Southern Son suggested I blog about this next topic:
I am kind of worried for the future of D-Money's children. I say this with utmost kindness and love for my Soul Sister, even as my concern for D-Money's babies grows stronger every day.
I worry, knowing that every day that passes is another day D may meet and fall in love with an Englishman. An Englishman with a f*cked up grill.
The Brits have never been known for their stellar dental care. Every British movie has poked fun, subtle or otherwise, in regards to the likes of teeth that look like an oral traffic jam. Where Americans strive for shades of platinum, egg shell and snow white, our brothers and sisters in the UK pride themselves on teeth the color of those Harvest Gold appliances popular in kitchens circa 1968. Americans are also obsessed with straight teeth. I, myself, was subject to four years of the grinding, shredding pain that comes with having steel brackets glued to your teeth, creating the most excruciating pain when persistently rubbing and scraping against the tender, soft skin of the inner mouth.
Can you tell I'm a bit bitter about all those years of orthodontia?
D-Money has pretty teeth. Nice pearly white choppers typical of those people who make a living being on TV. I hope she fights tooth and nail that any British babies she gives birth to have good teeth, too.
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Have you ever slept in a park? Struggled with moment of exhausted homelessness that forces you to take refuge in a strip of urban greenspace?
I can now count myself as someone who briefly lived a little bit like the street walkers and hobos of Lexington (shout out here to my favorite homeless dude, Henry Earl, a.k.a. James Brown).
I went down to The Athens of the West for a bridal shower yesterday. I had been up really late the night before, but still managed to get seven hours of sleep so I thought I was good to go. I brought one of those infamous Barbie cakes with me (white, to be - um- like a wedding dress) and other stuff for the ladies' only event.
So, we're sitting there - 15 ladies gabbing about things to pack on a honeymoon (note to self: underwear is apparently optional during those circumstances) and whether men have any style when it comes to domestic decorating. All of a sudden, I felt the sudden urge to go to sleep on the couch, and I knew that would have been exceptionally weird and rude of me. I could just hear all the whispering that would be going on about me as I walked down the aisle in my cranberry bridesmaid dress in two weeks. "She's the hooker who fell asleep during the bridal shower."
So I soldiered on, fighting the urge to just collapse there. Instead, I sat there for minutes, grinding out a plan to sleep for a few minutes before I hit I-75 for the drive back to Lexington.
But where o' where can a girl get some sleep in public?
I wasn't so down with the whole let's-catch-some-zzz's-in-the-reststop idea. I mean, really. I think there was a Lifetime movie starring Meredith Baxter Birney (or was it Tracey Gold?) where the female character got sliced and diced by the guy who wanted to invent 6 minute abs.
Then I thought about the mall parking lot, but again - I wasn't too keen on going to battle with the Barney Fifes of Fayette Mall.
So I settled on The Arboretum.
This is the same place where I'd lay out in the summer when I lived in Lex-Vegas. The same place where I essentially lost 30 pounds and discovered my skinny self (oh, how I miss you) in 2000. The same place where I once fantasized about wedding receptions amidst the rose garden.
I am sure I was quite a sight, dressed to the nines in my white chinos and black stilettos, dragging my beach towel behind me as I searched for a strip of shaded grass. But there I was, desperate to sleep and not wanting to call up any of my ex-boyfriends or old drinking buddies to ask for a few minutes of quality time on the couch.
The one hour power nap did wonders for me. I completely fought off any chance of drifting to sleep on the rumble strip somewhere between Georgetown and Walton, and I got to enjoy once again a little piece of a place I used to call home.