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Farmville — A Picture is 1000 Words… or a Couple… (Part 3)

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

TO GET THINGS STARTED AGAIN, we’ll back track a little or you can get the whole prior parts of the story by ******* CLICKING HERE *******

So in need of FA… (Farmville Anonymous).

“Hello… My name is Belle… (pause)… and, I play…”

“Go ahead honey, you can say it… you’re in a safe and accepting place…”

“Hello… My name is Belle… (pause)… and, I play…FARMVILLE!” WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying).

There is a rumble in the audience. People twisting in their chairs. FA is a tough crowd, man… they have all survived… FARMVILLE! WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying again — can you hear the addiction in that cry?).

Sad, huh?

Sad. Sad. Saaa-aaad.

“It’s okay, Belle. How many times did you go on ‘the game that shall not be named?’”

And, I mutter through my sobs… I turned on my computer… and I never… I never got off!” WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying still more).

My husband and my parents are sitting next to me for moral support… they are shaking their heads…

“We lost her. She’s our only daughter… And, she’s… well, you heard her… gone… to Farmville.”

My dad pulls out a hanky and blows his nose. My mom… suffers in silence. Slight whimpering, her only evidence that she hasn’t fainted… My husband twists his wedding band around his finger… questioning his 2-year old, “I do.”

The tragedy.

Belle…. Lost to Farmville…

So my life has now hit a new level…

I would like to say it hit a new low, but that may be aiming too high.

It wasn’t that long ago that I scoffed those that posted their Farmville Photos on Facebook.

Ha!

Ridiculous!

Like, whoooo would ever want to do that? Right?

Well…

Hmmm…

Maybe I was a little too judgmental.

Yes, my husband reminds me that a mere month ago, I giggled at the thought of people taking pictures of their cartoon farm.

So, in response to that, I am here to show you pictures of my farm keeping skills…

Enjoy!

Here… You can appreciate the sense of order that I have here on the farm.

All my animals shoved to nicely into a row.

As you can see, I have the ultimate “brown-nosing” farming techniques DOWN.

Yes… things are a’blooming!

Life is grand now that I have invested in fencing, yes?

It is that I have two types of fencing here. I have regular white fencing, and I have my new “scary” fencing that is termed as dreadful, that I dropped $48,000 of precious Farmville coins on.

Somehow no one appreciates the beauty of my “goth” gatekeeping skills. My only concern is that I might not have bought enough of these overpriced limited edition funky fake cartoon fencing pieces at $1000 a clip.

Me, being an 18-year veteran of real estate commercial development (no lie), it is imperative that I get this set up just right.

Frankly… I have big plans, but in the beginning, if you would have checked my farm you might have noticed that even my cows have a house.

Five of them.

Yes, my cows had a house, but I was sleeping in the tool shed.

And, not even the big tool shed.

The little one.

That I got for free… from Farmville… because I was so damn fricking cheap to buy it myself.

Well…

I DID have plans, and I was working real hard… saving up my Farmville dough… hoarding my money so that I could make a cool million and invest the beautiful Villa mansion on level 34.

What can I say, baby? Real estate is in my blood.

….

Please, pity me at this moment.

I am now developing cartoon real estate.

So, like I said, I’m working hard on saving up my “experience” credits for the big digs.

Yep, holding out for the Villa.

Million-dollar price tag…

Until I noticed that level 34, the people at that level had about 80,000+ Experience credits compared to my 27,000 Experience credits at level 25.

Well, I don’t need to be a brainiac (or maybe I do) to understand that to get to level 25, took an average of 1000 credits a level.

And, THAT was a pain in the ass.

Now, facing a difference of 53,000 experience credits to be made up in 9 levels — well, that makes my new average of needing to accomplish approximately 6000 experience credits PER LEVEL from now on.

Well… crap.

Uh… Holy crap.

Can you tell that I was a Math Minor in college?

Well, let just say that I easily can breakdown costs to benefits… and basically I would have about a billion “Farmville” coins before I would even be allowed to buy the freaking villa.

Yeah… like that’s gonna happen.

I’ve got a life, man!

I can’t sit here nursing a cartoon farm up the wa-wa!

I ‘ve got things to do…

People to see…

Places to go…

Oh, yeah…

And, crops to turn. Hold on… My blueberries are withering….

….

…. … .. .

Okay, I’m back.

The blueberries are fine. I am sure that you were concerned, so don’t be.

Well, like I was saying…

I can’t wait for dang villa and level 34!

I can’t sleep in the tool shed… the little tool shed until the end of time.

It’s time to spend some freaking Farmville cash!

So, yeah… I bought the Dreadful fencing pieces… And, the whitewash gates… and a house…

And, a barn… and a silo… whatever that is.

Bridal arches. Maybe for my daughter’s wedding there… 😉

I’ve got a bird house, and a lawnmower, three lakes, a harvesting machine, a tractor, and a seeder.

I have spent a whole bunch on money on arches and entries and mail boxes… and…

Oh, wait…

Look here… a little greeting…

Maybe a Hello… How thoughtful!

Uh… Oh My…

Oh Goodness… “HELP ME NOW!”

“Or the Cow is… ?”

My heavens.

Hmmm…

This is worse than even I thought.

Worse than you even thought, I am sure…

Or the cow is…

What?

Or the cow is… toast?

Or the cow is… finished?

Or the cow is…

What?

Steak?

This is serious.

Now you all saw it, right?

That poor cow…

But, wait… another…

Farmville back to normal… Where did the message go?

It’s as if it were never there… the plea… the hope… the warning…

Gone.

….

TO BE CONTINUED…!

Be well,

Belle

78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winner

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

November 6, 2009

Farmville… Keep It Coming! (Part 2)

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

TO GET THINGS STARTED AGAIN, we’ll back track a little or you can get the whole prior part of the story by ******* CLICKING HERE *******

But… Then all my peeps and buds on Facebook started sending me all these gifty things for Farmville…

Who knew?

A Pig here.

A Goat.

Two people even sent me some elephants.

Elephants?

Yeah… like those belong on a farm.

Right.

Guess what they make?

Circus Peanuts.

They make circus peanuts.

Hmmm… I hate to break it to you… but those are awfully large “circus peanuts” that come out of a cute little elephant, if you know what I mean.

And… I wouldn’t recommend eating any of those so-called peanuts, okay?

Eeeeeeuuuw.

It’s just wrong.

Well… I had 82 (eighty-two) gifts sitting on my Home Page of Facebook.

Go figure.

82.

That’s quite a bit, right?

But… remember, I was NEVER going to play Farmville.

I have got no time.

Right.

My son nearly died when I told him that I had DELETED THEM ALL.

Yes, I deleted all 82 gifts.

I mean, what hell am I going to do with a pig that finds truffles, right?

I don’t even freaking like truffles.

Gag.

So, needless the say, “am-scray on the ig-pay.”

Until… my son showed me the Farmville light…

I never deleted any gifts again.

Yes, until my son “showed me the light” of Farmville.

I can here the angels sing like the old Star Trek theme song when I think of the word Farmville, now.

How even sadder is that?

Yeah… not good.

You better call the paramedics now.

But, you better make sure that they bring with them a pig that finds those stinking truffles that I can’t stomach (and now I found out that I don’t have to actually eat the truffles), a duck whose down feathers I can sell, or a horse with a “hair problem” or… I am not letting them through the front door.

Come bearing gifts, baby, or the deadbolt stays locked!

So… my dear son made me RE-announce to my FB friends that he was going to suck it up, and help his lame mother with the starting of her farm, and to please start sending gifts again.

Yeah… please forgive the old bag that she deleted all those fabulous gifts… she didn’t know the value of them then. Please forgive that she wasn’t a FV convert, and start sending us some goods so that we can get our farm thing started…

Please…

Little did I know that I was inviting my first “crack” addiction…

Yeah.

Stupid, I was… please send me stuff… and keep it coming… I need to fill my veins with the stuff.

It looked so innocent, right?

So “neighborly”…

And, in the gifts came.

I got so excited!

My son and I were actually able to communicate with the same glazed monitor-ial stare I used to only attibute to him when he played “Martian Rangers Kill Texas Hold-Em.”

I feel so proud.

So honored.

So in need of FA… (Farmville Anonymous).

“Hello… My name is Belle… (pause)… and, I play…”

“Go ahead honey, you can say it… you’re in a safe and accepting place…”

“Hello… My name is Belle… (pause)… and, I play…FARMVILLE!” WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying).

Sad, huh?

Sad. Sad. Saaa-aaad.

“It’s okay, Belle. How many times did you go on ‘the game that shall not be named?'”

And, I mutter through my sobs… I turned on my computer… and I never… I never got off!” WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying still more).

My husband and my parents are sitting next to me for moral support… they are shaking their heads…

“We lost her. She’s our only daughter… And, she’s… well, you heard her… gone… to Farmville.”

The tragedy.

Belle…. Lost to Farmville…

….

TO BE CONTINUED…!

TO PROCEED TO THE NEXT PART OF THE STORY ******* CLICK HERE *******

Be well,

Belle

78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winner

November 3, 2009

Farmville… It’s Time We Spoke Out! (Part 1)

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Okay. First, we need to set a few ground rules here:

1. I was never going to play Farmville.

I think that it is important to repeat that first assumption here, so I’m to give it a subheading, and going to call it 1A.

1.A. I was NEVER going to play Farmville.

I mean it.

Next…

2. I don’t know how I’m supposed to deny anybody wanting to give me “Free gifts.”

That’s just rude.

My Momma raised me better than that.

Well… she did…

I mean, if somebody wants to give me a free gift, who am I to deny them the intrinsic beauty of this sharing of two souls when one bestows a gift to me, and then I to them…

Of course, I am simply going to lovingly accept it.

“Thank you, Dahhhling, for the fabulous Banana Tree. It does so come in handy when my husband is away…” 😉

Yes… I will love and adore… cherish, even… every gift.

Even if it’s a lowly apple, cherry or plum tree (lowly as in Farmville standards, of course).

No offense, Dahhhhlings!

By the by… neighbors and friends… keep those Olive and Pomegranate trees coming, ya hear!

Sorry, I had to put in a plug for which free gifts I prefer now.

How sad is that?

Well, so the Lord Almighty, and my Farmville neighbors all know that Belle (that’s me) is a loving and generous receiver of all gifts great and small, and likewise I am a loving and generous gifter.

Shut-up… I am, too.

Everyday, I make a list of the people that give me the Farmville gifts just to make sure that I reciprocate and don’t accidentally skip anybody.

I need a fricking virtual assistant to keep up with the stress of my Farmville.

Yeesh.

Next…

3. I have never played an electronic game beyond “Guitar Hero.”

And for the record, I play a mean freaking guitar that has buttons on it, okay?

Don’t try to convert me to the “real” guitar.

Not going to happen. No way. No how.

I would never cut my acrylic nails, and besides I think those guys are just showing off. The guys playing with the wire stringy “old-fashioned” guitars. They might think that they are more talented than we…

The true heroes of the guitar… the guitars with color-associated buttons on them.

But, we know better… don’t we?

Yeah… guitars with wires on them are old news.

Get with the program, man!

Buttons are “in.”

Just give me a guitar with buttons on it any day… and a couple of double AA batteries, and a Wii that’s plugged in… and I play a mean three-fingered colored-coded guitar.

Oooh, Baby!

Yeah, I know it’s got more than three buttons on it… give me a break.

I can count.

It’s kind of like painting by numbers… but for the guitar… with three to five colors… of buttons.

But, I play on the EASY level — which means that I only play with three buttons… and that since I am a woman, it further means that I am entitled to believe that the EASY level means “Easy Listening.”

And, nothing else.

Got it?

Don’t try to correct me.

We’d all hate for you to get on the “bad list” today.

So, let’s just understand here… just so that we are all on the same page and everything… I play on the “Easy Listening” level with three fingers, three buttons, and three brain cells.

Oh, yeah… And, I only play three songs… But, I am damn good at those three songs.

Right.

I digress.

So, I am trying to apologize in advance that my field of play in the electronic alter-universe is limited, to say the least… and even with that analysis, I am being generous… even to myself.

Next…

4. I’ve never liked any of those electronic games.

My son plays them with unbelievable expertise.

Not that I’m thrilled with that knowledge, mind you.

I know this because if he had his druthers, he would be playing his Electronic Games every hour of every moment of every day.

Without pause. Without food. Without oxygen.

Heck, let’s face it — the whole world could be caving in and he would still be shooting out power blazers on a level 39 “Alien Cucumbers Battle Mario’s Speed Racer and Godzilla Fireballs.”

His mad pounding of the keys… well, I just don’t understand the hopping and jumping around and disappearing exploding fire-gonzos and stuff like that.

Big deal, right?

So what, that he hasn’t eaten… done his homework… or blinked his eyes in four hours…

Mere details.

He can’t be bothered.

So, no… I was never really good with the game thing.

But…

Then all my peeps and buds on Facebook started sending me all these gifty things for Farmville…

Who knew?

A Pig here.

A Goat.

Two people even sent me some elephants.

Elephants?

Yeah… like those belong on a farm.

Right.

Guess what they make?

Circus Peanuts.

They make circus peanuts.

Hmmm…

I hate to break it to you… but those are awfully large “circus peanuts” that come out of a cute little elephant, if you know what I mean.

And… I wouldn’t recommend eating any of those so-called peanuts, okay?

Eeeeeeuuuw.

It’s just wrong.

Well… I had 82 (eighty-two) gifts sitting on my Home Page of Facebook.

Go figure.

82.

That’s quite a bit, right?

But… remember, I was NEVER going to play Farmville.

I have got no time.

Right.

My son nearly died when I told him that I had DELETED THEM ALL.

Yes, I deleted all 82 gifts.

I mean, what hell am I going to do with a pig that finds truffles, right?

I don’t even freaking like truffles.

Gag.

So, needless the say, “am-scray on the ig-pay.”

Until… my son showed me the Farmville light…

I never deleted any gifts again.

Eeeeek!

TO BE CONTINUED!!!

TO CONTINUE THE STORY ******* CLICK HERE *******

Be well,

Belle

78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winner

September 25, 2009

Dead Squirrel Mystery…

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Hello everybody!

Today is a beautiful day today.

The people across the street have moved out.

Hmmm.

I don’t think that too many people are gonna miss them because a squirrel that had been run over by a car and had previously been sitting in the middle the road, wound up dead center in their driveway, and has been sitting there for a few days.

Now unless dead squirrels reanimate and are able to levitate themselves to new locations, something tells me that someone put it there is a departing gift. So nice.

Like, so sad to see you go. Right?

And no, it wasn’t me.

Thank you very much.

Although the thought of someone else’s whirling that little squirrel carcass in the air to land in the slope of their driveway did cause me to give a little smile.

I was actually disappointed in myself that I hadn’t thought of it.

Next time.

Maybe.

And no, my kids did not do it either. Although they did get a wee bit of enjoyment from the view of the dead squirrel in their driveway.

Let it also be known that no one threw it away for them for all those days. Community has a way of taken care of itself, doesn’t it.

We’ll just say that they didn’t go out of their way to make a lot of friends here.

Such is life.

And, such as death. Because alas, there sits a dead squirrel and it has pasted itself on their driveway for the last three days.

Karma is a bitch.

So, that’s it from the neighborhood front!

I think it is high time that people clear dead animals from their property lines. But hey, I’m not the fricking neighborhood roadside kill monitor. Right? And, I am certainly NOT the driveway droppings monitor.

Honestly though, I hope they are as happy in their new home. Everybody just wants to be happy.

You know, it only takes one bad apple, right?

Words from my Grandma.

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

August 31, 2009

Where There is Smoke, There’s Fire . . . (LA Fire Photos)

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Where there is smoke there is fire.

Hell, there is so much smoke here now I smell like a summer sausage at a Tuscaloosa Bar-B-Que.

That’s not a nice smell on a woman.

I wish I could say that I took this picture, but I did not. I took some but mine are not as nearly dramatic as this . . .

So, here is my own personal photo (Below).

Unfortunately after looking at the two, I don’t think the other one was retouched. Just the timing of the photograph . . . and the fact that I am not a professional photographer. Hello-o?

See those little tiny black buildings in the lower part of my photo?
Those are like 30-story buildings . . . Can you get the enormity of this fire?

It’s astounding.

Please, have a moment of thought for our dear Fire Fighters.

I, too, live in a fire-prone area.

Yes . . . a moment of silence.

Be well, and wear a mask . . .

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

August 18, 2009

The Adventures of Super-Belle, Part 3 — Do I have what it takes to resist?

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

SO, JUST TO GET US STARTED AGAIN, A LITTLE EXCERPT WHERE I LEFT OFF — OR CLICK HERE FOR THE

First Adventure of Super-Belle! Vacation Voo-Doo . . . The Dreaded Timeshare Presentation, Part A . . .

Previous Continued Adventures of Super-Belle! Part Deux — Vacation Submission into Acceptance . . .

So, we I clean up all the frickin’ mess out of the car. We’ll trade them out later, but for now, just have the get the now somewhat curdling cottage cheesed milk up of my blinking car seat.

And, all of this fun . . . gives me time to think . . . think about how my son will get to sleep the day away, while I . . . get the “golden ticket” to go what I constructively call boredom, polite smiling, nodding, bad coffee and last week’s muffins to attend this grand timeshare presentation.

I don’t know necessarily what I was thinking of at the time, but it could NOT have been good thoughts toward myself. Why I should submit myself to this type of torture for a parking pass ….

But, when I checked in, they assured me that it was going to be a “delightful” (yes, that was the exact word) 90-minute conversation in which they were going to try to convert from the triviality of my mundane existence to the bright sunshine of timeshare ownership.

$50.

Yup.

That’s it.

I am a cheap fricking 90-minute date.

They offered $50 for this 90 minutes of my precious vacation time which I have now given up to spend with them.

So like I said, I have the time to think about the fact that I have agreed to waste 90 minutes of my life on a Monday morning in exchange for a $50 gift card to a restaurant have no interest in eating.

….yay….ugh….

So yes, 7:42 AM this morning I woke up. Dragged myself to the bathroom and inspected my own morning after combination of T-zone pores and smudged mascara, combined with the effervescent enthusiasm that one radiates when one about to attend one of these dynamic timeshare presentations. I can only guess that this ranks right up there with shin splints and going in for confession.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

“Yes, my girl…”

“I have agreed to a timeshare presentation, and, Uh, here Father, would you like a tic-tac?”

“A Tic-Tac?”

So, yeah, even God is against me by now. Tic-Tac? What am I thinking? I needed a frigging Lifesaver, man.

But, nothing was going to save me now. I have commited, my Monday morning is dedicated to the underworld and whether I will survive the test of the timeshare “closer” … well, only time will tell.

I rinse off my face, put a little FC5 cleanser on my fingertips. Yes. Arbonne . . . Amway’s prettier sister. I know, but it smells so good. Do I even stand a chance at 9:35 this morning – after my 90-minute pummel? I move the cleanser around on my face.

Okay, the oil slick is now gone. I grab a q-tip and swipe my under-eyes with some remover the try to relieve the “raccooned” effect of my liner and lids. Pajama shorts still on. Pink and white stripes. A-line tee shirt, no bra. I throw a sweatshirt over my head, and I am looking almost primitive. I shuffle my hair around a bit. Spray it with my hair spray – appropriately named “Bed Head.” Throw on some lipstick. Yeah, baby, that’s all they get on a 7:56 wake-up call. That’s all they get.

Okay, okay. I’ll brush my teeth. Give me a frigging break, man.

I slip on my flip-flops and slouch out the door. The air smells so nice and clean!

But, there will be NO “nice air smelling” for the next 90-effing-minutes. Stop smelling the Goddamn mountain air. It’s a trick. A ploy to get me to buy one of these god-forsaken $42,000 timeshare weeks.

Stop smelling the Goddamn beautiful air.

…mumble, mumble…

I turn to close the door, and on the handle is a “reminder” tag of my appointment with destiny. There is no turning back. They know my room number. They know where my children are. Yes. I have to go, if only for the safety of my children.

I am doomed.

I close the door gently so that I don’t disturb the Goddamn fricking beautiful slumber that everyone ELSE is enjoying.

Crap it all.

I walk on. To Room 103.

Right foot.

Left foot.

I can hear the “Jaws” theme song haunting my head “. . . bom, bahm . . . bom, bahm . . .”

So, this is vacation?

I feel a little light-headed. Maybe I’ll get off if I feign sickness . . . Nah, they are on to THAT one, I am sure. No. I have to save my children . . .

“. . . bom, bahm . . . bom, bahm . . .”

I walk by little yellow flowers dallying in the sunlight. Those little shits are mocking me right now. Laughing at me. Everyday they see the ritual calves like me making their way into this troubled hall.

Those little fricking yellow flowers.

Just shut-up, okay? I am doing the best that I can.

Right foot.

Left foot.

I take a deep breath.

And, there it is . . . the door to my destiny. And, here I stand with three real questions.

1. Will I be strong enough to say, “No?” 2. Will they pummel me (this lone, innocent, crabby-in-the-Goddamn-morning woman) into submission? 3. Will I be able to solve the Middle East Crisis?

Granted, the last question doesn’t apply here, but it IS a real question.

I digress.

I take the handle of the destiny-ed door, and yes, I take that breath. That breath that will HAVE to get me through this little ordeal. And, yes, I am feeling oddly good about my outcome this morning, despite the fact that my hair looks like shit . . . that I have no make-up on, and the lamest of facts . . . that I still have my pajamas pants on.

But, going commando gives one an odd sense of strength.

Yes, “Breezin’” today, in my little pink and white striped shorts is just what this girl needed.

And, so I walk in with my loose fitting, yummy feeling shorts. I AM READY FOR YOU WORLD. I am ready for what you got, you timeshare devils. Throw me your most convincing lines. Throw me your worst coffee. Throw me to the proverbial timeshare wolves.

I, and my pen that doesn’t have any ink in it are ready for you. I forgot my checkbook in Los Angeles. And, my koo-koo is feeling kinda nice. So, let’s rock and roll!

—–

TO BE CONTINUED….

So, y’all come back, now. Ya’ hear?

Be well Dahhhhlings,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

July 1, 2009

Continued Adventures of Super-Belle! Vacation Voo-Doo…The Dreaded Timeshare Presentation – Part A

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Okay.

Here am sitting in the beautiful California mountains, on a blissful mountain side. Three and half hours it took me to drive up here. 3 and a half ~~Goddamn~~ beautiful hours.

We check in on Saturday, into a two-bedroom timeshare unit. I get out of the car. Stretch my legs, which the backs are now dimpled with the upholstered impression of polka-dot imprints from the stupid seat insert. Nice. I gotta get rid of that thing. It’s really not comfortable, and makes my hot-pant-legs look less than “hot.”

I look at the grounds of the resort.

Nice.

Huh, huh. Yes, these are adequate surroundings in which I will be able to embarrass my two young off-spring. The construction looks flimsy enough for everyone to be able to hear my screechings.

So, “Yes, everybody,” I decree, “This will do fine.”

It was 100 miles of my kids comparing fart jokes, my daughter’s eye-rolling to every comment I say (between each text, ya know. Can’t be bothered, right?), the air-conditioner not working due to a lizard that decided use my A/C hose for a hide-a-den, and my forced-straight-ahead-stare, because I woke up with a “crick” in my neck from forgetting to detach my Bluetooth while it charged before I fell asleep last night. (BTW, what the frick is a “crick?” I am from the south, so y’all will have to forgive me.)

So, life is not quite as magical as it might seem on beautiful facia of La-la-land.

So, when the going gets tough, yes, the tough go out of town. And, yes, I made that up.

It was 3.5 hours of bumper cars on the spaghetti network of freeways, getting me out of the fan-fricking-tastic wonderland. Yeah. Like I am going to miss any of this 101 Freeway confestation.

We drive up the winding road. People honking each time we make a left turn, because every time I turn left I go over the center line. Crap that Bluetooth, and it’s Goddamn charging chord. You’d think that by now, the “crick” in my neck would have lessened, however if you ask anyone going downhill from the mountain on this bright and beautiful day – well, their horns work just fine since my head won’t turn left.

So, long as we don’t stop, I don’t think they’ll be able to turn around quickly enough to catch up with us…

We carry on.

Finally, we all got up the hill with only minor incident. My kids inform me that EVEN (as in, addition to) a pair of geriatrics, each only about a 100 years old, were also giving us (me) the middle finger with anguished enthusiam. Thank you very much grandma for showing some God-dang restraint in your stinking personal expression of yourself. My children are at a fricking impressionable age, and your stupid finger-flipping didn’t help too g-d-crapping much while I am trying to demonstrate to them to some respect for their Goddamn elders. Thanks a whole hell of a lot…assholes.

UGH. I digress.

I have checked in, and upon check-in, after verifying that the haggard woman that is standing in front of them is actually the perky chick pictured on the front of my credit card, they have decided to ask me for my driver’s license. Now, since I accurately match the beauty of my Department of Motor Vehicles picture they decide to swipe the old Mastercard and let me pay for this luxurious timeshare experience that we, as a family, are about to embark on.

I’m tired and on my period, man. Don’t mess with me. Give me the keys to the room and no one gets hurt.

Now that they have gotten the approval code, and have questioned my signature…. And, by the way, everybody questions my signature. EVERYBODY. Albertsons supermarket, The Coffee Bean and friggin’ Tea Leaf, and even my real estate agent who handles the rental of my parent’s house forced me to re-signed documents because prospective tenants were scared off by my signature. Hello-o? This is LA. How can you be scared by anything, especially a stinking signature? She mentions in a whisper that she is mailing back the check for the cleaning lady that prepped my parents’ house for rental viewing “The Check-n-Steal check cashing place near Juanilla’s house won’t cash the check. They think it’s fake.”

“But, it’s MY signature!”

“I know, I even showed Juanilla the rental documents that you signed. She’s not convinced. Please, send her a new check with a different signature.”

“With a different signature?” WITH A DIFFERENT SIGNATURE? “Hello, the bank won’t cash it ‘with a different signature.’”

“I know, I know. What can I do? The check place doesn’t believe it.”

“Have them call my bank. They’ll tell them that it’s a real signature.” I can’t believe that a checking cashing place – granted, the pillar of societal morals and impeccable ethical standards, that cashes all kinds of checks from possibly questionable sources, now decides that mine is undeniably a fake…

“I tried that. They want a new check with a different signature.” What kind of a business are these people running here?

So, needless to say, the check in question is sitting on my desk. Along with the envelope that it came in, and there it will sit until “I” get a new signature. Which will be … let me think here …. Never.

I digress. Again.

So, yes, after the “hotel” has checked every ID I have to confirm my seemingly outrageous signature, including my frequent buyers card for the Mobile Buzz-n-Wash-n-Fluff for my dog, they have agreed to hand me some hotel keys. It’s about sticking time. However, they have efficiently diverted me over to the “activities director” in order to obtain my parking pass.

No activities director, no parking pass.

So, I shuffle my numb 3.5-hour sedated butt over to the activities desk so that I can register our SUV and finally check-in to the unit so I can place semi-lame derriere into the couch and watch some freaking TV. That’s why I drove all the way up here, right? To nag my kids and watch television. Evidently I can’t do that well enough at home, that I have to come up to mountains and share my blastings with people from around the globe in the midst of a calm hillside with tiny white yarrow flowers dotting the paths and rocks, and inhale the green effervescent misting of allergenic pollen spores.

Where’s my frigging Allegra, man?

So, I finally get the parking pass from the tenacious talons of the activities commandant, however she does not relinquish it without the covert mention of the possibility of me attending a timeshare presentation. “And, you get entered in the $100 drawing if you go on the weekend!”

What?

What did you just say? Do my ears decieve me? Timeshare presentation? Did she really just say that? Or was it just the dread lingering in the back of my crowded head? Were one of my voices whispering it — just to scare me?

I look at her. She looks at me. “$50 dollar gift card.”

So, she DID say it. She said IT. Those words…timeshare presentation. I don’t even have the balls to type it in capital letters…

…Yay….

TO BE CONTINUED…. TO CONTINUE TO THE NEXT PART OF THE STORY CLICK HERE TO Check out NEW–Adventures of Super-Belle! Part Deux — Vacation Submission into Acceptance

So, you come back, now. Ya’ hear?

Be well Dahhhhlings,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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June 10, 2009

Ouch . . . Nail Guy

So here I am, sitting in my nail salon having my nails drilled down to the micro-bit. I think there’s just a nano-distance bit of cellular nail fiber film between his drill and my awaiting pain and doom. I look at him while he wears a mask, so that he does not inhale any of these carcinogenic dust flakes that he’s creating as he is whizzing my nail down to a mere memory.

Why don’t I have a mask? Are my lungs not entitled to the same ridiculous standard ─ considering that I am paying for this service?

He resumes his irritated glance and bats my hands down because they are moving too much. And, I am thinking, “If you want a tip, baby, you better not hit me again.”

He’s frigging expensive, man.

He responds by yelling something in a foreign language to Mary, my pedicure girl who working diligently on my toes. I’m sure that it’s a compliment to my fashion prowess. And, I am also sure that her real name is not Mary.

Why do I put up with this? I will tell you why . . .

He and I have gone through this dance for more than 14 years now. My daughter is 16 and I have been coming to my “Nail Guy” since I moved here when my daughter was two. You’d think that we’d have a better relationship than we do, but he is socially inept and I am impatient. I put up with him because he is literally the best.

He is THE BEST “Nail Guy” this side of the Mississippi.

My nails can go unattended, even brutalized by my lack of care for four weeks, or more if I am away, and they look completely natural. There is no line. Yes, He is THAT GOOD.

Do not even try to e-mail me to try and get his name, or his telephone number or where he works.

I will not give out this information. Period.

I would tell you my best friend is sleeping with before I divulge the name of my beloved Nail Guy.

Let’s face it. I do not want his time booked up. I want him to succeed, but I want his rude remarks and hand battings available to me whenever my schedule allows. So, don’t get any ideas. If you take my spot on the calendar, I will hunt you down and rip off every one of your perfectly manicured acrylic nails and shove them up your nose.

I’m mean, a girl’s got to do what girl’s got to do. I need my acrylics perfect, and my toes like little red rubies dotting the tops of my sandals. Please don’t get in my way. I have priorities and high heels. I know how to use them.

I must like his torment. After all, it has been 14 years of this carcinogenic conversational banter. For example, “You work busy today?”

I respond, “Yes.”

That’s the end of this impressive conversation until I am asked to pay up.

So, you can understand my need of the highly fingered stack of magazines which include People, “Cosmo,” InStyle and O (Oprah).

And, I HAVE to read them all.

There is nothing else for me to do to distract myself from the dremel buzzing my nail beds into obscurity. Otherwise, I am likely to throw up on him out of fear that he might actually transcend the layer of cutonic matter and dive into my poor little nail “moon” that is just idly sitting there minding it’s little own nail-business. Right?

There is a brief moment, where he dust off his desk with a large purple brush, which of course drives all those white particles off his working stations and onto my nice black linen pants. Great. It looks like I have dandruff issues below the belt. Not nice, kids. Like I said there’s this brief moment where he has to do a little housework on his desk, and I now have a chance to look down at my all buzzed nails, only to see that they are thinner than the one-ply toilet paper that I just used on my refined derriere when I went to go pee.

Each time when I get this ridiculous urge, I think I’m going to faint when they see how thin my nails are. You’d would think that after 14 years I would learn not to look at my fingers at this stage of this salon service. That I would just continue to read about “all the sex that I am doing wrong” in my July 08 Cosmopolitan. 2008? Hello? However, curiosity gets to the better of me on these bi-weekly visits, and I continue to almost keel over at the blatant and frail condition of my pinchers.

“Blaaaaah! Don’t look, you idiot,” I say to myself.

Okay, now, okay. Breathe in. Out. Everything’s fine.

He slams his hand down on the table two times. This is his charming attempt at communication to have me put my hands back on the table. Like I said, he and I have a ritual, I didn’t say it was nice.

Without any argument on my part however, I am quick to get my nails “filled” again so that they will not fold backward when I am shoving a taco in my mouth. We do live in Southern California. And, I do love tacos. I promptly respond by putting my hands on the platform and try to smile in a charming, pale kind of way (since I was just about to pass out) that I had just been reminded of just how much I need him for my day-to-day survival.

When all of the stock markets went to hell, I had a brilliant thought that I might try to save money by not getting my nails done every two weeks. So after about six weeks, my nails started to split at the top and then break off. Layered little peelings of these acrylic wonders started shedding themselves, revealing the fragile state of my actual nails. I tried for four weeks after that, where then my “real” nails were breaking below the skin with vertical cracks. Ouch. I could barely pick up a tampon, much less put this “thrill stick” in, without the looming expectation of 10 fingered agony.

So, I guess it took me only 10 weeks to figure out ─ one week for each dangerously painful regressing nail bed on each of my beloved food pushers. Yes, it became quite evident, that I needed my “Nail Guy” in at least ten unbearably stinging, splitting and throbbing ways.

Let’s just say it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that my nails were more important than putting shoes on my kid’s feet.

We all wear flip-flops now, but my nails look great . . .

Go figure.

So, let this be a lesson to you ─ the market can go to hell, your husband can complain of tuna salad sandwiches for the 7th dinner in a row, your children can wear what we affectionately used to call “flood pants” (while convincing them that this is the current style . . .), your “Nail Guy” can bat your hand hard enough that you could actually allege physical abuse and have a case, and that your lungs aren’t worthy of the even the lowliest Home Depot-style facemask ─ but, all of that is unimportant if you don’t keep your priorities straight.

Regardless the cost, your nails must remain beautiful.

Yes. I just got them done. I am staring longing at their beauty, and begin the fear my upcoming appointment at 1:30p.m. in fourteen days. Until then . . . nailed bliss.

And, no, I repeat, I will not give out his name.

You’ve got to out and find your own “Nail Guy.”

Good luck. I’m thinking about starting up a website called “NailGuyMatch.com.” Until then, happy acrylic-ing . . .

Keep those cards and letters coming!

Be well,

Belle