. Of course, I should know better than to go to any in my own neighborhood.

If the Witness Protection Program ever wanted to hide me in some location where I could never possibly be identified, this would be the place. It's so fucking Republican around here. I mean the height of fabulousness in this neighborhood are cement lawn ornaments and plastic Virgin Mary shrines. Every third house has to have at least one or the other, or a combination of both with a Bush '04 placard somewhere in the yard.

Yeah, the naked art girl blends really well here. They think Mapplethorpe is a tree.

First garage sale. Were those 23 steps to the 6 neatly arranged table of TOTAL CRAP really worth it? No.

Second sale. Eye-talians. Well, we are still in my neighborhood after all. The one dollar table. CRAP. The 50 cent table. CRAP. The 25 cent table. CRAP. The 10 cent table (yes, an entire table dedicated to 10 cent items). CRAP. There was that Justin Timberlake bobblehead doll. Hmm. It was pre-Janet Jackson boobie-fame. He has a goatee! Oh how cute.


By time I was making my way back to my car they were dumping all the 10 cent items into a big box marked FREE. You know what, madam? It may be free, but its still (whisper), crap.

Again, why am I going to a garage sale in my largely tasteless neighborhood? Looking for leprechaun cement lawn ornaments AGAIN, Witty?

Negative on that good buddy.

I did have the newspaper in the car with me, but no reading glasses. So all the cute little addresses looked like freakin' little ant antennas. Fruck. So I just decided to drive aimlessly. How smart of me. Especially with gas being $2.00 a gallon.

Finally saw another sign. Almost didn't go because it was still on the cusp of my neighborhood, but it was an estate sale. I like those.

This one was ok. It was being run by several gay men who had overpriced Helen Gertz's largely unmemorable life belongings. Sure there were a couple of things I liked. But being one of little cash, and looking solely for E-Bay fodder or something incredibly cute or art related for my house, I just couldn't see spending my tightly held cash.

I then went back across town to this Episcopal Church I had gone to a couple of days ago. The woman there had told me they would be having a bag sale on Saturday. I had seen quite a few videos and books that might have been sellable, but guess what, folks? They were ALL GONE. Every last blasted thing. Arghh! I did pick up a text book called: ART, the way it is and a George Gershwin tape, but they're for me.

(By the way, I'm still naked. I know you're probably still considering that ultracool Naked Typing Ring. Come on, you know you want to...Come on...wink, wink.

Anyways, so I finally made my way home. Married Guy's name was on my Caller ID. Called him back. He doesn't call me at random very often. He had called to ask my very important advice.

What should I wear to the Press Club awards tonight?

That's me, "Straight Eye for the Cute Married Guy." I was actually very touched with the call. He didn't need any actual advice. He was just being a goofball.

I used to work for a local newspaper and go to the Press Club awards every year. Its just your usual awards show for local journalists, where people clap you on the back and say helluva job jimmy, and then you get a plaque.

Well, this year, Married Guy, who just started writing a monthly column for a local newspaper, won best column. Yay, Married Guy. He has multiple talents, and writing is definitely in the top two.

I won best feature writer in high school, but the guy who presented it had a crush on me, so I never knew if it was legitimate or not. I guess it was. Writing has always been very easy for me.

Married Guy and I were just talking about that. He doesn't think its easy. He considers it "work". I consider it therapeutic and fun. It's the only thing I'm not apathetic about and its the only time I'm not scattered in 23 bipolarly directions.

And I can do it naked. What hobby could be better than that?

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty