Mar 162011
 

Today, we received two checks in the mail from the ratings company that has us wearing their stupid personal meters. My check was for $60. Henry’s was only for $10. Of course, I took a moment to fold in half with laughter, and then I promptly called him at work to gloat.

“WHAT THE?!” he stammered upon receiving the news.

“[Obnoxious throaty laughter that alarmed the neighbors],” I contributed to the phone conversation.

“This is bullshit!” Henry shouted. “You don’t even WEAR yours half the time!” Truth. More often that not, one can overhear me outbursting that, “Fuck! I left my fucking pager-thing at home again.” Or it’s been banished to my purse after a co-worker spots it on my waistband and exclaims, “Oh my god, is that a PAGER?” I learned very quickly that hiding it in my purse under my desk doesn’t constitute as “keeping it on my person,” so I accumulate no points for that.

“I’m going to have to do something about this,” Henry threatened, mostly to himself.

I was still rolling around on the floor in a puddle of merriment when he hung up on me.

Mar 052011
 

The ratings company sent some awesome swag in the mail yesterday: A whole booklet of decals. Because slapping a picture of the American flag on my personal meter will make it way less embarrassing to carry on my person!

I chose this one though:

“Too bad there isn’t one with the Steelers logo,” she said around chunky bites of sarcasm.

That might even be my next tattoo, right smack on my left jug. Obviously I’d have “Mom” added to the banner. Or “Nascar.”

The next show I go to, I’m going to have the band sign my meter, OMG.

Additionally, the ratings company was so kind to send a catalogue of “fashionable” meter accessories, such as an elegant pleather holster and my personal favorite, the meter sock:

There’s even an accessory to turn the device into a NECKLACE, which I was just thinking the other day would be the next logical move from shamefully stuffing it in my pocket.

I was so excited to show off my newly haute couture’d meter to everyone at work last night. And by everyone, I mean the two people who have been mocking me ever since I was dumb enough to tell them about it.

Feb 182011
 

The first thing I noticed when Henry and I arrived at the Neville Rollerdrome for adult skate was that Roller DJ’s slimy ‘fro was replaced with a shiny pate.

“Dude, you’re bald!” I exclaimed without decency.

“I lost a bet,” Roller DJ frowned, slapping a hand on his nude scalp for emphasis. “The Steelers lost,” he sighed.

I feigned a sympathetic pout with my lips, but I was cracking up internally. It was even better that the abysmal “Stillers” played a part in the shearing.

Henry and I were the first to arrive. As he laced my skates (a woman of my stature does not stoop to lace her own skates), Roller DJ permeated the empty rink with a hot and pulsating mix of Depeche Mode. This is what all of these skating sessions had been missing–the sonic sex of the ’80s.

This particular adult skate was sponsored personally by Roller DJ. He rented the rink and then prayed that enough people would show up. It was looking pretty bleak for awhile there, as it was nearly 8pm and there were only about 10 other people there aside from us, Kim and Chris. But then something outstanding, absolutely extraordinary happened: some of the Steel City Rollers began filing in.

“AW SHIIIIIIT!” I squealed to Henry, who rolled his eyes. (Surprised?) Their presence inspired me to step it up, so I quickly in my head choreographed a Really Hot Valentine’s Routine designed specifically for me and Henry.

“Look,” I explained to Henry, in a very no-nonsense fashion. “You’re going to make a heart with your hands, then I’m going to shove my fist through the heart, at which point you will grab me passionately by the wrist and twirl me around like the tiny ballerina that the world refuses to believe I am.”

“Why don’t I just skip all those steps and knock you on your ass now, then?” Henry suggested.

“JUST DO IT!” I bellowed in the middle of the rink, underneath the sparkly lights.

And this is when, my friends, I learned that Henry does not know how to make a heart with his hands. He made a circle. An oval. Something uncannily akin to a Snork. But that derelict with the defective meat fists could not even come close to molding anything remotely comparable to a heart.

“Just forget it,” I huffed, mumbling a quiet addendum of “retard” as I skated away. This is about the time I began to really realize, really REALLY realize, that I was in love with my roller idol anyway, who was busy skating in a squat while playing air guitar on an extended leg.

“He skated up on me!” I bragged to Henry, who had no idea who I was talking about. So I refreshed his memory. “That guy over there who is like the best skater ever! I’m in love with him this week.” I mean, the more I admired his slick moves, the more I began to notice that he was definitely handsome. For an older guy. And I like me some older guys, apparently, though I’m not sure if I ever actively decided that or if someone LURED me down this path with empty promises and Michael Myers figurines.

I was trying to psych myself up to give him heart hands, you know–show Henry how it’s done. But I lost my nerve every time we made eye contact. Now how will he know to propose?

There was only one real sour patch all night long: We had just left the snack room where Henry’s snack counter nemesis told me my finger tattoos are awesome (holla!) when Diddy’s seminal urban hit “Last Night” came on. I clutched Henry’s hand real tight-like and began tugging him onto the rink. “Aw shiit, it’s mama’s jam!” I hollared, making sure all the Steel City Rollers heard.

“It is?” Henry loudly asked over Keyshia Cole’s chorus cameo, sincerely perplexed. “Since when?”

Was he honestly going to try and discredit my inherent g-funk swagger right there in front of a bona fide pack of my idols-on-skates? Bitch doesn’t know me at all.

And Daryll was back! I almost didn’t recognize him without the honkin’ ice pack on his head. And there was some new-to-me broad there in a trucker hat and leggings, dancing on the toes of her skates. It was mesmerizing. I need to stop hanging out with so many white people. They’re not teaching me shit!

Something devastating nearly happened, and I’m not talking about the time I almost fell on my ass from all the show-boating. I was still wearing my damn ratings device clipped to the pocket of my jeans, and I had skated around a good 10-15 times before realizing it and quickly stuffing it in my pocket. Can you imagine if it had fallen off and become the latest impediment in Daryll’s path? IT HAS MY NAME ON IT, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.

***

Hey, speaking of my new manacle, I thought I had the ratings system beat in regards to superseding Henry in the points race. I left my stupid device at home while I was at work last night, right next to the radio, figuring it could be molested with signals while I was at my radio- and TV-free workplace.

But when I put it on the charger last night, it said I only had 48 points. Henry had NINETY-SOMETHING for the day! And then you know what it actually said to me, in tiny calculator-type?

PLEASE KEEP ME WITH YOU.

%&^*(&(*%

FOILED!

But today, the first thing I noticed when I woke up was that Henry’s device was still in the charger. Mr. Dilligent Ratings Company Servile Pawn actually left his precious device far away from his person.

I cheered. And then I called him immediately to gloat.

“Is that the only reason you called me, to gloat?” he asked, and I could almost touch his exhaustion through the phone.

“YES!” I screamed and then laughed evilly, so evilly that even Marcy, the Resident Purveyor of Evil, woke from her nap and gave me a blanched look from across the room.

You best believe my device has been glued to my jeans all the livelong day. I might even wear it shamelessly to work if it means elapsing Henry in the race to nowhere.

“I could leave mine on the charger today, tomorrow and SUNDAY, and would still have more points than you,” Henry taunted me from work, which is where he does all of his taunting because he knows he’s too far away for my flailing telekinesis to shove physic pokers in his dick.

Oh, its on, motherfucker.

Feb 172011
 

I was contacted through the mail last year by some ratings company asking me to fill out a short survey. Included in the envelope was a dollar, and apparently that’s enough to buy me off because I filled it out with zeal and sent it back the same day.

A week later, they sent me a thank you letter and a ten dollar bill. Now I can feed my child! I thought happily, hugging the crisp bill to my chest.

This happened again a few weeks ago, except instead of a survey to send back, it was conducted via phone. It only took about five minutes, and they sent me another ten dollar bill for my time.

Two weeks ago, another letter came from them but there was no money in it so I didn’t read it. However, Henry did and he informed me that I was selected to go to the next level in the world of media ratings. There was a pamphlet inside, explaining that there would be small cash awards at the end of each month, with a $50 bonus at the end of 90 months. Also, every weekend, I’d be entered in their sweepstakes. Henry only cared about this because in the literature it said that any household member ages 6 and up could participate and he was dying to be part of something great, I guess. He’s always trying so hard to keep up with me.

So he kept hounding me to call them and opt in for the both of us.

Now we have to wear these fucking pager-things on our person at all times, except while we’re sleeping. It picks up TV and radio signals (and probably bowel movements, too) and the longer we wear them, the more points we rack up which will determine if we’re eligible to be entered in the sweepstakes at the end of each week. The lady I spoke with asked what names I wanted on the devices, and it took every last ounce of my maturity to say “Henry” and not “Lola Sausagesucker” or “Peddy Filer.” He really owes me for that. It was a pretty big deal.

“We should just watch porn for two years straight. Really fuck with them,” I suggested to Henry, who gave me no argument on that one.

Henry and I rack up points while the device is off the charger. Of course this means I’m in heated competition with Henry. The problem is that he gets up for work around 3:30am so he clearly is wearing his device way longer than me, and the points reflect this. I’m really stressing myself out over it. I even goes as far as to throw myself at him in an intimate embrace, distracting him long enough for my hand to slip down to his pocket and unclip his device.

The other morning, I even forced myself to get up at the same time as him so I could take my own device off the charger and go back to bed with it. AND HE STILL ACCUMULATED MORE POINTS THAN ME.

I only wore it to work once, on that first day. (It came with another $10, holla! Henry got $10 too though so now he thinks he’s a part of the club or something.) I felt so conspicuous though, like a drug dealer from the ’90s, so I eventually took it off and clipped it the side of my purse. Two days ago, I forgot to take it off when I got there and still had it clipped to my waistband, which made my shirt jut out as though I was pregnant with a pack of cigarettes. Keepin’ it classy as always. I caught it within my first hour at work, at least, and tossed it into my purse while muttering.

Meanwhile, Henry wears his with pride, like he WANTS people to notice it and think he’s an outdated weed-slinger. And he still has so many more points than me! I can’t stand it! It’s literally all I think about. I even cried about it the other day and screamed, “I QUIT!” which made Henry laugh and tell me I was sad. It’s easy to laugh when you’re WINNING.

“God help me if I ever win one of the sweepstakes,” Henry nervously laughed. “You’d probably kill me.”

Competition is pretty much what I excel at in life. I have little other talent.

I’m going to start wearing this thing on my person again and telling people it’s my organ transplant pager. Get some sympathy out of this gig, you know?