The cheerleader as always

free enneagram test

Type Seven
The Enthusiast

The busy, productive type. Sevens are extroverted, optimistic, versatile, and spontaneous. Playful, high-spirited, and practical, they can also misapply their many talents, becoming over-extended, scattered, and undisciplined. They constantly seek new and exciting experiences, but can become distracted and exhausted by staying on the go. They typically have problems with impatience and impulsiveness. At their Best: they focus their talents on worthwhile goals, becoming appreciative, joyous, and satisfied.
Your roots are showing.

[Had a nice post going TWICE and something - DAMMIT SOMETHING - happened and now they are gone. See this is why I can't trust Blogger anymore and why I can't write.]

At any rate, an uneventful ride home. If you can call riding through the backwoods of Mississippi and Alabama with "Vasectomy Prevents Abortion" and "Noam Chomsky is my President" stickers on your car and getting evil Christian glances and the occassional finger uneventful. Still, the pooch and I made it home safe and sound, albeit tired, and I'll never drive over 15 miles at a time again.

All week I was busy and/or tired with no time for anything but work, life maintenance, or sleep, and today, for the first time I feel CAUGHT UP. Spent some quality ME time on Saturday, eating Sonny's BBQ and listening to Country Gold on the radio. Reminded me of the days when I could play with my cousins in the hot sun all day, and stay awake telling ghost stories all night, while listening to my mom and all her kin in the kitchen playing $2-ante poker or moon, the smell of cigarette smoke, Wild Turkey, and the hope for gas or beer money hanging thick in the air.

I did hear some discouraging news last night. My friends that have been dating for 7 months are MOVING IN TOGETHER when the lease is up. No names, just yet, but YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Not that I'm not happy. It should be that way. Fall in love, move in, get married. Three of the 4 guys she's dated since her Big Split with the hub have really wanted to make that commmitment to her. Nevermind the fact that one was a former heroin junkie/current coke addict and one was a secret cutter. It's the thought that counts, people. I couldn't get That Man™ to marry me if I had a winning lottery ticket in one hand, a case of Bud in the other, 2 tickets to Vegas in my back pocket and a hot apple pie like mom used to make cooling in the window seal. Do I have to be Issue Girl to get what I want? I tried that and didn't like it. The Big Guy in the Sky is handing out happiness hand over fist to people who haven't really had to work all that hard to get it in the first place and I get jack. This marriage game, it's bullshit and I've got to figure out a way to get it off my mind.

And yer goddamn right if you think I'm bitter.


Living the dream

It's been a fun week here in Oklahoma. I've racked up on massive amounts of familial love and yard sale kitsch. Both equally important. I acquired a pre-WWII military issue gas mask bag, a haversack, some boots for The Status-Yet-To-Be-Determined Official Ex-Boyfriend of the 2003-2004 Blogging Season™, a t-shirt that says HAAS TOOLS AMERICAN MADE, a Pig Out Palace Coffee Mug, a tile picture of a bullfighter, and a bear with a Texas flag t-shirt, and a Platinum Visa, courtesy of Mom. Among other things.

Also, in making the rounds last night with Mom and her friend Susan, I sang a few songs at karaoke and apparently sang them so well the owner of Marvin's Place, Marvin, hooked me up with a free Marvin's Place t-shirt. "Fer sanging so good," he said. Had a free breakfast at the Pig Out Palace as well.

I was a little stressed out. Seeing my Grandma who has taken care of me and so many others her entire life be limited in what she can do is pretty rough. Seeing her cry about it was worse. I realized that being sick, with cancer or whatever, is not the really hard part for her. The hard part is losing her ability to take care of herself and everyone around her.

She'll be alright. We're assembling a team at M.D. Anderson in Houston, the BEST specialists probably in the world, and it won't be too long before she's picking up the babies, going back to church, and cooking up a storm.

Anyway, I hit the road today for the grueling trek back to the homeland, ATL. I'll go now and catch you all up later on the [hopefully] uneventful ride home. Wish me luck.



Shit ever'where

I've had a shit day. Shit shit shit.

Again, for those who missed this little tidbit many moons ago, REALIZATION IS A MOTHERFUCKER. I'm so done with everything.

I'm so done with you. YES YOU.


Shake Your Money Maker

I'm tired. Of everyone in my family.

Anyway, I was going to post about Boz's Weight Loss Challenge. I am in for a 20 lbs. weight loss. I don't really care about losing weight, I don't think. Maybe once I really start doing it, I will. I do care, however, about changing how my body looks. You know, toning up, building muscle, losing fat, etc. etc. I was in Wal-Mart [yet again] the day before yesterday and I found a cute little skirt [Sorry, Cheeks, not tartan]. Anyway, I just grabbed my regular size, paid for it, and went home. Only to find out: IT WAS TOO BIG!!!! I went back to get the next smaller size. Guess what??? Still too big! But, the next smaller size was a little snug, so I figured I'd stick with the middle size and take it in later if need be. And the need will be.

So based on the TOTALLY INSANE method of sizing women's clothing, which just HAD to have been created by a man, I have lost about 1 1/2 (or 3 if you are a logical person) waist sizes! WOOHOOOOOOO! Did that make no sense? It made sense to me. I need my Ritalin. Or yours, if you're passing it out.

Anyway, I accept the Weight Loss Challenge and expect to look like a darker, more alive Marilyn Monroe by Labor Day.



Big Brother is Watching

My next goal, after Pig Out Palace, is to become a contestant on Big Brother 5. Anyone out there work for CBS? Can I get an edge? Can you give a 'Skin a break? After you stole all the land from my people, all I want is some face time.

How can anyone say no to this sweet, bighead-supported, lazy-eyed, face?


Freaking out

What's creepy about this is that it's the day after my 49th birthday and my most ultimate horrifying recurring nightmare is being shot to death. I'll go cry now.

Happy Deathday!
Your name:ATLSuperstar
You will die on:Monday, August 19, 2024
You will die of:Drive-By Shooting
Created by Quill

Search ME

It's true, people. If you search on Yahoo for "atl street black girl porn" this blog -- seriously -- MY BLOG shows up.

I'm so diverse, it hurts.



Alright, my incredible news is really not that incredible. And it does not include the words "pig", "out", or "palace" anywhere within it.

Okay, so a few weeks ago I was out to see the wonderful Pernice Brothers at The EARL. It was a sort of last minute decision, as excursions outside of my neighborhood and the Yacht Club have been pretty doggone limited as of late. B, The Roomie said it would be fun and I concurred. Oh what a crazy night it turned out to be.

Mitch [The Roomie's boyfriend] had to run to the ATM, so B the Roomie, and I decide to wander in and settle ourselves at the bar. Now, the EARL is not just any bar. It's a bar with a short by unrefined history. It's a bar we used to spend about 6-7 nights a week at, drinking like fish, making friends and enemies, and building up our bad and/or good reputations, depending on which side of the glass you were on. It's a bar that has caused me more good times and torment than any outside the Yacht. It's a bar that was so bad it was good and vice versa and that I have made a conscious effort to stay the hell away from. But, alas, the Pernice Brothers had called me back.

So we sit ourselves at the bar and take a look around at the ultra-emo-hipsters, a veritable sea of hornrimmed glasses and Chuck T's, and order our drinks.

Gee, B The Roomie says, we just don't know anybody here anymore do we?

And here's where the comedy begins.

The second she says that, from the back tomb walks in The Official Ex-Boyfriend of the 2003-2004 Blogging Season™ and his partner in crime and uncomfortable situations. I waved, he waved, I turned around quickly and tell B Yuh-heah, nobody. We share a slightly uncomfortable giggle and her sympathetic eyes make me choke on my Hoegaarden.

Well, it doesn't end there. Soon thereafter, in a place we just don't know anybody anymore, in walks B's EX-HUSBAND with his psycho girlfriend / dead weight. THEN... oh god, then in walks B's Divorce Rebound, and the epicenter of the tumultuous year after her separation from The Husband.

Is any of this clear? It was a night for ex's. I was seriously waiting for the guy who took me to my high school prom to walk in.

At any rate, The Ex-Boyfriend™ and I were finally able to talk like real people instead of rabid screaming monkeys and it seems we may, might, could be possibly headed down a road to some type of recovery.

And I'm still not sure what that means.

So folks, that's my not-so-incredible news. John Davidson, Cathy Lee Crosby, and Fran Tarkenton had no part in this blog. But I had to keep you coming back, now didn't I?


Ya gotta have goals. Do you have any goals?

Indeed I do. Some time in the next 8 days, while I'm visiting the kin in the 918, my goal, my most ultimate goal:


Folks, for my dining experience, it does NOT get any better than that. For reals.

Love you, peeps.


Crunk for Christ

No kidding. I've found Jeebus. I'm through with this Satanic Internet. No, not really, but there's this church by the YMCA I work at and seriously... that was on their marquee. I work in the guh-het-to.

Alright, I know it's been like a month and people are taking me off of their Must Read lists faster than a Phil Donahue column. Surprisingly, though, The People™ aren't staying away in droves like I thought they would be. I even have NEW visitors.

I have been busy like a bee and have had a streak of bad luck that's lasted longer than Lisa Marie Presley's singing career. I won't concern you with that now, however. I do want to tell you about my road trip from Atlanta to Oklahoma. It has been wrought with damaged vehicles and discombobulation.

I leave Atlanta, dog in tow, on the most patriotic of holidays, with thoughts of the open road and freedom somewhere in the back of my mind, and a sparkle in my staring-at-the-horizon eyes. Things are good, Lynyrd Skynyrd seems to be everywhere, and I and the world have yet to hear of the death of Barry White. Somewhere between Birmingham and Memphis MY FREAKING FRONT TIRE BLOWS OUT FROM UNDER ME. Great. A little setback. Nothing open on this 4th of July, but finally make it to a Wal-Mart on a spare and spend like 3 hours waiting to get it fixed, etc. GREAT. I'm off my time clock now by a few hours, but driving at night, cool wind coming through the sunroof, can't be THAT BAD.


Nearing Memphis. The BATTERY LIGHT comes on. Yet another Wal-Mart and the distressing news about a going going alternator. On no money, and only Mom's grace, I checked into the Comfort Inn to await the sweet, sweet 5th of July, when the country's blue collar work force returns. Two hundred thirty five dollars later, a new alternator, a new day, and 8 more hours on the road.

I finally made it. I'm dead to the world. But I miss you, dear Internet. And I knew you'd be waiting when I came back.

People, I've got some INCREDIBLE NEWS for you, but it'll have to wait until later.

Must. Rest. Now.

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