Introduction

I am not a writer. I am however, a pissed off woman. Tired of the games, and tired of having to psychoanalyze incomplete sentences. Tired of not trusting, of not believing in others, and especially and very contradictorily trusting sweet sentiments of warm and fuzzy, only to realize shit storms sometimes come with no advance warnings. I do not endorse drugs, alcohol, or behaving in the manner in which I am about to. Again, I am pissed. This is a no hold barred, take no prisoners approach, and the beginning a little mission I am calling Operation Turntable…

Operation Turntable - A Woman's Get Back

Here I am sitting in my panties, on the floor, in the middle of my living room. Glass of wine in one hand, a Vicodin in the other, all while trying to resist the urge to have a complete meltdown. Sometimes life just stinks. Oh sure, the prissy, life loving do-gooders, can puke out overused cliché’s on cheap manufactured posters, “Just hang in there” but never consider that the little orange pussy, hanging on the clothesline, is probably fighting the inevitable plunge into Dante’s Inferno. That little tabby hasn’t a clue…

Let me introduce myself. My name is Elizabeth. I am a 44 year old SWF. I have no children, no husband, and no boyfriend. My two unruly German Shepherds do not respect me, my cat gives me the stink eye, and my fish only know me as the big hand bearing yummies. Other than that – I am alone. Alone, except for Larry, a local homeless man at the nearby McDonald’s who finds me absolutely intriguing. Okay, maybe not intriguing, but definitely nice. I haven’t seen him in a day or so. Note to self: Check on Larry.

Where did I go wrong? Am I expected to be lonely forever? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being alone. I love myself. I think…? I am a good person, do my part for the planet, and go out of my way to be nice to strangers. Strangers are easy. My facades are many. Sometimes, with these strangers, I am an intellect; and other times I dumb it up. It’s the only way I feel comfortable. It serves as a barrier protecting my personal space, and my personal self. Why do I even bother with letting others in, when it is going to end in a disastrous but cordial break-up?

My last ex described me a “full package.” A woman who can hold her own in a barroom brawl, and who knows what a first down is. A woman who is a great cook, funny, well-traveled, intelligent, articulate, and who brings a treasure trove of sexy debauchery to all intimate encounters. Why am I now alone? It’s simple. I’m intelligent. I am gifted with the ability of weeding through the bullshit, distinguishing truth from lies, and knowing how to let them sink their own battleships. It’s the aftermath that is so difficult.

Three years ago I looked up my first childhood crush, Terry. Okay…maybe I stalked him. J I did it on a dare, and until today’s wine and Vicodin, thought it was a groovy idea. I now think I love him, and like all the others before, I hate him too. Why do men feel empowered with the knowledge that they have women swooning? Do men ever grow up, and stop playing head games? Terry lives 1,000 miles away, resides with his parents, has no driver’s license. To justify things in my head – he’s a hard worker, and gets my silly jokes. Why is Terry so appealing? Because Terry is a bad boy, and a player; that’s why! We always want that which is bad for us…chocolate, cheeseburgers, and bad boys. I’ll get back to Terry and the Vicodin later.

We as women, ignore all the signs, and refuse to take off our pink glittered blinders. Damn Walt Disney for making us believe in fairytales. They don’t exist. There are no mixed signals. We listen with our hearts and hear only the portions we want. Well, no more!

As of today, I am going to turn the tables. I am going to be a bad girl. I am going to intentionally do to them, what they do to me [us]. I am doing this to thwart any faith I might have left in mankind. I am undertaking this mission as a way to take one for the team. Yes ladies, I am going to do this for the betterment of a woman kind. I want to see how it feels to be empowered by being wanted and desired by many, and to prove to men that they are just plain mean. Operation Turntable has officially begun…

*I will only choose above average looking men.

*I will not infringe on those who are married, attached or unsure of where they stand with a girlfriend.

*I will always be truthful, but will choose my words and expressions with caution, as to never let on that “it is what it is,” nothing more than a mission.

*I will never become emotionally involved.

*I will always be the sweetest, most attentive, sexiest woman I can be.

Day 1

Day 1: Got my hair done. Looks good, but not great. Mani and pedi’s are hot-sultry red. Everything has been tanned, waxed, shaved, plucked, and exfoliated. I decided to pop into my local market for lemons, and while there, see if in fact, Operation Turntable was actually do-able. I saw him in the soup isle. Any man buying soup is definitely alone and single. A quick peek into his basket confirmed my suspicion, as four cans of soup, two TV dinners, one roll of toilet paper, and a bag of pistachios, emphatically screams out single. I stood beside him, eyeing up the concentration involved with soup selection. “I like vegetable soup.” My contribution was welcomed. He smiled, I smiled, and then I sacheted (Sp?) off. Yes, I sacheted, taking care to over exaggerate the sway of my hips. I stopped half way down the aisle and looked over my shoulder, making sure he was watching. I followed the chunky soup guy throughout the store. When he was near the checkout, I hurried ahead and paid before he did. Once out of the doors, I waited. I opened my phone and engaged in a hilarious conversation with the time and weather number. At the exact moment chunky soup guy exited the store; I turned around, bumped into him, and dropped all of my lemons on the ground. “Uh sorry Mom, I’ll have to call you back later.” I apologized for being a klutz, and helped him pick up my lemons. He introduced himself as Peter, and asked if he could buy me more lemons. I declined, and told him I preferred it freshly squeezed. Peter gave me his number, and asked me to call him tonight. I agreed and walked away, knowing that I was going to make him wait.

Day 2

Day 2: Started my Master Cleanse. Nothing but the lemonade for the next forty days, or until the police are called because I yelled at the garbage man for yet again, dropping my cans and scattering my ripped bags of trash for all to see. I do tend to get a little crabby when cleansing…errrr…starving to death. I have about an hour before I am bound to my ceramic throne for at least two hours, to expel and toot out, all of the ickys trapped in my ten mile colon. Off to the gas station for a pack of smokes, before the loosey-goosies start. I don’t look great. My sweats match, and my hair still looks cute, but by no means, am I the knock out I was yesterday. Got the second target in my sights. A tall, good looking guy, who looked to be about ten years my junior. Just as yesterday, I waited for him outside; but this time, with my car hood raised. For him I would dumb it up. “Excuse me, can you show me where to add the window-washer stuff?” With chest puffed out, he eagerly walked over to me, and gave me a run down on my engine, and where to put in all sorts of different fluids. After a few winks, and compliments on knowing his way around an engine, he introduced himself as Richard, an autoworker. “No wonder you’re so smart.” After ten minutes of holding on to his every word, Richard asked me if he could call me. I gave Richard my number, and told him to could call me at 3:00 pm. Once home, and barely making it to the bathroom, I decided to use my temporary captivity to give Peter a jingle. In between the powerhouse of wet farts, I dialed the number. “Hello, this is Elizabeth. Is this Peter?” Terry began by telling me that he waited for me to call last night, and was glad I did not forget about him. As to disguise the trumpeting flatulence storm, I rattled a nearby tampon box, and explained I was in traffic, right in front of a big construction site. I told him I would call later, and bid him a good day. I could tell that he wanted to talk, but I have to move slowly. Give him something to sit and wait for. I let him know he was on my mind, but it was brief, and very sanitary. Thankfully, I ended the call within a minute, because after that it was all bad. Now remember rule #5. Always sexy. Peter heard the voice of a confidant woman on the go, not the bloated blob that I was. So far so good.

I am not going to answer any calls from now until 3 pm. If Richard doesn’t call as instructed, I will not answer any calls after. I will enforce the rules of following mine.

Off to the treadmill…need to burn off my pent up frustration.