7 & 1/2 Things a Dwarf Can do that You Can’t.

1) Trick-or-Treat their whole lives.
(Bonus points if you leave the gray hair and wrinkles alone and go as an old person.)

2) Ride in a shopping cart.
(Two words. Dwarf Jousting.)

3) Check out people’s butts without looking like a perv.
(Hey, not my fault your tush is at my eye level.)

4) Blame farts on the dog.
(Just cuz that smell came from floor level does not automatically make it mine.) *It helps if you have a dog.

5) Go under those stretchy barricades at the bank, concert, wherever.
(Sorry officer, I thought I felt something brush my head but didn’t know what it was. OH. That was supposed to keep people out? Ooops, my bad.)

6) Wear 5 dollar stretch granny shorts as dress slacks.

7) Get lollipops from the bank drive through or toys from the dentist’s “kids box”.
(Don’t judge me! I have a thing for stickers.)

1/2) Write lists like this. Neener.

7 & 1/2 Things a Dwarf Puts up With That You Don’t.

1)  Farts at face level.
(Whatever you people are eating… STOP!)

2)  People touching you and saying, “Are you real?”
(No, I’m a flashback. You obviously did way too much acid.)

3)  Trying to find shirts that fit that DON’T have puppies, sparkles, unicorns, cartoons, or the words “Daddy’s girl” on them.

4) Your spouse being asked, “And what will your daughter be having?”
(Your freaking job on a platter.)

5)  Conversations like.
Me: “I’d like an Irish Coffee please.”
Staff: “Oh sweetie, that has alcohol in it. Would you like a Shirley Temple instead?”
Me: “Only if she’s bringing me a friggin Irish Coffee!”

6) Not being able to get routine medical tests because in some situations one size DOES NOT FIT ALL. (Ladies, you know what I’m saying.)

7) Having the height on your driver’s license wrong because the options don’t go down that low.

1/2) Being able to write lists like this. Sigh.

Drag Queen Eyes

I wrote this ditty for my buddy. It goes to the tune of “I Want Candy” by Bow Wow Wow.

I know a Queen who’s tough but sweet.
She struts so fine, she can’t be beat.
She’s got eyes that I desire.
Sets that gaudy stage on fire.

I want Drag Queen Eyes. I want Drag Queen Eyes.

Going to the show when the sun goes down.
Ain’t no finer Queens in town.
You’re so funny, just what the nurse ordered
I laugh so hard, you make my eyes water

I want Drag Queen Eyes. I want Drag Queen Eyes.

Queens on the stage, there’s nothing better
But where in the world do you put that pecker
Someday soon I’ll see you again
Then, I’ll have those eyes all the time

Am I Boring?

The majority of my family still speaks to me but I’m not sure how much of an indication of non-boring status that is.

Am I boring? It’s a question that seems to arise in writers, poets, people.

Folks laugh at my stories. In fact, I nearly caused my sister to choke to death on a piece of pumpernickel.

I was relating a description my husband recently used to describe me to a friend. He was assuring said friend that once the drugs kicked in I would be sedated into civility. I believe he put it as such…

Hubby: “You know about the blue bird of happiness, right?”

Friend: “Uhhhh, yeah.” The note of wariness undoubtedly from him knowing us so well.

Hubby: “Well she’s being visited by the red vulture of I HATE EVERYONE.”

I shared this with my Sis, complete with pantomime of a screeching, pouncing vulture. She laughed, inhaled and eventually spewed hard salami, but not before turning some colors that really shouldn’t be seen on a human face.

Does this make me Not Boring? Naw, it just means that other people find humor in my crankiness.

One test of boringness I thought of is, do people’s eyes glaze over when I talk?

The unfortunate answer is yes.

I get the glassy eyed stare whenever I try to explain why one blue line tandem is better than another. Or when I defend the shift of a guy from 1st line to 3rd due to lack of production. Or when I wax poetic about how watching a 4th line grind it out in the corners is just as exciting as a pretty goal or save.

People get glassy eyed AND shift the topic of conversation whenever I start in on the merits of worm farming or composting.

One of my more memorable and embarrassing experience in the “how boring are you?” category was the time I rendered my Mother-in-Law comatose. It started out as such a lovely dinner, but eventually my inner dork surfaced and I recounted, with great enthusiasm, all I had recently learned about the slums of Mumbai.

I went on and on about the huge water pipes people use as walkways because the ground is so filthy. And about how the families were so densely packed that sixty-four could live in roughly the same amount of space my childhood home had occupied.

The poor woman was so stunned she couldn’t even muster the energy to change the topic. The best she could manage were a few helpless sounds of “Uh-huh…. uh…. Uh-huh”. The drool slowly oozing out of the corner of her mouth finally clued me in. Though I probably should’ve taken note of the smirk on my husband’s face and the looks of desperation she was throwing his way.

So, am I boring? I’m afraid the evidence points to a resounding YES.