Come to my voicemail

In the latest episode of the drama of running a lesbian ezine (if you’re not caught up, read this first), we discover, first-hand, the power of Melissa Etheridge.

Legend has it that Melissa Etheridge possesses the most irresistible vagina in the world. It was handed down to her by the Fanny God Mothers: Marlena Dietrich, Frida Khalo, and Eleanor Roosevelt. Ever since, she’s been breaking hearts and overflowing the delicate cycles of the world’s washing machines with innumerable dirty panties.

For this reason, the lesbian nest was in a stir when the news came through that the Goddess had agreed to let us interview her.

As a good editor, I made the difficult decision to remove myself from doing the interview. I was taught that editors are nothing more than nurturing mothers that encourage their children to be the best, even though they are shitty writers. So, for the sake of the group, I waited on the sidelines to watch the lesbians knock themselves out, ready to pick up the winner, wipe her bloody nose, and shove questions and talking points in her face.

To their defense, it wasn’t the blood sport I expected. There was only one injury, and it was more of an ego bruise, which will heal in 5 to 7 days.

After running resist-the-vagina drills and phone interview dress-rehearsals (hat included), I felt confident that at least 7 out of the 15 minutes would be heaven-like.

The day of the interview, I waited to hear from the writer like a patient father-to-be in a 1970’s hospital waiting room. And, when the call finally came, I picked it up at the first buzz.

“Hello?” I whispered. The conversation that followed lasted a little less than 7 minutes. Other than “Hello,” and “Bye,” I said one other phrase, over and over, which was, “I don’t believe you.”

Apparently, Melissa called. Twice. We know this because she left two voicemails. Two. In both messages she wondered why we weren’t picking up her call.

“Hello, this is Melissa Etheridge,” in all her raspy-voice-glory. “I guess we should reschedule.”

Later we come to find that all calls made to Sprint carriers were going straight to voicemail.

So, in a matter of 15 minutes, the power of Melissa Etheridge: (1.) turned Sprint in the “not Now Network,”  (2.) led a music writer to physically run-around a parking lot to check the reception on her phone; (3.) allowed me to remain calm, as I was convinced me that this was all a really bad practical joke; (4.) activated the lesbian emergency phone tree to find a landline; (5.) propelled a flurry of apology emails to publicists, assistant publicists, and executive assistants, and (6.) caused one of the co-owners of BOUND to have symptoms of a heart attack.

That’s the power of the most irresistible vag in the world.

Check BOUNDmag.com on 10.11.12 to figure out if we landed the interview, or if that writer is still out in the parking lot trying to get a signal.

Week ending

If I were to prepare a report for the week ending on September 18th, it would go something like this:

Monday

  • Monday. Enough said.
  • And, I had to do math. Lots of it.

Tuesday

  • Got in trouble with the librarian.
  • Received an urgent phone call from a friend. Ended up at his house until 1am because:

-His bipolar boyfriend had an episode and left the house in a crazy fit. Having taken away his car keys, he stopped a car on the street and told the female driver and passenger that someone was trying to kidnap him. The ladies believed him.

-My friend’s mother and two sisters showed up for a toxic-gay-relationship-intervention.

-We looked at fun cover-ups for the tattoo of the guy’s name on my friends back.

For more on bipolar disasters visit http://blog.bitterstilettos.com

Wednesday

  • The dog woke up with a stomach ache, had to pick up diarrhea with a poopie bag.
  • Realized I had gone the whole day with a rogue hair growing out of the side of my face.

Thursday

  • Late for work.
  • Packed the wrong sports bra for first softball game of the season.
  • Realized that I suck at softball for the following reasons:

– Not catching any of the fly balls headed my way. And, stopping one of the fly balls with my bare hand.

– At my first at bat, I hit the ball, but forgot to run.

– At my second at bat, I caused the last out of the game.

Friday

  • Discovered a huge work-related problem at 5:00pm.
  • Arrived late to hair appointment, closed out the shop.
  • Drove to the beach to have dinner and yogurt at 11pm.

Saturday

  • Worked out surrounded by Ohio State University fans.
  • Did not find the location of the carwash I bought four Groupons from.
  • After four hours of driving around town, came home with nothing crossed-off my errand list.
  • Watched a super-gory Japanese horror movie, followed by a “Beyond Scared Straight” marathon on A&E.

Sunday

  • Woke up with horrible kink in my neck, applied enough Ben-gay to make eyes water.
  • Skipped the gym, skipped the batting cages, skipped the laundry.
  • Waiter yelled, “Panda!” at me. I took it as an insult, as I forgot I had on a WWF shirt.
  • Blog about the worst week ever.

Across from the guy downstairs: Scream

Remember the three-part series I did about the guy that lives downstairs? Well, this is the three-part series on the family that lives across from that guy.*

Across from the guy downstairs lives a single mother with a special needs toddler. To no fault of the child, the toddler screams all day. All day.Long sustained screams.

The single mother also screams. All day. She screams at her twin 17-year old boys for not going to school, for not having jobs, for getting a girl pregnant, for leaving the fence open, for coming home, for not coming home, for things that I can’t understand…you get the picture.

The two boys are biologically the same age, but physically look like one is older than the other. The older looking twin is as thin as a rail. He only wears wife-beater tank tops, I suppose to show off his arms. Not that they are muscular. I believe Michelle Obama has pythons compared to his itty bitty arms. He doesn’t wear a shirt to show off all his jail house tattoos**. This boy is already a father and regularly calls his Baby Momma. I know this because he only calls her when he’s standing outside in the middle of his backyard. I believe he does this so he could scream at her at the top of his lungs, without interrupting the screaming that is already happening inside.

The first time I came face to face with this twin, I was walking toward my car and he was just coming toward the building. I did a quick full body scan and looked him square in the eyes. He quickly turned his face to spit on the ground and kept walking past me.

Gross.

Scary.

But, hey, it’s buy one gross and scary and get the second gross and scary free. Luckily, his twin is gross and scary in the circus kind of way.

The other twin boy is smaller that his brother. He looks 14 in age. And although he is always fully dressed, his clothes are insanely big on him. I understand the fashion, but this is literally pants-on-the-ground. He actually cinches his pants under his butt, around his thighs. The seam that marks where t-shirts fall on a man’s shoulder really hang below his elbows. It’s as if he’s a regular sized man in Shaq’s clothes.

His voice is still changing. I know because he…no he doesn’t scream…he sings, well, no, he raps all day. He raps loudly. He likes to rap under the staircase that leads to my apartment. I imagine because of the echo. So, his middle-of-puberty voice that sounds like a loose snare drum is amplified throughout the hallway, throughout my home.

All this happens downstairs. All day, everyday.

Until last night. When downstairs came upstairs.

I’ll tell you all about it in my next entry, “Across from the guy downstairs: Scream 2”

*Note: Although it is not necessary to read “The guy downstairs” series from back in January to understand this new series, you may find the background information helpful.

**You know, jail house tattoos: a spiderweb, a skull and crossbones, a couple of names, all scattered throughout, where ever there is space.