11. The Reverend, Liquid Cocaine & Nourishing Deodorant

Alexine lets her hair down and has some FUN with her friend Sheen, another 'double bubble'! The rockabilly world is working for them both.
She pontificates on the sexiness of women in all sizes. 
She manages to get through another day of cleaning while hung-the-fuck-over.

SFX: from Artlist, Zapsplat,  and Freesound.org; 
Specifically:
Gaiterjay, LeeMuffin, RomanHoltwick, SystemShock, OwlStorm, Tomlija, Escortmarius, StarvingPony, CaseyMoura, Florianreiche, FelixBlume, ArtNinja

Credit: 
Galaxy 500, The Reverend Horton Heat
Echoes of the Past, Max Hixon
Cheech & Chong Up in Smoke (1978)
Tropic Thunder (2008)
Cristela (2014)
The Loved Ones (1965)
Terry Crews, Old Spice 

Written, narrated and produced by AMY FRAHM SHARP
For more info: https://alexinereads.com
Artwork BRAD COLLINS https://bradcollinsart.com/portfolio/...
https://www.instagram.com/alexinecleans/
...

Transcript

11 

The Reverend, Liquid Cocaine & Nourishing Deodorant 

Is it considered an eating problem or a drinking problem if you’re hung over and inhale a chunk of carrot while chewing?  My friend Sheena and I went out on a ‘school night’ and it was so worth it. It was the 20th anniversary of her 25th birthday after all. The one, the only Reverend Horton Heat puts on a damn fine show. The Delta Bombers and The Hooten Hallers rounded out the high energy Sunday evening. 

Rockabilly works for us. The demographic is good: the crowd is generally 35-55 years old and usually over 60% male. Can I get an Amen? I love seeing the girly girls with pencil skirts or full circle skirts with crinoline slips and lots of lipstick and inked skin. The guys have some style too. Lots of clean shaven faces, creepers and cock grease. I don’t know what revolts me about most ‘classic rock’ but, Goddamn, enough all ready. Harvey would call it ‘boring boomer music’. Rockabilly is retro but doesn’t feel so played out… at least not to me. 

But I’ll take me some Canned Heat anytime!      

I'm goin' where the water tastes like wine

We can jump in the water, stay drunk all the time… that shit just never gets old!

It was a well rounded evening with a few shrooms (just enough to get stuck in your molars, blech), a few joints of now legal BC bud (how very civilized) and rum for Sheen and gin for me. I even put time into my hair, instead of wearing it up as I always do when on a clean. I coaxed the curls into showing themselves and committed to it with hairspray. 

Hairspray has come a long way. I love this flexible, soft to the touch stuff they make now. Nicely fragranced too! I even put on my contacts AND eye shadow! I pulled on a ruched black pencil skirt without leggings or nylons, only the black bike shorts to keep those thighs from starting a fire. Then topped it with a sheer cleavage-showing blouse and took a selfie. You sexy bitch. 

Sheen, (did you notice her nickname is much shorter than the lengthy vowell-laden ‘Sheena’) asked me to roll a few while she got herself in gear. It’s good for me to keep in practice. Some would say I cheat since I use a bill. Can’t say a dollar bill since Canada doesn’t have those anymore. You’ve got to use a blue fiver or a green twenty, or if you’re really feeling flush, a red fifty! I still dream in yankee dollars though. Boring green never looked so good.

Sheen’s short and I’m tall-ish, we’re both wide-glides. Her hair is the opposite of my fine, thin chemically colored paltry collection; hers is thick, long and still shiny dark brown. Her skin is a warm brown, mine is pale with freckles from the sun, with a ridiculous farmer’s tan from years of delivering mail in California. 

She is self described as ‘all tits and ass’. I like to think of myself as a female version of a cross between Danny McBride and Jack Black. But I’m probably bragging. We are both packing some serious heat, as in big butts. And sadly, we’ve both got more around our bellies than we would like. I wouldn’t mind it so much if it didn’t impede my movements. For instance, I’m sitting on the floor, doing stretches (because I care about my body, Goddamn it!), and I go to bend to my toes. And what the hell?!? There’s this bulky obstruction in my way. What is it, a thick sweater folded on my lap? No, it’s you Alexine, all you, sister. 

On a recent Netflix binge, I caught a few flicks about quirky women that weren’t ‘hot’ in the typical way but turned out to be desirable nonetheless. Whew, what a relief! Yeah, The Wrong Missy and Someone Marry Barry, both were odd women if not out and out fucking weirdos, neither were obsessed with their looks but both were skinny skinny. That’s a line that society is scared to cross. It’s like most network and film producers are all looking at each other, waiting for someone to take the chance first. I did watch I Feel Pretty at least six times and loved it every time but my heart still bleeds for Cristela. Oh, you don’t know what Cristela is!?! Find it and watch it, you’ll love it! And ABC, you really dropped the fucking ball on that one.

My muffin top is now a cake top. This layer of flesh shuts down my fantasy of a big badass octopus tattoo on my upper back; its arms curling around a shoulder, up the back of my neck, around my sides, one coiling around a breast, another curls around my belly, another reaching toward an ample butt cheek. Please note that squid and cuttlefish have tentacles, not octopi. It’s a difference of suckers, how many and where they are on the appendages. Now ya know!

Once I hit the lotto, I will get some of this fat sucked off of me and then pharmaceutical grade drugs for the long ink sessions and be the freak I was meant to be. I didn’t need painkillers for the tattoos  I do have but this octopus will be big and involved. The best painkiller I remember was the liquid cocaine a nurse put in my eye after a propane hot water heater shot a flame into it. Now that’s a hippy billy story for another day.  

Men on dating apps are an unending source of entertainment. This guy, I’ll call him Buddy as Canadians love to do, managed to take five, yes FIVE!, different pictures of himself all from an angle that you can see right up his nostrils. It’s like looking through the barrells of a shotgun. I don’t have a problem with a good sized schnauze but I don’t want to be able to count his nose hairs from his profile picture. Can someone please help this man? There’s got to be a caring daughter or son, a co -worker, a nosey neighbor, someone for Godsakes, save this man from himself. Unbelievable.  

At this rockabilly show, we are, of course, checking out the selection of men-folk. I’m wondering if a sexy older guy, pushing 60, with lots of deep laugh lines, a yummy-smelling hairy chest with a soft belly who can get an erection more than once a week even exists. Step right up, let me see if I can stop your heart. I do love a challenge. 

Gin, rum, joints, shrooms and salty snacks all seemed like a good idea last night. I’ve got to get my ass in gear and get on with the day. In the last few years, I traded my contacts for glasses because I can’t see up close with my contacts or glasses on. It never was a problem in the last few decades, but it is now. I need my prescription sunglasses for driving and then the regulars for indoor tasks like vacuuming. But I have to take them off to clean sinks. Sounds like a pain in the ass, right? Well, It is.

On a typical day, I make a point not to forget my non-sunglasses. But, I dropped the ball today. Now I get to decide if I should just vacuum blindly or look like I’m right-hung-the-fuck-over by wearing sunglasses indoor. 

These flu-like symptoms add to the usual cleaning déjà vu, heightened when the house is one of those homes with so little traffic it barely has a chance to get dirty. Did I dust this room? Did I clean this toilet? Why am I here? Crap. How many times a week do I squeeze a sponge out? Is there an app for that? 

How many sheets does a hotel housekeeper fold? How many empty cans does a homeless person pick up and return? How many greasy pans does a lowly dishwasher scrub and put through the sanitizer? Sigh. Us working class folks, how do we get along through the minutiae of our ‘careers’ without the aid of substances? 

Maybe that ol’ guy with the yummy hairy chest can massage my aching hands too. The muscle between my thumb and forefinger is especially ready for deep kneading. I better go easy on his heart; he may be multi-purpose. 

In the blur of the morning to get out the door with the aforementioned hangover, I forgot to put on deodorant or brush my teeth. All I need now is some wicked farts to be thoroughly offensive. Whether I call it pit stick or instant shirt cleaner, I need it and I need it now. I keep a travel toothbrush, toothpaste and dental picks in my backpack so that’s handled. Here I am, cleaning the luscious Coco Chanel scented bathroom searching for pit stick. 

Do rich people not have BO? The man of the house, lovely guy I might add, doesn’t even have any SpeedStick, Axe or Old Spice. Harv and I would watch those Old Spice commercials over and over again. I love do Terry Crews even more after we watched his speech about his mother; go watch it and cry. 

Now I’m a goof, rummaging through another woman’s bathroom drawers which I do NOT do. 

Then I find Nourishing Apricot Deodorant Stick from Jason. Do you suffer from malnourished armpits? How would you know if you did? Seriously, who writes this shit…