Cindigodotcom….nationally certified massage therapist.

Last night Mr. X and I went downtown to “old” Vegas. The Vegas of the big neon cowboy fame. The casinos are dumpy and rundown and, the customers average age is 110. But, on the upside, since the casinos are dumpy and rundown, to compete with the strip and attract customers, they have better paying machines and more opportunities for people who know how to take advantage of them.

Mr. X was playing video poker, and I was sitting next to him, studying for my big important certification test on Friday. I decided to take a break and wander around. I went to the gift shop and was poking around, picking things up and putting them down. I was thumbing through a National Enquirer when “Godzilla” the cashier emerged from behind the counter and stood in the middle of the isle next to a display of little white ceramic bells that said Las Vegas on them. She put her hands on her hips and rasped in a “I smoke six packs a day” death rattle, “We DON’T read those here”. Her eyes shifted back and forth nervously and she scurried back behind the counter before I could say anything.

That fucking bitch really hurt my feelings. I was already feeling on the verge of weepy, and that wicked woman blind sided me and the last straw of stability that I was trying to hold together was gone. What made it worse was, when we walked by the same gift shop an hour later, that nasty woman was thumbing through a book at the very same spot that I had been standing. Mr. X said he would beat her up for me, and I said yes, but then I reluctantly changed my mind after thinking it all through.

I was on the verge of weepy, because there is a real possibility that I will fail the National Certification Test. Mr. X tells me I won’t and not to worry. But I worry. I WORRY! So when we were eating pizza and I bit my canker sore and it really hurt, I let a few tears come out of my eyes and played it off to the bite pain. But in actuality, you and I both know that for all of my snazziness and accomplishments I am an insecure freak that is in complete wonderment when I gain any amount of success or respect.

But I digress…

Actually the “bitchy gift shop clerk” was a minor incident in the evening. The major incident of the evening happened in the bathroom as I was trying to wash my hands. I hit the soap dispenser, with my left hand. The soap came out in a super sonic jet stream, bounced off my right palm and with laser beam precision, went directly into my right eye.

I swore, I yelled. I jumped around and put my head in the sink under a stream of running water. After I thought everything was under control, I went out to tell X what had happened. I started to tell the story, blinked my eye, and ferocious pain sent me running back into the bathroom for a repeat performance of the swearing, jumping, yelling and eye flushing. I came out again and assured X that everything was fine, even though it wasn’t. It is my way, “No, no, I’m fine. Yes I know my eye is the size of a golf ball and is on the verge of bleeding, but really, everything is under control.”

We walked around for a short while and I realized that indeed, my eye was not okay. I stopped in the security office and sent X on his way. Six uniformed, rent-a-cops leaned over me in a circle while I sat back in a chair while one of them poured saline in my eye, all over my face, and down the front of my shirt. I had to fill out an incident report, and was repeatedly asked if I wanted an ambulance.

Now it is over and I’m laying on my bed. My eye pain is gone. The sheets to the bed are tumbling in the dryer. When they are done, my day will be also.

Goodnight, farewell, this pre-recorded message was brought to you by cindigodotcom….thank you and have a pleasant tomorrow.

For some reason I have a desire to start this entry with Billy Joel lyrics. Not any particular lyrics. Here’s three random snippets off the top of my head, that may or may not be correct.

option 1: You may be right, I may be crazy…
option 2: Heartattack-ack-ack-ack…you oughta know by now…
option 3: Wheel of fortune, Sally Ride, Heavy Metal suicide…

Now, if I analyze these three random choices from my subconcious, it would lead me to come to the conclusion that…

I have a hangover.

Isn’t that crazy. I’m right. I do have a hangover.

People, I have not been as drunk as I was yesterday, in two years. To refresh your memory, the last time was at a gay bar with my friends. I was demanding dollars and giving uninvited lap dances. I was drunk on Apple Pucker because that was the shot special. All night I was screaming in a slurred voice, “Apple Pucker! WOOOOOOO! Who wants a lap dance!”. I woke up that next morning fully clothed, shoes and all, covered in mud. I still have no clue as to the mud.

I digress.

I have to give you the background. The Magic Show is in town. Magic, is a convention for mostly urban wear…clothes for you peeps not in the know. When I had a “real” job and worked my brain to the bone for the man, this was the industry that I was in. I used to come to Vegas four times a year, for four or five days. I think I did this for maybe five years. Long story short, the man fucked me (not in the good way either) I became enraged at the corporate whore that I had become. I dropped out of site, went to massage school, found my long lost love of my life and moved to the one place on the planet that I never ever wanted to see again…Las Vegas.

I have been here almost three months, and have occasionally thought about Magic. What would I do? Would I run into someone I knew? Would I go to the show? I had/have mixed emotions on the subject because the clothing industry to me is somewhat like crack. I know that that job was killing my soul, but sometimes I miss the “bling bling”.

Last night we went to The Hilton so Mr. X could play video poker, and I could watch Mr. X play video poker. I see a girl sitting one person away from me at the bar that looks like one of a handful of people that I missed from back in the day. I tell Mr. X, while hiding behind his shoulder. He says, “go talk to her. I say “no”. “Go!” … “no” … “Go!” … “no” … “GO!”….”okay.”

It was her. We reminisced and I drank, and drank, and drank, and forgot my purse at the bar, and can’t remember the car ride home, and puked, and according to Mr. X, hyperventilated and had seizures all night in my half sleep.

Here’s to another two years of NOT doing that again.

Mr. X just threw a 4′ x 2′ brand new Sponge Bob™ stuffed toy off of our balcony. It was decided that this plush character was the source of our recent streak of bad luck. Said Sponge was won at Circus Circus with Mr. X’s professional gambling skill of ring toss, with the idea that Mr. Bob might be worth something on Ebay. It wasn’t, so, the big yellow monstrosity with mocking eyes and a dumb hat sat in a corner of the living room until his untimely death tonight at 12:58 am PT.

R.I.P you ugly bastard…you will not be missed.

I’m reading Fast Food Nation.

Ray Kroc (the man that made McDonald’s what it is today) said this (about his competitors), “If he was drowning….I’d stick a hose in his mouth”.

While I’m reading this book, I’m thinking about how all over the boards I am about some things. Like when I read the above statement, I kind of thought it was funny and felt some respect for the guy.

McDonald’s planned ahead 7 years before it started putting franchises in India. It bought the farms and educated the growers. They even developed special iceberg lettuce seeds that would thrive in a climate like India. How could you not look at that with some regard. That’s maniacal meticulous. Those guys yell, “THAT’S SO CRAZY IT JUST MIGHT WORK”, on a daily basis. Except, they probably don’t yell. Also, by now, they probably know it will work. They just sit back and drink martinis while sitting in the back-seat of a Lincoln Town car, talking on a cell phone and loosening their red silk tie. Disgusting and impressive all at the same time.

———

Sometimes I make fun of people in my head. It’s not something that I’m particularly proud of. I’m really trying to cut down. But, if it’s funny, it’s funny, I just can’t help seeing that.

For instance, a girl at work on the phone talking to one of her friends says, “I may be white trash, but I’m not that white trash.” I think that one deserved a good eye roll. She is also prone to say, “Yeah well, a junkie knows a junkie”, with a look in her eye and a smirk on her face that makes me believe she really thinks she’s crafty with her bleach blond hair with black roots and constant cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

*update to the “hive” decision….we signed the initial papers this morning….whole other long and rambling story.*….since I cut out an entire paragraph that was exceptionally boring, even by my standards, the “hive” decision really makes no sense.

We were thinking about buying a house, looked at a house, signed the papers this morning. That’s a whole separate entry. Geesh, if I would just update a little more, I wouldn’t have this problem.

Next subject…

But…before the real subject, here is a side subject. There is a restaurant nearby with a lavender rectangle sign. Written in dark purple scripty type letters is the name of said restaurant….Pamplemousse. I just wanted to tell you that because I saw it again today, and I like to say that word, “Pamplemousse,Pamplemousse, Pamplemousse.” There, now on to the next subject.

X and I went to Red Rocks Wednesday to see a meteor shower. We left the house at midnight after throwing blankets, Murphy’s dog cage and Murphy in the bed of the truck.

I didn’t really throw Murphy, it was more of a struggling shove.

It was cloudy and we didn’t see anything. I’ve never been to Red Rocks before. In the middle of the night it was pretty creepy. We pulled off on some gravel road and parked. Our plan was to watch a movie on the laptop, with the power inverter, since there were no meteors, and sleep in the back of the truck. It was creepy, really creeee-ep-epppy. It was deathly quiet with mountains on all sides. I could see why the mob would come out and bury bodies in this desolate desert. I thought some X-Files “black oil” was going to come out of the ground and start swimming around in our eyes. Or quite possible a pack of wild dingos would come running down some big rocks and carry of Murphy into the wilds. Whatever the case, after poking around for less than five minutes we left and went back home.

I really still wanted to sleep in the back of the pickup, and suggested the parking lot of our apartment complex would be safe and fun. X disagreed and we went upstairs and went to bed.

Do you think if someone sells their palm pilot and buys a sewing machine on ebay, they might be loosing their edge?

Me either. But, it had crossed my mind.

We’re buying a house here. Yes here. The place that I complain about and don’t like. Is this another plan SO CRAZY IT JUST MIGHT WORK.

Yes, yes it is.

I was going to launch into all of the reasons, breaking out my calculator, telling you about capital gains taxes and how to avoid them, and how you can get a three bedroom, two bathroom 1200 sq. ft. house with a fire place for only $400.00 a month. And how we can rent it and flee the state and actually make money on the situation.

But instead…..

I was going to tell you about the strip bar I went to with my high school friend Portia visiting from Chicago. She was here for a bachlorette party. There was an upstairs with male strippers and a downstairs with female strippers. We opted for the downstairs.

There was going to be a long involved hysterically funny story about me tipping a dancer a buck, her smashing my face into her chest, and removing my contact with her nipple.

But I just don’t have the energy.

Also, along with the contact story, I was going to continue on with the bar back guy cleaning the mini stage and brass railing with industrial aerosol cleaner. He was not paying attention and sprayed it all over my hair and in my drink.

It would have been a good story I tell you….if I was just up to it.

I sat at work for six hours and had no clients. I watched Lifetime television for women and very sensitive men, ate Pad Thai, and re calculated mortgage payments thousands of different ways.

I talked to my mom today on the phone for 46 minutes at 3 in the afternoon. She called me back at 9 and told me to be careful what I say because my step dad had told her that he had been listening in on the downstairs extension the whole time. He made her promise she wouldn’t tell me. He told her that he was trying to make sure she wasn’t going to do something to “hurt herself”. I guess meaning giving me large amounts of cash. Like I would be giving my mom some sob story about buying a house and needing hundreds of thousand of dollars, and then going out and buying crack or something. Who really knows with that guy.

I miss my peeps.