He is staring at my tits.
Yawn. So been there, so done that.
Yet another perk of having DD-cup breasts, not to be outdone by other nifty benefits like:
- having an automatic napkin to catch crumbs and assorted food, or
- a shelf for my cats to nap, or
- a place to rest the TV remote.
So I am not offended. Breasts are both luscious and multi-functional.
It’s just odd behavior
in a serial-killer-kind-of-way-odd. I mean how can a person not know that they are burning a whole into someone’s chest with a comatose stare?
It’s also not proper. And one must strive to be a proper pervert.
I learned how to be a proper pervert
because I love big juicy runner’s butts on a man and Hulk-like shoulders in a class I like to call…
Ways to Ogle Strangers Without Looking Like a Frakkin’ Serial Killer 101.
If you want to check someone out [that you really shouldn't be checking out], just make applicable conversation. I mean if someone has bodacious tatas with out-of-control nipples that look super yummy delicious – like mine, one might offer a simple, “Hey, nice shirt.”
And for nice round tushies or bulging schlong-areas, it’s: “Hey, nice pants.”
For cologne that makes you wet your panties, how about “You smell like a meadow.” Wait. What? Don’t say that!
I said that to a dude at work once – in front of people! My vagina completely took over my customary workplace-apathy and it just slipped out. It was not cool. My 3 fun co-workers are still appropriately mocking me. As they should, of course.
“Do I smell like a meadow today?,” they will chide.
However, if you can’t make sentences with your mouth, then dart your beady little eyes to multiple locations on said desirable body – including their eyes – thereby seeming LESS OBVIOUS.
And less obvious is the goal with psychotic staring weirdness.
Otherwise, one will be perceived as a person who has duct tape, a shovel, and ransom notes that are crafted with pasted-letters from magazines in his/her trunk.
Just be sneaky about your shit.
In this case, sneaky is good. Okay?
This Miss Manners lesson is over.
Because I have to let faux-Fonzie into my private space. The place I really don’t welcome people who annoy me, 99.9% of the population or my family.
The PSE&G [gas repair] guy looked like Fonzie from the 70’s TV classic, Happy Days – if Fonzie ate Danny DeVito.
Now, that the magical 4-hour window – that they always lie about when scheduling an appointment – has elapsed, he is standing on my porch
leering at my luscious melons of awesome.
My anti-social cats have burrowed into a nearby wall.
So let’s get down to business…
Question: Maybe they – breast-starers – think there is beer inside the breasticals? Maybe that is the fascination? Not the breasts, but their content. Discuss.
pervert, right?,” I said, as I opened the door.
“Yeah,” he replied, as he entered, “your stove is not working?”
Just for the record, I don’t give a shit about the magic flame box. That’s what the far-more-superior microwave is for. Right?
It stopped working during Hurricane Sandy last year. And I gave my usual response to everything that is house-related, “Oh, I’ll get to it in the spring…”
But my friend and neighbor – who is far more emotionally-equipped to withstand the constant barrage of shit-to-do in this stupid fucking money pit – offered her typical response, “Do it now! You’re gonna die and stuff will explode and then it’s gonna cost you $10,000, which you will still have to pay – even if you are dead.”
Seriously, without her I would be more oblivious and uninterested – ’cause I can’t keep up with all of the “homeowner stuff
Currently, on my STD [Shit To Do] list is:
- Fixing the front door lock. When I replaced the door, I got a fancy lock. So fancy that every 2 years it stops working, not allowing me to open the door with the key from the outside. This lead to me updating the locks on back door so both doors use the same key, ie, I will always be able to get into at least one door. I meant to call the manufacturer to reimburse me and replace the lock ages ago, but I have a life – so now I’m stuck with it.
- I forgot to clean the gutters. Because I’d rather have appendectomy, so water leaked into my house, down the wall, and under my laminate floor, which now needs to be replaced because it is completely warped. Oh, I bet you did not have the pleasure of stepping in a puddle of water in your dining room last Christmas Eve? Good times.
- Let’s not forget the smallest bathroom ever. Yes, I want to upgrade it. It is original to the 1950’s house. It doesn’t matter how much I clean – the white tile and fixtures look yellow. It drives me nuts. And this is the one room I actually want to look spotless. Oh, the irony?
Faux-Fonzie is asking me a hard question about the magic flame box: “Does the oven make a ticking sound when you turn it on? [Huh? Seriously? Just make it work-y work-y, and then, get out.]
“Do you know where the circuit box is?,” he continued.
I commenced pulling out the fridge because some idiot installed the circuit box behind it [Duh!]. Faux-Fonzie is too busy holding up the highly-gelled hair on his bowling ball head to help me.
As soon as I am done moving the fridge, he started pelting me with more questions like the game show, Jeopardy, about said circuit box. What is this switch? What is that switch?
Allow me to clarify, once and for all:
a) I miss my apartment where everything was done for me,
b) I don’t know anything about this house,
c) Everything I learned about it was by accident, and
d) I really don’t give a shit until things break.
Click. Click. Click. Faux-Fonzie experimented with each breaker.
“Lemme try this one,” he said. Click. And the magic flame box turned on!
I really wanted to stab myself.
This is so embarrassing. Such a simple solution. Who knew the electrical circuit box somehow controlled the gas stove?! Why is that even a thing?
Fickety fackety fuckety FUCK!
Faux-Fonzie launched into this tone that contractors often use with women and bunny rabbits and people they think are stupid. “It’s okay,” he said, “I get these kinds of requests all day. You don’t know the half of it.”
Before I stab you.
So I am not dead.
And my house didn’t explode. But I have decided to put this house on the market next spring.
Not because of Faux-Fonzie. But because of the leaves and the snow and the water and the maintenance. The endless STD list.
I will probably take a loss. But I am not waiting for the market to “rebound” in TEN YEARS.
Life is today.
Living is today.
That is all I really know for sure.
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