All I want is a mom laugh

I'm in the final stages of editing my book proposal. It's like a movie preview, but for a book.

My go-to editor is my mom. She's relentless. If something's not funny, she says so, even it if means my dissolving into tears.

"It's not funny."

"What do you mean it's not funny?"

"I don't know, but it's not."

"Gagh! (sob, hiccup, sniffle) ok, keep reading."

I try to control myself enough so she can finish. She reads the part about my return home: I exclaim about how good home smells and she tells me I smell. I get what I've been dying for, she laughs out loud,

"You did smell like a barn! You really did!"

As much as I love simulating blow jobs...

After 11pm at the bar I no longer smile at people or if I do it's a mistake. I have a smiling problem and they have a tipping problem. I also try not to talk because the loud music always wins. I like hand signals. Holding up five fingers is a hell of a lot easier than yelling FIIIVVVE for the fifth time.

There are several international hand signals: stop, hello, strangle me, etc. And until the other night, I assumed that the hand signal for a drink was one of them: the holding of an imaginary glass in front of your face and tipping it back and forth, simulating drinking. I was wrong.

I do this drinking hand motion to a regular. A look of surprise flashes across his face, then confusion. He asks,

"Really?!!"

"Yeah. What do you want?"

"OH! You're asking if I want a drink!"

"What did you think I was asking?"

"If I wanted a blow job."

Growing facial hair just like me

It's a beautiful thing to see my little brother following in my footsteps.

He graduated from college with honors. Just like me.

His GPA isn't quite as high as mine, but then again he took a couple less theater classes than I did.

He struggled to find a job in his career path. Just like me.

Now he's living at home with our mom. Just like me.

And he's decided he wants to bartend. Just like me.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I saw his birthday list: money, clothes, music. Number 3b catches my eye. A beard trimmer, like the one Jess has.

Talking to you is making me dumber

I'd like to start this entry off with the recipe for a Cape Codder: vodka and cranberry juice.

The other night, I approach a table to take their drink order. It goes according to plan until I get to the last lady,

"What can I get for you?"

"Do you have Three Olives vodka?"

"Yes, but only the berry flavor."

"Okay I'll take Three Olives grape and-"

"We only have the berry flavor."

"Fine, whatever. That and cranberry juice."

"Ok."

"So I want Three Olives vodka and cranberry juice."

"Got it."

"But I don't want a Cape Codder."

I just want to go home

When we got off the plane in Portugal, they warned us that we need to arrive three hours early for our return flight home.

My friend and I decided that that's crazy and two hours early is more than enough.

Day of departure arrives. We approach the check in desk and are intercepted by an airline official.

The whole trip everyone in Portugal spoke perfect English as well as French, Spanish, German and whatever else tourists speak.

So I was surprised when I couldn't understand a word of this airline guy's speech. He looked like he was asking some important questions.

"Blah blah blah, these bags, blah blah blah?"

I look at my friend. She looks at me. I look at the airline guy,

"What!?"

Fifteen "whats?!" later, we make it to the check in lady who has more questions for us,

"You're not checking any bags?"

"No."

"No?!"

My friend is a small person, so her clothes don't take up much room and I like to wear the same thing every day.

Next we try to find our gate. Lisbon is a confusing airport. So many numbers and columns. We make it to security. I avoid eye contact with my friend. She's trying to smuggle a 6oz. jar of honey on the plane.

Three ounces of liquid is the security max. I know because on the way over, they took away my yogurt, 3.4oz. I guess they haven't seen that yoplait commercial where the lady waves her yogurt around. That shit isn't liquid.

We make it to the next check point without the honey. More questions. Now I'm starting to question myself. Did I pack my bag? Has my bag gone anywhere without me? If it has the wherewithal to do something when I'm asleep, that's it's own business.

We get to passport control. Finally some questions about my true criminal intent, rather than my packing strategies.

We make it to the gate. My friend spends the last of her euros on a Mars bar and we settle into some amazing reclining airport seats with foot rests. Just when I think we're home free, an airline officially looking person approaches us,

"You need to go over there for a final security screening."

They rope a plane full of people into one tiny area with thirty seats. We stand corralled off for the next twenty minutes. A man asks us,

"Did you buy anything after security?"

"No."

He walks away. What's the right thing to do? Should I turn my friend in? She did not report her Mars bar.

We sit on the floor, under the rope, and stare at the empty reclining chairs, several feet away, on the other side of our "secure" area.

Breaking news blasts across the TV. A pilot dies mid-trans-Atlantic flight. Great.

We board the plane. I glance in the cock-pit. They look healthy.

We make it back to US soil, only to face intense interrogation by US passport control,

"What were you doing in Portugal?!"

"Vacation."

"What do you do for work?"

"I'm a bartender."

He opens my passport, glances at all my stamps,

"What were you doing in India?"

"Traveling."

"How did you earn all this money to travel?"

Does this guy work for the IRS?

"Bartending."

"I didn't know bartenders earned this much money."

Now I'm worried, I want this guy to let me go home. He gives me a stern look,

"How did you earn all this money?"

"I live with my mom."

"Oh yeah? I live with my mom too."

He hands my passport back to me.

"Welcome home."

Portugese infrastructure, cancer and rolling suitcases

With plane tickets to Portugal in hand, my friend and I retire our grungy backpacks in favor of grown-up rolling suitcases. We're anticipating a European country with infrastructure: buses, bridges and espresso.

We arrive at our first destination, Tavira, a town over a mile walk and a ferry ride to the beach. We trudge along as rental cars zip past and our skin turns red. We wait in a massive line for the ferry. It putters across to an island a football field away. The invention of the bridge crosses my mind.

Several hours later we've perfected our sunburns.

We board a bus for the next town, both of us in a valiant fight against PMS. My friend is worried that she's going to get cancer from her sunburn. I reassure her,

"Don't worry, its not even blistering. That's when you know its bad."

We arrive in Sagres and want to go to another town, Carrapateira. We ask the lady in the tourism office how to get there. She shakes her head at us,

"You don't have a car?"

"No, we'd like to take the bus."

"There are no buses here."

We both glance toward where we got off the bus,

"No bus?"

"No bus. This is the END OF EUROPE!"

"Oh ok." What?

She's acting like I asked for a glass of water in Africa.

Bloated and grumpy we decide to rent bikes, which turns out to cost almost as much as renting a car, but the gas is free.

My friend lies on the beach covered from head to toe. She lifts up her shirt; she's covered in blisters.

"Oh dear."

Finally ten days later, post-pms, with a tan, five extra pounds and photos for facebook we try to head back to the airport.

I ask the guy at the front desk,

"Once we get to the station, where does the bus stop?"

He takes the map out of my hand and turns it around several times,

"I don't even know where we are, I'm not from here."

I show him where we are.

We trundle off. We carry our rolling suitcases down a huge, cobblestone hill of stairs. Nothing about these suitcases says stairs and budget travel, they say taxis and rental cars.

A bus pulls up, I confirm with the driver,

"You're going to the airport?"

"Yes. But no suitcases allowed."

"No suitcases?"

He drives away.

Right. Why bother going to the airport?

We sit and hope for a bus, that takes people, and suitcases, and goes to the airport. My friend turns to me,

"My stomach is blistering again."

Dirty panties go to Portugal

As I prepare for my trip to Portugal, I think of Rutgers. I want to leave him something that will remind him of me.

I rack my brain and my underwear drawer. There's a pink pair with too many ruffles to be useful.

I wear them several days in a row. I want to make sure they're extra dirty and smelly.

The day of my trip, I'm all packed. I lay the pink, ruffly, crunchy panties on top of my purse so I can't forget to leave them in Rutgers' car.

On second thought, I don't want to field questions from my mom about where they're going, so I stuff them in my suitcase.

Halfway to Portugal, I reach in my bag for my book and pull out pink, crunchy ruffles.

DAMN IT! All that hard work and now I'm just taking an extra dirty, extra ruffly, extra pair of panties to Portugal.

When I say classy, I know you think cock rings

The other day I tried out a disposable, vibrating cock ring for the first time.  It was disappointing.  Maybe my clitoris is unusually far away from my hole, but the vibrating part got swallowed up and did not reach my pleasure button.

I google cock rings, looking for something more satisfying.  I discover the Iconic Collection, a line of your favorite sex toys, all in classic ivory.  I order the vibrating cock ring, ranked at a number two power level.

It feels good, but doesn't quite get the job done.  

I'm waiting for the power level five edition, but as far as cock rings go, they don't get any classier.

Trying to find that work, life, shitting myself balance

At work we write down our requests for days off, now there's a new note in the schedule book stating: "All requests for days off must be made in person and calling is not a good idea."

I'm about to leave for Portugal and I know I need more days off after I get back.  Nervous, I approach the office to make my requests.

I request one night off for a wedding, the owner shakes his head,

"Jess, you're taking a lot of time off.  I'll try but I can't guarantee anything."

"Ok, thanks."  

He tries to return to his paperwork.  "I also need July 9th off, it's my-"

"This is getting to be too much."

"It's my birthday."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

He stands to write my name on the calender and turns to me,

"I hope this has scared you enough not to ask for any more time off."

I try stand up taller as he peers down at me.  "No way!"  I hope he doesn't notice the urine trail running down my leg.

I decide now is not the time to ask for the week I need off in September.

Pink, plastic, pussy lips

Lacey the Sexy Sista blow-up fuck doll was a big, bachelor party success.  Not only did she stay inflated through the insertion of hands, forks and BBQ rib bones, but she was in keeping with the racial theme of the party.

The boob and vagina cake was also a chocolate toned lady.

I drive down the street looking for #1184.  I pull up, park and take Lacey out of the backseat.  Yes of course I would've loved to have her in the front with me, but her karate kick leg position for easy access was compromising my driving.

I consider ringing the bell, but decide to head around back where the BBQ must be.  I wander around with my coffee in one hand and blow up vagina in the other.  (Before I left home, I pulled out her pink, plastic, pussy lips to make it more eye catching.)

Where is everybody?  I glance at the house number again, 1084.  Oh dear.

I toss Lacey in the car and continue up the street.  I park in front of 1184.   I glance across the street where church is letting out.  That's great.

I grab Lacey, avoid eye contact with senior citizen church goers and head for the BBQ.

Before I went, I was prepared for Lacey's complete and total destruction, but as the night progresses, I realize I might love her and want to take her home again.

At midnight she's still holding air.  I take some damp cloths and tenderly wipe the cake out of her mouth and anus.  

 Now she's safe and sound in my mom's dining room, still inflated.