Confessions of A Naughty Girl

The Move-In "Bzzz"-Kill

Welcome to Atlanta, bitches, I'm back. And by "back", I mean raising hell with a vengeance in an entirely new city.

I must admit, it was hard to not blog the past week or so. And by "hard", I mean "impossible" - I didn't have an internet connection. But for as much as you think you can prepare to move to an entirely new place, there is always so much change and so much that takes you by surprise. I feel like an entirely new person. Add a chin implant and I'm like one of those f*cking circus freaks from "Extreme Makeover".

Anyway, there is much anecdotal goodness to share, but let's just begin by getting the embarrassing shit out of the way first: I was busted. By my parents. Big time. Hard-core.

You see, moving became a family affair. Because everything in my family is a family affair. Don't get me wrong - we love one another to death, but we are almost too close, if that's possible. It's sort of like if one person sits down to go to the bathroom, three more run over to help you pull your pants down. Some people think this is just really firm support. I think a simple catheter would do. Anyway, my dad literally picked me up in Chicago and drove me down. The stories there are endless, so let's save that for another post, shall we? My mom and sister met us here in Atlanta, and that's really when the fun began.

When I started packing last week, there were three items -- well, no four items, that I was trying desperately to conceal, or at least downplay. I was very careful to wrap them carefully, stow them discreetly, and move those little f*ckers across the country with none the wiser. Should I have thrown them out? Probably. But no, I thought that I was sneaky enough to get away with it. Wrong.

As we were unpacking, bag by bag, good old Mom got to my coats. My winter coats. Coats, I would remind you, that I may never even wear again. And she insisted on emptying out every pocket, inspecting the contents, and then putting the coat in the little dry cleaning bag, despite the fact that all coats were dry cleaned a couple of weeks ago. So in my favorite 15 lb. camel coat, whoops - out falls a pack of "emergency" cigs and a lighter. Hmm, bad move. She made a small comment, gave a disapproving stare, and continued to dig. Okay, no big deal, whatever, at least my crack pipe was hidden, right?

Half an hour later, as she is moving my nail polish and beauty supply Caboodles kit (okay, it was a Rubbermaid box, but doesn't anyone remember Caboodles? Those came in such fun colors) into my brand-new linen closet, she somehow managed to drop the box. And the box, usually quite spill-proof, managed to spill. And despite having buried my secret stuff like I imagine the last Krispy Kreme was hidden in the Atlantis, out flies a long strip of Trojans and a special toy - and they fly out in a sea of Astroglide. From there:

Mom: What is this?
KA: Oh, it's just some stuff.
Mom: What is this tube of stuff? Is it like Vaseline? My lips are dry.
KA: No Mom, it's...I don't know, I think someone from work gave it to me for Christmas last year.
[Mom puts down tube.]
Mom: What is this metal thing?
KA (desperate tone): Nothing. Nothing. Throw it away.
Mom: But it is shaking.
[KA grabs contraption out of Mom's hands, shoves it back in the box, says nothing. Mom then picks up Trojans.]
Mom [in sing-song, teasing voice]: Oooooohhhhh...I know that these are.
KA: Mom, I just bought them in case...
Mom: In case of what?
KA: ...for my date last week.
Mom [not hearing correctly]: Day? What day last week?
KA: My date. Spelled d-a-t-e.
Mom [smirking]: Oh, date. Well obviously, date is now spelled s-e-x.
[Discomfort and tense laugher ensues.]

Now thankfully, my parents are hard-core liberals who never insisted on pouring government money into abstinence education, and understood that kids are horny bastards who need to get some. My parents are so cool that one time, my dad, who walked in on me at a pretty inopportune time a couple of years ago, turned around and walked right back upstairs. Even so, yesterday's experience was humiliating. Because I have officially converted, through sole propriety of particular objects, from a nice sweet girl to a smoking whore. Oy. I don't know how many pints of Dulce de Leche Light (recently discovered at Publix - same calories, less fat than the regular) this will take to get over...or maybe I should ponder that over some sex and a smoke?

Being busted...what a buzz-kill. Or shall I say, "bzzz-kill".

posted by KA @ 2:34 PM