I Dreamed I Had a Pocket Gay

The Real Housewives of Orange County are the original "wives". The were the first to WOW us. They were the trend setters. They set the trend for other real housewives shows. Everyone secretly wants what they have. Everyone secretly  wants a big house where one loses their children. Everyone secretly wants a nanny to keep their children out of their hair until they are sent off to boarding school. Everyone secretly wants an expensive dye job. Everyone secretly wants the expensive plastic surgeon. Everyone secretly wants that bikini body. Everyone secretly wants the husband that is always working so one can always be shopping. Everyone secretly wants the designer closet with the clothes and those SHOES.

I do. I want the house. I want the absent husband and the designer children. I want the chauffeur. I want the cute little convertable. I want the body in that bikini. I want the clothes and oh, those shoes. But most of all, I want the "pocket gay"!

The "pocket gay" is the newest trend, and all the Real Housewives of Orange County have one. The "pocket gay" does your hair and make-up. The "pocket gay" picks out the best wardrobe, and helps one squeeze into it and position one's fake boobs properly. The "pocket gay" makes sure one doesn't eat. The "pocket gay" designs one's personal dress or jewelry line and doesn't take the credit. And, oh, how the "pocket gay" can shop! And all the time one's "pocket gay" is tending to one, he is expounding on her greatness and beauty.

I dreamed I had a "pocket gay"( of course, I was walking in my dream). We went shopping. My gay picked out the most fabulous clothes and they were not easy clothes. He helped me squeeze my muffin top (okay, the whole muffin) into that gold lame, sequined, haltered, mini dress. As my always-pointing-to-my-toes-boobs oozed out of that lumpy dress like grease oozing out of a bacon cheese burger, my "pocket gay" told me I was the most beautiful overweight, crippled kid he had ever seen. Then we went to lunch because that is what we do. My "pocket gay" watched me eat because "pocket gays" don't eat they only drink and they never get drunk. Through the entire lunch as he dabbed the wine dribble from my chin, he continually told the waiters and the restaurant patrons about my ever-increasing beauty. That night we went to a masquerade ball. I went as the late-in-life Queen Guinevere, and my "pocket gay" was Sir Lancelot and my husband (King Arthur) wasn't their because someone has to work to pay for the "pocket gay". All the while we danced as I stomped on his well-groomed, manicured feet, he whispered in my ear that I was more beautiful than that Cleopatra, Juliet, Isolde, Pocahontas and Scarlett O'Hara. Throughout the night my "pocket gay" refilled my wine glass, reapplied my make-up, re-ringlet-curled my hair, readjusted my sagging breasts, and recharged my ego. Later that night when he tucked me in with my satin sheets and didn't pressure me for sex, my "pocket gay" looked into my blood shot eyes and whispered those three special words, "Tomorrow, shoe shopping."

And then I woke up. There was no "pocket gay" to bring me my tomato juice. There shall be no shoe shopping, or doing lunch, or giggling, or ego inflating because the care and feeding of a "pocket gay" is more than my teacher's salary can handle. I can't afford those Gucci cuffed bermuda shorts with the diamond studded belt or the oversized Rolex watch with the matching manbag. But tonight when I slap on my torn sleepshirt and slip into my 50 thread count sheets, my "pocket gay" may return. A girl (I know, I know, old lady) can dream . . . . . . . . . .

Paco's Perspective

I am a pocket puppy isn't that enough?

The Flip Side

I don't have pockets!

Haboobs!

A haboob is an intense sandstorm. We have many in Phoenix. One can watch a haboob roll across the landscape. I actually think they are quite interesting and I enjoy watching them. But the haboobs I am referring to are completely different.

As I have mentioned in the past, I got boobies. The older I get the lower they get. If I ever went braless, I would have a calloused naval. It takes some major expensive armature to keep my boobs where they belong. I go through bras like a diarrhea sufferer goes through toilet paper. The other day I noticed that my boobies were missing, again! My boobs disappear so much that they should be pictured on a milk carton. Missing boobies signifies time to go bra shopping. I hate buying things that no one sees!

On the drive home next to the Church's Chicken is The Bra Shop. What better place to buy a bra than a bra shop. Janet and I stopped on the way home and when we entered we were surrounded by bras. Bras to the left, bras to the right, everywhere I looked there were bras, oh, and wedding dresses! Bras and wedding dresses! Apparantly one can't make a living just selling bras. 

When we entered a very thin, old woman asked, "How may I help you?"

I was thinking, "Well, this is a bra shop, call me crazy, but I am here for a bra." But that is not what I said, I said, "I am here to buy a bra." I am so much funnier and clever in my head than I am in real life.

"Have you been fitted for a bra before," she asked.

In my head, "Well, ever since my boobies disappeared and flattened years back, I no longer need to be fitted for a bra, I was thinking I needed to fitted for a roll-up shade mechanism." But that is not what I said, I replied, "No."

"Come back with me," she smiled as she skipped to the back of the store. "Do you think you could fit your chair into the dressing room?"

I was thinking, "Considering you had to slide your skinny ass sideways to get through the door, I don't think my big ass and my big ass wheelchair could fit through that door." But that is not what I said, I said, "No ma'am, I cannot."

"That's okay," she said cheerily, "we can just lock the door and you can take your clothes off right here in front of this mirror."

First, I need to explain something, in my mind, I look so much better than I do in person, that is why I do not make eye contact with myself in a mirror. I hate the way I actually look. I have zero visual self-esteem. I have a huge ego when it comes to my teaching ability and content knowledge, but not when it comes to the way I look. Even when I did look good and was at my skinniest, I would not look in a mirror. 

So when the lady asked me to strip in front of a wall-to-wall-floor-to-ceiling mirror, I was thinking, "You have got to be flipping crazy, if you think I am going to take off my clothes in front of you, God and this mirror from Hell!" But that is not what I said, I looked at Janet sadly and said, "Okay."

Now when one is fitted for a bra one is not measured under one's boobies, one is not measured across one's boobies, one is measured high under one's armpits above one's boobies. Why does one have to get completely naked to get measured there?

As the lady was searching for the perfect bra, I accidentally made eye contact with myself in the mirror, "OMG, look at how swollen my feet are?" 

"Don't make eye contact! Don't make eye contact!" Janet warned.

"It is kind of hard not to make eye contact when I am in front of a 20 x 12 foot mirror," I whined. "Thank God I got rid of all the mirrors in my bathroom. Do you think if I close my eyes and pray real hard, that when I open them I will look like the person I want to look like?"

"No, I suggest you don't open your eyes until this is done and we are in the van," Janet replied.

The very very old, very very skinny lady finally came back with the perfect bra. She shakily helped roll my boobies up into the well-shaped cups and she said, "Look, it fits you perfectly."

I was thinking, "LOOK! LOOK! I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK AT MYSELF IN YOUR MIRROR. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH TRAUMA IN ONE DAY!" But that is not what I said, I said, "Yea, it looks great," as I squinted through one open eye.

One hundred and five dollars later when we got in the van I looked down at my chest that was sporting my perfectly hand fitted bra and shouted, "HABOOBS!"

Paco's Perspective

I am a boob man. I love to rest my head on your boobs, her boobs, their boobs and HABOOBS!

The Flip Side

I don't know if I am a boob man. Paco won't let me near any.

A Fresh Breeze

Breann is Janet's oldest daughter. She will turn 21 this month. Every time she reads my blog she whines, "I want to be a 'sistah'."

And I reply, "You're not seasoned enough."

"What do you mean by seasoned?" she asks.

"If you have to ask, what I mean by seasoned, then you are definitely not ready to be a 'sistah'. Sorry, maybe in twenty-years, you need to have to let out a few more notches on your belt," I explain.

"Okay, then when do I get to be the subject of a blog?" This happens to be her second most popular whine.

"There are people I know that pray they are not subjects of my blog, or wish they weren't," I laughed.

"Well, I am not one of those people," she nasally replied.

"Okay, do something funny or shtupid and you are on!" Breann is an amazing person and she helps me a lot. I doubt when she was growing up that she thought about being a caregiver. Poor Breann is the dirty job caregiver. She happily does everything that no one else wants to do, for example, toenails and waxing. Unfortunately for Breann, I can't write about her on my blog because I can't write about what she does that would be too much information for the reader.

"Hey, a lot of things that we do are funny!" she nagged.

"I know, but no one wants to read about that stuff. Believe me I have tried to think of something. You know, like the time . . . . OOPS, no.  Or what about when. . . . . .YIKES, no way, can't write about that. Or just yesterday when . . . . ."

"No, you better not!"she shouted.

"See, I told you so," I smiled. 

I have a favorite line in a picture book, My Rotten Redheaded Older Brother, written  by Patricia Polacco: "A thought inspired me like a cool breeze on a hot summer day." Whenever I read that line I think of Breann. Breann is so refreshing. She is generally always happy. She has a tenderness in her heart for the down-trodden. Over the years, she has had her teen moments, but she has always been a great kid. (which happens to be a testament to her parents raising her so well) And now, she has become an awesome woman. Breann is a cool breeze on a hot summer day. I guess that is why her parents call her Breezy. 

Happy Birthday, Breann.

Paco's Perspective

What about the time she  . . . . . OH, NO TMI!

The Flip Side

Breann never helps me chase lizards!

Toro para el Desayuno

Janet is definitely not a morning person. When we drive to work there is dead silence in the van. Now I am a morning person, I am willing to talk to anybody about anything at any time. I have learned over the years that I shouldn't initiate conversation with Janet in the morning. Every once in awhile, Janet will say something and when she does I am at the ready.

The other day, we were driving to work and Janet spoke! "Hey, look those horses got out of the pasture and they are getting into the hay." Someone's horses had got out of their pasture and they were happily eating all the hay. "We should stop and let them know their horses are out." But we didn't stop because Janet is like Caren when she is driving, we must get where we are going on time or early. As we drove down the road, Janet spoke again, but louder, "Oh, no! His bulls are out!"

Now I am not used to listening to one speak in the morning, so I didn't hear her at first, "Someone's balls are out?"

"No, look his bulls!" Sure enough there were two bulls walking down the road. One huge dude and a young one. So, then Janet decided to go back and tell the person whose animals had escaped from the pasture. When we got there someone else had stopped and was knocking on the door, so she decided that we would go and keep the bulls from wandering off! When we got back to the bulls they had stopped by one of the neighbors pastures that is full of cows. It looked as if the were having a conversation:

"Hey, what are you doing?" asked Big bull.

"Hee, hee, hee, nothing!" giggled the cows.

"Hey, I think there is better grass down that way," said Little Bull as he wandered farther down the road.

"Dude, you're killing me! I gotta go ladies," shouted Big Bull as he went after Little Bull.

We pulled into the driveway of the house with the cows to deter the bulls from wandering any farther but they just walked right by, so Janet decides to get out of the car. "Where are you going?" I asked.

"To stop the bulls they are almost at Cotton Lane it won't be long before they get to the 303," she replied.

As she was getting out of the car I wondered, "How does one stop a 1300 pound bull and his 600 pound little buddy?" Apparently, with a full on body block, all she needed was tight pants, a little hat and a magenta capote (cape). Fearless stepped right in front of the bulls, looked them right in the eye and said, "Go home!" And they did for awhile, but when they got passed the lady cows Big Bull decided he wasn't finished flirting with the ladies and turned toward Janet who happened to be between him and his lovey ladies. Big Bull made his way back to "the girls", so Janet picked up some stones and started throwing them at Big Bull. He looked at her, fliped her off and continued to chat with the girls. Janet found a broken oil dipstick on the ground, walked right up to Big Bull and smacked him on the butt and shouted, "I told you to go home! I have to get to work!"

And he and his little buddy started to move, but when they got to another driveway Little Bull walked down the driveway and into the street and Big Bull felt obligated to go after him and Janet felt obligated to save them both from being hit. The three of them looked as if they were doing a Mexican Hat Dance and Janet is shouting,"No bull, no!" What amazes me is, as this is going on people are driving by, watching, but NOT STOPPING. People are driving by watching a lone woman doing a Mexican Hat Dance with 2000 pounds of bull and no one stopped to help. 

Finally, a neighbor heard Janet's screams and he came out with two bullwhips to help her.  When he handed her the whip he said, "If he charges you, slap him hard right between the eyes with this whip." Bulls move faster when one threatens them with a bullwhip instead of a broken dipstick. Together they guided the bulls the mile and one half distance back home. 

Where was everybody?  one might ask. The neighbor that stopped to wake up the owner couldn't rouse anyone at the house, and he saw that Janet had everything under control (little did he know) that he went home to saddle his horse because he realized that another bull was missing. The owner finally woke up and informed everyone that third bull had been taken to the slaughter house yesterday.

When Janet got back to the van I said, "Ole, torera! That was quite an adventure!"

"Yea, the worst part was that walk back to the van. AND we are going to be late!"she replied.

"Hey, at least I have something to write about on my blog, thanks!"

"Anytime," she replied. Then we continued to drive to work in our normal silence.

Paco's Perspective

Don't bulls know when Mama Janet says jump they should ask how high.

The Flip Side

How many pound does a lizard weigh? Is there such a thing as a lizardwhip?