My full name is Tamara Kathleen Meacham Chavez, but you can call me Tamara, Miss Meacham if you're nasty
"How much of human life is lost in wait?" - said by the character Ox in the lastest Indian Jones. It's quite a question to ponder. What would we regret not doing today because we were waiting for the right time?
I try to update my blog weekly, please check back often and let me know what you think! Or if you have an idea - email me at

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Been Too Long Since I've Been Gone

Sometimes it's really hard to think of new things every day. I agree that I haven't been on a date in over three years so my material is kind of low at the moment. On the other hand, if I dated, I'd have material, but that would actually require going on a date. (insert a BLAH sound here). I swear I will come up with something soon. But can anyone out there give me an idea?

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Help, I'm Being Crushed Under a Rock

Russell Risden - Kindergarten. Peter Hammon - 1st through 3rd with a dabbling of Joe DeCaro in third. No one really significant that comes to mind until my freshman year in high school. I've had some crushes throughout my lifetime, from elementary school back in the old neighborhood in the southwest side of Chicago to high school in a burbs.

I remember back in 1982, when I first encountered the boy who was to become my biggest crush. Ah yes, those years bring back fond memories of Boy George blue eyeshadow spread lovingly across my whole entire eye, highlighted with more eyeshadow in silver, blue eyeliner and accented with Wet n' Wild's sunsatin pink lipstick - on my lips, not my eye. I also had a really poor version of a Farrah Fawcet flip. Never really could get it totally down, but I sure gave it a try. My crush wore a dog collar - enough said.

How did I actually begin talking to a guy with a dog collar? One who kind of scared me? Here's how it went down.

Biology teacher: There's a blood pressure screening today in the student center. If you go, you will get extra credit.

Me: Awesome - extra credit.

I went to stand in line for said screening and standing next to me was an older guy - a sophomore to my freshman if you will. I think he may have begun talking to me because back then, I was painfully shy. Plus he was one of those "punk rockers" and wore a dog collar. But something about him. In spite of his animal attire, or perhaps because of it, his animal magnetism was at a peak. I was instantly attracted to him and unbeknownst to him, stayed that way for many, many years.

Other than the occasional nod now and then in the halls, our paths didn't really cross until my junior year- his senior. And yep, cupid wasn't just shooting arrows at me. He was actually using one of those tranquilizing blow darts and would nail me square in the throat - every time. Cupid never missed - ever.

But still ... nothing happened.

Then one weird day in summer, after high school was over, this girl named Sophia called me and asked if I wanted to have lunch with her and someone else. I don't remember who it was. "OK," I thought. I don't know why she'd call me since we weren't really friends, but the three of us had lunch. While eating, she asked if I wanted to go out with said crush. Ah, duh. Nothing ever happened.

Fast forward another year or so. I ran into him at a lot of parties. He was one of the cool guys at all the parties. I'd run into him at parties in the woods, peoples houses, peoples yards. If there was a party, he was there. I could sit with him for hours and we would talk and talk. But .... nothing happened.

One day, at a party at his house, we sat down for hours again and just hung out. He said we should go out some time (Jesus, Mary and Joseph - finally). Of course I said, "Oh ya, I was going to say the same thing (yeah, right)." After all, this is the one guy I wanted to on a date with before I died. He was my dream date. One problem, he was my friend's ex-boyfriend - and that's a whole other story.

Well after that party, we were inseparable. I even transferred colleges to be with him. Although thanks to him, I refocused and went back to school. Thanks Crush.

About a little more than a year later, we became engaged. He asked my dad for my hand in marriage, in the kitchen of my parent's house. Little did/do they know, with the help of my scheming mom, we secretly recorded the conversation on one of those big tape recorders circa 1990'ish. I pretended like I'd forgotten something in the kitchen, pushed the play and record buttons and walked out - my secret mission was complete.

He did ask me to marry him, but we never did get married. Truthfully, I think he got cold feet or just realized I wasn't the girl for him. He went off to school in Europe and left me behind. I'll never forget when he said, "I'm going this semester, you go when you want." And off he did. I was hurt. We'd planned on going off on this adventure together. But ... nothing happened.

But to this day, he remains my biggest crush - unless of course you included my current irrational crush on James Franco.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Is that an Alligator in your Pocket or are you Just Happy to See Me?

The other day I was looking through my notebook and came across this question. "Is that an alligator in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" Say what?

What could I have been thinking when I wrote that? An alligator. Not a banana or a tool, but an alligator. I'm guessing I must have read somewhere that a man had an alligator in his pants. But why would anyone have an alligator in their pants anyway? Sounds kind of dangerous. What if the alligator got aggitated or worse yet hungry. Although I did read an article recently in the newspaper about a guy who taped two live pigeons to his leg in an attempt to smuggle them into Australia. He was also packing a few pigeon eggs too - although I'm not too sure I want to know where he was hiding those. Ewww. Sick.

As I was pondering why a man would put an alligator in his pants, I came up with a few reasonable, potentionally possible, scenarios.

  1. Perhaps he was lonely and the alligator somehow filled an emotional void. Loneliness can make people do all sorts of crazy things. Drunk dialing for one. After all, many of us get lonely at certain points in our lives and try to hide our pain. Maybe everyone should have an alligator to see us through those rough times.

  2. Maybe he was raising the alligator for a belt and wanted to watch it grow to the perfect length. What better way to have a "green" belt. After all, the alligator would be loved and fed well - at least one would hope seeing that it's in someone's pants.

  3. Perhaps he wanted to put a little spin on a used up pick-up line. "Hey baby, wanna see my alligator?" Enough said there.

  4. Or maybe the dude is just plain weird and was getting' his freak on with the poor alligator.

Which reminds me of another article I read in the paper about a year ago. Seems a dude, who lived in a rural area, use to go to a bar many a night. On his way home from said bar, he'd make a pit stop at the local sheep farm. Well the farmer kept hearing this commotion night after night but by the time he got outside he didn't see anything unusual. Since none of the sheep were visibly harmed he figured it couldn't be a predator. So one night he decided to stay up and wait for whatever or in this case whomever was coming around and messing with his sheep. Well low and behold, this barfly shows up and gets busted with his pants down. He told the police that he just - and I quote - "couldn't resist them." So I guess on the brighter side of things, better to have an alligator in your pocket than get busted lovin' a couple of sheep.

pics: random pics off the internet.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Not by the Hair on my Chiny Chin Chin

The other day I looked in the mirror. I'd lost my job and just stood there and stared. Then I started moving closer to the mirror. I mean I really looked into that mirror. I scrutinized the wrinkles around my eyes. Looked at my smile lines. Checked for zits. Checked for liver spots. I made scowl faces and noticed the wrinkles between my eyes didn't go away after I relaxed my face. I had to take my index finger and rub the wrinkles away. I checked my lips. I checked my chin. I froze. I moved in closer to get a better look.
There it was. A rat bastard beard. In my own defense, it wasn't a full beard. In fact it wasn't even a prepubescent boy's beard. It was really just one hair. But it was black and coarse and it was ridiculing me the way only a facial hair on a woman can. "Ha, ha, ha," it taunted me. "Go ahead and try to pull me out. I'll just grow back in stronger, thicker and longer than before."
I turned away and with quick Kung Fu action, grabbed my tweezers. As I was about to pluck out the tiny bastard, I stopped myself. What if I pull it out and two grow back in its place? You know, kind of like in the horror films when you kill a zombie and by doing so you add power to all the other living zombies? (Living zombies? Aren't they already dead?) I put down the tweezers and stepped away. I must call a friend. So I did.
I called my friend Melissa and told her about the devil on my face. Yes, the devil was sitting on my face.
She was sympathetic and said she understood. Then she said something that was equivalent to electroschock treatment. As I held the phone to my ear, it was as if she gave the silent nod to the person in charge of the electrical volt. Men-buzz-o-buzz-pause-buzzzzz zz zz. For a brief moment, I went hysterically blind. I couldn't see a thing. Everything went black.
Noooo. Menopause. Are you nuts? I'm going to be 41! Oh my God, I'm going to be 41! Can it be? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, am I having some freakish surge of testosterone in my body giving birth to my single haired beard? That's it. That beard is outta here. I grabbed my tweezers, positioned them and struck like a mongoose attacking a cobra. Ouch - damn that hurt. But he's gone - for today.
Why is it that we get beards? Aren't hot flashes, memory loss and dry skin bad enough? I already had a mustache (thanks Gram). Was I to be blessed with a matching beard too? Is this what they really mean when they say does the carpet (beard) match the drapes (mustache)? But I have to wonder, if women get the "lady beards," why don't the guys get "man boobs?" It would only seem fair. At least the playing field would be even.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Mirror Mirror

When I look into the mirror what do I see?
But my broken heart, staring back at me
With my eyes glistening with tears
all I have are memories to hold dear.

When I look into that mirror and all I see
Is a person who looks back in misery
The sparkle in her eyes now lying low
and I question why I still love him so.

When I see that mirror I simply know
That I have to look away or it won't go
The memories of a time way in the past
I should've known it wouldn't last

So I must smash that mirror today
Or this pain will just never go away
I need to free myself you see
Because all there's left is just me.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

What Do You Do When Your Ex is Cool But His Mate is a Maniacal Stereotype?

December 12th. A date that lives in infamy. No, not Pearl Harbor, that was December 7. December 12th. My former wedding anniversary. Last month would have been my 16th wedding anniversay had I stayed married to my former husband. Former, former, former. As in, in the past, a long time ago, not going there again, been there done that.

I do still have my former's last name. I keep it only because I have children with this former man. I don't even particularly like this last name, but I use it, it's mine.

So here' s the problem that I'd like answered. The former now has a present wife(?). Although, to be honest, she sort of looks like a transvestite. Not one of those hot transvestites where you wonder why the dude dressed like a woman looks way hotter than you, but one of those trannys that you just look at and say, "who are you trying to fool?" It really wouldn't be so bad if she looked like/is a man if she had some sort of stellar personality. But truth be told, she IS a Jerry Springer guest - in fact she's all of them all rolled up into one. Loca to the max. For sake of gender arguement let's just call her Pat.

So back to the anniversay. Every year, for some unknown reason, I wish my 'form' a Happy Anniversary. We divorced in 1999 and I have just always said happy anniversary and he has always answered with a "uh, oh yeah, ok." So this year I sent him a text that simply said, happy anniversary. Nothing more, nothing less. I get a text back that says, "what the hell is that suppose to mean?" I looked at my phone and thought, well, what the hell is THAT supposed to mean. So I text back and said, "I'm joking ha ha ha." To make a long story short. Pat apparently had the 'forms' phone and went all ape shit on me telling me to "leave her husband alone -- bitch."

Wow. If we were on stage she'd probably throw a chair at me and rip my shirt. I would of course have to pull out her weave. Wouldn't that be something to see.
Turns out, my ex got all upset about her behavior and she knew what she was doing was wrong because she deleted all the nasty texts she had sent me. There were a few. They pretty much went like this, "blah blah bitch, blah blah blah fuck blah blah blah bitch." Because when you talk like that, you sound kind of stupid. So she may as well be talking like one of Charlie Brown's teachers. Wah wah wah - bitch.

to be continued . . .

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

No Men in the Inn

I'm only going to be posting sporadically. There are so many good books out there right now that I can't put them down long enough to write. I think though, at the bottom of the page is a link where you can sign up and you'll get a notice if I write something. So I will leave you with this tidbit.

My cat Aabagaa is in heat. She's walking around the house crying out for a man. I don't have the heart to tell her that there aren't any men around here. Last week, Ilsa was in heat and kept putting her head in a cardboard box. Sweetheart, if it was that easy, I'd walk around with a box on my head all day long. So anyway, Aabagaa is crying and crying and apparently has her eye on Darwin, an older, neutered gentleman and a bit on the small side. So she's rolling around on the floor, following him around, crying out to him. And he looks at her ... and runs away. She runs after him and starts rolling around on the floor again, rubbing against the table legs. This time he growls at her, but it's as if she's so focused she doesn't hear his protests. She continues rolling and crying. Finally he's had enough of her stalking and just full out slaps her in the head with his paw and takes off - and poor Aabagaa goes running after him.

So it would seem, that by watching my cats, humans aren't much differant than animals. In this case, it's a classic case of unrequited love. Time to get my girl spayed before the constant rejection contributes to lowered self-esteem and an eventual eating disorder.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Another Nice Day - I Won't be at my Computer

Plus I'm thinking about starting a movie blog. Will probably work on it later tonight.

Friday, July 18, 2008

S&M - Does Your Mammographer Know Your Safe Word?

Today I actively participated in an S&M maneuver that I don't think I'll ever forget. I always wondered how people get involved in this kind of behavior. Some say it's a well planned adventure, where every step is choreographed. My experience, as they say in old theater, was a perfect example of how to "wing it."
As I walked into "the room" I realized that I was extremely nervous and kind of wanted to throw up. I'd never done anything like this before. But I like to try new things, so I thought what the hell. This group came highly recommended.
I was asked to remove my shirt and there I stood ... topless and rather embarrassed. Plus it was a little chilly. Eeek. My "partner" slid my poor defenseless breast between these two plates and started squeezing. Squeezing until I actually couldn't breath any more. She actually had the nerve to tell me to hold my breath as she took the first picture. As if I could even breath in the first place. She then maneuvered my poor boob again. This time I felt like she had captured a rib in those glass plates too. I was in such a strange position that it hurt my neck. I asked her where I was supposed to put my head and she pretty much said that there was no accommodation for my head. Well, geez, that's nice. But I was after all, participating in soft core S&M porn right now, was I not? Why would she want me to actually be comfortable? She told me to once again hold my breath and as she's squeezing the living shit out of my breast I was thinking that we hadn't agreed on a safe word. Should I just yell out the word gorilla and hope she understood what I meant? She took the picture. But now we had to move onto the left one.
My poor left breast was already experiencing sympathy pains for my right one. She placed it in between the plates, smashed it down and said don't breath. So not only was she crushing my breast, she was also suffocating me. Good times. We did it one more time and I was asked to go wait in a room while the pictures were being developed.
Worse than the breast smashing was that there weren't any magazines in this "room." There wasn't a National Enquirer or a Star Magazine anywhere in sight. Sadistic behavior to the max. I was forced to read the Sun Times. I wonder if they were taking pictures of that too. I sat there and I sat there. I was finally called back in and was told they needed some more pictures. Goodness, that was kind of flattering. More pictures of my breasts. Nice.
Well, if the first group of smashings weren't bad enough, she took the next two pictures to a whole new level. As I'm standing there with a breast that felt like it was going under a steam roller, I thought my God, do people really get turned on by this? The more she squished, the more the rest of my skin from my torso was being pulled into this contraption. It was kind of like one of those Chinese Finger Torture things. The ones where you stick your fingers in on either side and then you can't get them out. Well, picture my boob like that. I mean don't really picture it, just understand this method of modern day torture obviously based on old world finger traps. Luckily she only needed two pictures this time. Again, I was escorted to the waiting room.
I waited for what seemed like an hour in this magazineless chamber. Probably because it was an hour. I was called back again. "Man, pretty good boobs for a mother of three," I thought to myself.
"Ms. Chavez, we found a lump in your breast that we need to investigage further. Follow me."
"Shit. "
So, I'm off to a new adventure in a week or so. Next time I get to have a needle stabbed into my breast. I better clarify that safe word before I go in.

Tra la la la la. Ain't Love Grand?

I want a hot boyfriend. I mean one that makes me crazy when I look at him. One where I can’t keep my hands off of him. When I look at him, I want to think “hot diggity dog, that shit is mine.” I also want him to have brains. I'm so sick of people that can't use common sense or everything has to be either black or white. Yes, sometimes there are grey areas. Those areas as also knowns as compromise. Come on say it with me -- com ... pro ... mise. Hard I know, but it can be done.
Sometimes I look at couples and think wow, he is not gifted in the looks department. But then I think, she must find him extremely attractive because if you’re absolutely put off by someone’s looks, how do you have sex with them? You can’t just close your eyes and imagine you’re with, say, Gerard Butler or that hot guy from the movie Wanted. Well, I suppose you could do that and perhaps I’ll try it next time I become biblically “one” with someone, if I ever have biblical “oneness” again. Damn, I don't even read the Bible. Maybe I should start.
See, I haven’t been on a date in almost two years. It’s not like I have had options. I mean let’s put it out there, some people chose celibacy, others have it chosen for them. I haven't even had a guy so much as look at me out of the corner of his eye. Thus, I, I’m afraid, fall into the latter group. The group where even if you want to, it just ain’t gonna happen. But that’s ok, I’ve accepted my celibate fate. On the other hand, perhaps I should reject it. But the truth is, I have made such crappy choices throughout the years that I’m not convinced that anything would be different in the future.
Let’s look at Exhibit L (for Loser). It's what I call the guy rolodex in my mind. Hmm, there was the guy who stalked me for two years, and that was before the anti-stalking law. That was fantastic always looking over your shoulder for a guy who wanted to run you over with his car. I was actually engaged to a really great guy, but that ended too when he decided to head off to Europe without me – even though we had planned to go together. I’ll never forget the day he said, “I’m going this semester, you go when you want.” I was heart broken and felt abandoned. I’m not really sure how much that experience affected me, but I do feel the tingles of “why would he do that to me” even now, 20 years later. Then there was my now defunct first husband (sounds so much better than ex doesn't it?). It just didn’t work out – thank God almighty above there is a Lawd - Hallelujah. Oh yes, and the guy who said he was separated from his wife. Well, I suppose technically he was, he did, live in the freakin’ basement – allegedly. And he wasn’t surgically attached to her, so yes, I guess in his mind, that made him “separated from his wife.” Oh geez and the guy, who I swear to this day, had a prosthetic penis. There were unfortunately so many more dates that ended in a strong solemn, “What the F?”
So I thought I’d share with you, some of my dating “experiences.” I don’t want to call them disasters per se, but I think we can chalk them up to the equivalent of the bloopers scenes you find at the end of movies. If my love life were a crime scene, there would be a whole lotta chalk figures on the ground.
too be continued ...