i let them eat cake for breakfast and they didn't even finish their milk

Fuck yogurt. I'm searching for the perfect yogurt and I'm convinced that it doesn't exist.

I am meant to eat yogurt. It is good for me. It has much calcium and nutrients which my diet lacks. Also, I am meant to eat more protein because I lift so much, and yogurt has some protein. Apparently the popcorn, chips, toast, cereal and beer aren't cutting it. Fuck protein. Protein is something you have to cook. And it takes up all your daily calories in something that's not cake or something else that's bad for your body and good for your mouth. I'm five feet tall. I don't get that many calories to burn, even with all the exercising. I sure as hell don't want to waste it on boring old baked chicken or something like that. Fuck that.

The yogurt I'm trying today 9right now in fact - i'm typing with one hand0 is banana creme. It is neither bananaey, nor creamy. And the chunks of bananas are cold and kind of hard. One thing in life I hate in life is cold bananas. They're disappointing somehow. They're tastless and cruchy. Bananas are meant to be firm with some give - temperate and not squishy; definitely not crunchy. I can only think of one analogy for the right banana so I'm gonna go ahead and venture it. The perfect banana is like a well-sexed cock, right at the point before I've touched it this go round. He's still got a bit of give to him, but not for long.

I suck at analogy, remember? Fuck analogies.

**

But I still need a minute.

**

I've been on strawberry and banana yogurt for a long time now. It's an old standby. But it's kinda tart. Strawberries aren't my thing. Actually, fruit, besides bananas, aren't really my bag at all. I wonder if there is a veggie yogurt? And don't even begin to recommend plain or vanilla. Ger-oss. That's what you give babies; not grown people with actual taste buds.

I'm getting over the strawberry and banana thing. First, they're everyone's favorite and hard to find at the store. Second, it's kinda tart.

Oh, I said that already. Apologies, yada yada. Well, shit, what do you expect? It's a post on yogurt, not world peace.

I think that's all I've got on yogurt for now.

**

Nope. Thought of something else. One bite of bad yogurt is a deal breaker. I had one once and yogurt spent a year trying to entice me back into its creamy embrace.

Ok, that's it. I'm done.

**

Jack-olote - thanks for the Monday Morning imagery. Yummalicious. And no, I'm not stealing your titling method - this one is actually a thinly veiled private joke between me and PHF. He came in here when I was typing this and laughed.

Jeez, it's probably bad form to flirt with a guy over the internet and mention your husband in the same paragraph, huh? The men in my life are so tolerant.

**

I ran for two of five minutes yesterday on the treadmill and I'm sore. Fuck running.

so i'm just about to put on my jammies when...

Bree called.

Let me back up.

I was supposed to go to a movie with Bree and Fire Faerie last night, but I was too tired. Movies just mostly wear me out. That's why I don't think of going to a movie as the first thing on the agenda. Even at home (in our BROKEN theatre downstairs - aarrrgh!) movies are so much of an energy investment that I always consider long and carefully. Manchurian Candidate made me sleepy. Sixth Sense gave me nightmares. Braveheart gave me a hangover. Four Weddings and Funeral made me question the state of my marriage. The third Matrix just pissed me off for a day or two.

You get the idea.

So, I was too tired to see a film. I just don't have that kind of time in the next few days to fret over the plot and characters who keep popping up in my head like errant, rabid prairie dogs.

I did, however, have the gumption to go drink. I was to meet them for a drink after. I was still undecided (which was where I'd left it) (Christ, I'm taking my time getting to the point) but at a quarter to nine I'd just fired up my laptop to let the muse decide for me. If it flowed, I'd stay in. If not, I'd go out. No big plans for the outing, just a restaurant bar for a martini or two; or, in the case of Aidan and company: a fire-fight in which our hero finally realizes that, yeah, this chick that likes him might be worth a little effort.

Bree called.

Fire Faerie had gone home sick - hadn't even made it through the movie. It doesn't sound like what we all had; we'll find out today I suppose. But at any rate, she was too ill to even finish Hitch, a cute film, which (and I quote Bree here) "I suppose I'll never see the fucking end to now." I told her that he gets the girl. It's a safe bet.

"So I'm going to Target since I've got the sitter." Speed Racer is reliving his college days with some old buddies up in the mountains for something like a week. (Bree is the best wife ever!) "I don't want to go home yet."

Aidan looked at me with his giant grey-green eyes, breathing hard, gun in hand, and waited. I looked at him.

"Well?" he said.

"Fuck it," I said, snapping down the laptop lid. "Kill 'em tomorrow. I'm still dressed. Come get me."

We drove to Boulder because the mall bars after nine-thirty is booooring. First we got off on the wrong exit (I was right, she wouldn't listen - but hey, she was driving, so who am I to complain?) and then we drove through a neighborhood to find the correct street. It reminded us of our youth, driving around looking for a party with cute guys. We found three twelve year olds playing basketball, but that wasn't quite the action we were after.

The Dark Horse was dead. We didn't even go in.

So we headed downtown. "To the pub, then," I said, shrugging. When in doubt, the pub is a safe bet.

It only took us, say forty-five minutes to find a parking spot. I won't bore you with the painful details, but in the end we found a completely George-worthy spot a mere storefront away from the pub.

We couldn't get in.

In ten years I've never stood in line at the Pub. I mean, fuckin' a. I knew the bouncer, of course.

"You guys just have a run-in with the fire dept?"

He nodded. "Two weeks ago."

But he let us in after a bit, didn't even make us pay the dollar cover.

It was a weird crowd. Couples, mostly. Many, many couples. It was apparently date night in Boulder. Bree and I agreed, "Ok, so we're dates." Which works because though we're not perfectly the same size, we're close enough to share clothes. There's no point to being in a lesbian couple without doubling your wardrobe.

There was a group of about five guys; none of these things is much like the others? Ok, I take some literary liberty, but they just didn't fit. I figure they were geek contractors, each from a different city, stuck together out on a Saturday night in leiu of their hotel room $5.99 Spice Channel. One of them had a turban, for crissake.

There was the guy, obviously on a first or second date, who'd just bought his shirt and put it on out straight of the package. I cringed, sure that there were still pins in the collar. We made fun of him for awhile, but he never noticed. We tried to get the other to go up to him and go, "Hey! I like your shirt! Is it new?"

The band was relentless in their last set. They'd pretty much run out of music by then, I guess, and had settled into some long, whiny geetar solos. They were good when they played actual songs, but the jam session ran a little long.

I asked for Bass. The bartender told me they were out, but brought me a "really good red ale" instead. WTF? First of all, Boulder's a beer drinking town. Tell me the name of the beer, and ask me if I'd like to try a swallow before pulling a pint. Second of all, Bass is... Bass. There's no replacement, not since 1777. (Yuh huh, look it up.) Jerry never would have pulled that shit on me, but Jerry was off. I gave it back and asked for a Stella instead.

I did an embarrassing double-take last night. This wasn't a mere glance. This was a guy walking by me; kinda tall and kinda close, who looked down at me and smiled and my double-take was a head-turning, spine-bent-back second look. Nearly a stare. I was sure I knew this guy from somewhere. Had he worked for PHF before? But then I realized he was a dead-on double for that cute Lithuwanian (that's not right, but eastern European) guy on ER. I mean, dude, it was so him. Fuckin' A.

If I'd had more time I mighta scammed him some more. He was looking back at me, too. Tall, but cuuuuute.

An aside, I think the sex hair is kickin' in. Oh, and I can't remember who, but somebody asked me what sex hair is. I gave her a description, but I thought of a better one. Sex hair is the kind of hair that gets in the way of the porn-star's face when she's going at it. Sex hair is the kind of hair he grabs hold of to steady himself. Lunatic, am I right?

Lunatic??

Well, once he comes out of his sexual stupor he'll respond.

Bree's babysitter turned into a pumpkin at 11:30, so by 11:45 I was in my jammies giggling over "Lord of the G-string" with PHF. Now that's a funny fucking movie.

And yes, I think this post accurately portrays the tenor of my evening, as if you guys care. Now go do something with yourself, for crissake! Don't just sit there on the computer like a loser!

the dog moon

The whole fuckin Blogland is horny or doin' it, apparently.* (Except for Greg - there something you not telling us, honey?) I've read more shit about sex and masturbation on blogs in the past few days. I've been contemplating it myself (writing about it, that is. When it comes to actual sex, I don't contemplate, of course; I do.) I've been writing a sex scene in this latest book revision and it pretty much sucks. However, if I can borrow from Blogland, I think I have found a way to spice things up.

Because, not only are we horny, we sorta want it a certain style.

Jack!Jack!JACK! writes:

When I was young I was frightened that someone would find out I hump my pillow and think I'm a freak of nature.

Your worst fears come true, Jack. Heh. Just kidding. I'd better be careful. He's finally flirting back and for that I'm eternally grateful. He thinks I moved on and forgot him, or worse! got all sentimental and gave up the flirting completely. Never fear, Jack. I'm all over you, babe. Besides, what do I know? Maybe the pillow was right ways up.

Lunatic is gettin' some action:

Then again Sex Scenes isn't single but whatever, she sure is a lot of fun. We were going about it doggy style and her fucking dog was watching.

It sounds like it was Lunatic and me having the fun, but actually that is mostly** because of poor paragraphical (word, Krypto?) structure. (And that, children, is how we do a proper bloghop-rant. Lack of context is the key.) Looney's actually doing some blonde chic, which rules me out right off. I was blonde briefly, but I had to change hairdressers. PHF and everybody else complained. I'm just not a blonde. I could bleach my eyebrows and pubes and still no one would believe it. I just get too dark in summer, all exotic and shit. I also don't have a dog.

Even our new friend Neurotic Monkey is talking about sex; but of course within the context of popular media, his personal area of expertise and excellence. In this case it's that way cool show Carnivale (Sundays, HBO). This stripper chick wants it to be "special" for her latest luva, so she tells him to "put it back there". She ain't never had it that way before. The lucky guy, who runs the ferris wheel, goes, "Uh, ok." Or something like that; which I think was a pretty true-to-life reaction no matter your career choice. Even educated guys don't seem to care which orifice, as long as there's one available.

Then there's this poor Brit*** who is on the receiving end of the old back door sneak, albeit figuratively. A perenial mystery it is, too; at least for him.

This sex phenomenon occurs every few months and I'm blamin' the moon. However, there is something a little different about this moon. Have you guys seen it this time? It's fuckin HUGE and it's making people crazy for it, even in the bedroom. I'm forever going to call it the Dog-Moon when it gets so close and big and round.


*To put this in actual RL context - as I write this there are five kindergarten boys playing in my back yard. I'm a mother. I'm not dead.

**Wink-wink.

***Thanks to the Mayor

donation dilemma; do i or don't i?

So these Girl Scouts in the neighborhood are trying to earn the highest service badge by collecting books and magazines for the soldiers in Iraq. They request paperbacks and magazines appropriate for 18-25 year old males.

One issue is that there are girl soldiers in Iraq, right? What do they get to read? But then, they might not like In Style. Ok, I digress. The true dilemma is this:

I suspect that Isles and Cootz and back issues of Car and Driver only go so far in entertainment value for this set. The soldiers would actually really like magazines that aren't, er, appropriate for these girl scouts to even see the cover of. And it is the soldiers who are actually in the need. Wouldn't they be pretty excited to see a Playboy, Hustler, or even a Maxim in the pile?

But then, those girl scouts would see it too...

Do I send an R rated dontation or an X rated donation? Thoughts??

help, save us, bloghop girl!

Before Greg dies of embarrassment and everyone catches the flu from me, I'm embarking on a bloghop. This blog needs to lighten up! Besides I need a distraction from my pounding head.

Here's what I found:

A republican conservative from Texas who lists Holy Bible as his favorite book, calls Liberals "libs", and looks like a smarmy, pig-eyed, real estate lech in his blue suit and red tie. Uh, guy, I think that look is taken.

Wow. Even the Germans take stupid pictures of themselves on vacation. Look! My teenaged son in an orange life-jacket. He looks thrilled to be there!

"Get your Democratic Blue Truth Wristband today!" Good god, another fucking wristband? And blue is taken, btw. (By the Save the Anarchist Penguins Fund.)

Look at all this ugly shit I sewed and made my husband model for pictures to post on my blog. Yea! Oh, and here are our miniature schnausers, Lulubelle and Kookooclock. Fuck me, your life is boring and your husband is ugly.

Ok, this is funny. An aussie's blog with a link to the story about twelve American nuns who go on a twelve day alcohol induced shagfest (her words not mine - brilliant, really.) Guess the priest just wasn't doing it for them anymore.

Canadian political discussions? They got politics up there? Huh.

Here's some pix of my so-cute-she's-ugly baby. There was a special on photos at Sears!

This chick calls herself Wind. Wind. There's so, so much material to work with... processing, processng...system overload... lock up and crash. Help!!! Controlaltdelete me, quick!

Ad.

Ad!

Oh, fucking come on, another goddamned ad!! I'm about to give up.

This one's right after Jack's (yes, I took a break to read about how he hates my blog now)... She describes herself as "insane about knitting" and "in danger of becoming bored." Think there's a connection there?

A post entitled, "I should post more often."
uh, no you shouldn't.

(Some of these are sounding like repeats to me. Anybody want to check my archives and see?)

An entire blog about this guy working out and the trials and tribulations of this and that gym and this and that trainer. He complains that someone made up a blog just to mock him. Damn! Someone beat me to the punch. And, I can't resist, though it may incriminate me, he calls himself "Tight Package."

Jeez, it took me a whole ten blogs to get to any poetry, but there it fucking is, as always...

And now here it is in Portuguese. Ho hum.

Oooo goody, another Australian boytoy. Cuuute. Young. Sassy Australian accent... eh, no. He's engaged to "Stace." Stace is the fucking air and moon and shit. Moving on...

Ok, another monkey, and this one is goddamned hilarious (as we've come to expect from you monkey-types). I won't inflict all of you on him but I left him a comment and if he chooses to drop by then you, too, can witness the wonder. Jack, you will love this guy.

This guy had a panic attack while talking to his shrink about Panic Attack Self Help Books (his capitalization, not mine). I can't figure out whether it's a joke or not.

Ok, this one's pretty funny, about how he got "McGipped" at McDs. (Cold fries, no straw). He doesn't eat there often though because of "Super Size Me". Fuck, if one more brilliant, self-satisfied, overweight asshole tells me to see that movie, you'll never eat at McDonalds again I'm going to scream at the first opportune embarrassing (for them) moment, "I want to be fat and die young so just shut the fuck up and give me your fries, bastard!"

Looks like Farsi or something.

Looks like Japanese or something.

Definitely Spanish. Wtf? Have I entered the English Speakers Not Allowed Blogger Zone? Hey, whitey! Back of the blog-bus for you. I wouldn't put e-segregation past those Blogger engineers. Now that the new comment thingy is up and running (ok, well, mostly) they probably have nothing else to do but play with their broken foosballs.

My toilet won't quit flushing. It's been flushing for two days straight now. Why the fuck are you posting about this when you should be on the horn trying to find a plumber? That'd be like, like if I ran down between puke sessions and typed "Got Flu" and...

Oh.

Heh (Editor's note: what follows is a lame attempt at distraction.) He goes on to say that he drank too much and had to puke into the swirling vortex and that he forgot to wear deoderant today. Jesus T. Christ, buddy, you're fucking mess. I don't want any part of it.

Another knitter with a dog named Bootsy. It's all pix, even a picture of a fucking photograph on a table. Oh, and there are her valentine's roses, saved on the internet for all posterity. Faaaacinating. No mention of Steak and Blowjob day on her husband's linked blog.

French. Huh. That's a switch. I though the Gauls were too cool to blog. French looks too beautiful in print, doesn't it? It's probably an ad for hair implants or old man stiffies or something.

Valintines Day is one of the speacil days of the year to Americans. Vanlintines Day happens on the 14th of Febuary each year. On Vanlintins Day we show people how much we love them. Some people don't like this holiday much if at all. Nice of you to notice, Linds. Oh, and by the way, it's a blog, not your 100-word-minimum Language Arts essay on Valentine's Day.

A totally gay guy moaning over Brad and Jen. Dude, it's over. And, by the way, you're gay. Oh, he mentions his boyfriend Drew. They're moving in together. He actually knows he's gay. How refreshing.

Babes on the Net. Shit, guys! This is a family blog here! You know, someone tells you that there's pornography on the Internet, but somehow you just don't really believe it until some chic's legs are... well, you probably wouldn't want to hear about it.

Sometimes I find myself in a place, like in a dream. I feel like I’m looking at myself from the outside, wondering where I am and what I’m doing. It’s like watching a movie but this movie is about me. And a boring fucking movie it is, too. Rated G because someone said "heck."

A picture of a poor dog and the caption says Love. This. Dog. Is this more porn, or what? I don't get it.

Strippeklubb. I wish I could read this language, don't you?

"Who Else Wants To Share Their Secrets of Making Soap and Running A Thriving Soap Making Business?" If you answered "Yes!" then let's show each other how to Save Time and Save Money. Even if Soap Making is just your hobby and you never intend to sell a single soap, this blog may save you countless frustrating hours and a ton of money in the long run. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Oh my god, the blog of a CEO for a PR business. He writes: As the blogging phenomena takes off it's great to see all the tech players salivate as they imagine a vast new piece of Internet real estate being built. Where the hell have you been, buddy? And it's phenomenon for singular usage, asswipe. How he ever got to be a CEO, we'll never know. Funny enough, we don't care, either.

I need a nap. Blog you freaks tomorrow.

more proof that dumbgasm is repressing his gayness, as if we needed it

And I quote:

Trent and I are working on a recorder duet for something we've got coming up. It should be fun, I like playing my recorder. I encourage everyone to find their old recorder and play it. It is a great stress reliever.

I just don't get why he has to drag poor Trent along for his self-discovery ride.

flu, cont.

Trust me, Lunatic, it was no test. I lost five fucking pounds last night. And by the way Greg, thanks for all the sympathy. Gee, I pour my fuckin heart out yesterday and then my fucking guts out last night and all I get from you is, "You're always friggin' sick"?? Teenagers. Hmmph.

(There, how's that for snappy reparte, Kool Cathy?)

To the rest of you, thanks for the well wishes. I can date our illness (yes, PHF has it too, and like a typical man, he is waaaaaay worse, of course.) to the barfing bonanza that Monkey embarked upon Saturday night up at the lake. Her bed, my bed, every-fucking-where. (Another little-known law of parenthood is that your bed will be barfed upon a minimum of three times per child, not exceed 1000 times, and that you will have no replacement sheets available and so you will sleep - well, try to rest - with said quivering mass of sweaty child on your bare mattress, hoping and praying to some nameless god(s) that they don't barf right on the mattress because how in hell do you clean that up???)

It made for a lovely evening, and we even had houseguests (Bree and Speed Racer and two kiddos) and Bree already has it. Actually the rest of the weekend was a blast, snowmobiling and sledding and tubing on major hills, and tons of snow, and massive quantities of liquid gold. So there.

As for today: I'm up, and that's the most I can say about my condition. Don't know how long it will last. Oh, and I ate a piece of toast. So far so good. Yea.

got flu

you're beautiful

I got to see a face today that I've wanted to see for awhile. It actually didn't surprise me in the way it might've. Not just because he's described himself so well (he has), or that he's as cute/hot/pick-your-flavor as I'd imagined (he is). It's more how his face matches his words. I wrote this in a comment, but of course, Me the Novelist, needed to elaborate. His words are beautiful, eloquent, thoughtful and often serious, but nearly always with an underlying jab of humor; and his face looks exactly like that. If I saw him on the street I'd think, He's thoughtful and kinda serious, but I bet he's got a great sense of humor. His words belie his tender years, and so does his face. I hate to think of what put that age on his face, but thank God he's out of it now.

The only problem is mine, not his, but I'll share anyway. A slight bit of the specialness was missing since he posted his pic link on my blog, where, say a hundered people a day might run across it and check him out. I just hoped to be the only one. Or the only one for awhile. Selfish of me, yes, but there you are. I'm like that. I never professed to be one of those girls who are the "giving types." I pretty much just lay there in bed.

Ok, BAD analagy. To clarify, I DON'T just lay there in bed. I DO NOT.

At all.

By any stretch of the imagination.

However, I do like to think that I might have an appreciation for seeing his face that most others won't. We go back a little ways, and we've connected in a lot of ways. It's cool to know someone, but not know them, but still know you could actually be friends if you ever met up. We've got nothing in common, the least of which is 18 years between us (there, hon', there's a little gift for ya). We learn stuff from each other though. I don't think I've ever told him all I learn from him, but I do, nearly every time I read him; valuable things that give me hope. Don't even know why what he says gives me hope, but it does. Maybe it's all the flirting. He's a helluva good flirt.

It's especially not fair for me to think this way, wanting to be the only one, wanting to be the special "in-the-know" chic, because the one request (ok, one of two - but one goes unspoken) PHF made was, "No pics, please. I don't want anybody jacking off on your face, even if it's just a shitty deskjet copy off the internet. Especially if it's a shitty deskjet copy off the internet." He asks so little and tolerates so much. I can't, in good conscience, return the favor.

So, no pic to return, no cookies in the mail, no real connection between us but these stupid blogs. Only words, really. But powerful, huh? So I'll say thanks in the only way we've got here in Blogland. It's the right thing anyway.

Thanks, hon. I really appreciated it. You made my day.

warning: the following post may be sappy. well prob'ly not.

Me wee little lass, me baby-pie, me Monkey turns THREE tomorrow.

Yeah, I'm a mom. Get over it.

You may have noticed that I'm not a particularly sentimental mother. I don't moon over babies. I recognize them for what they are: devil spawn with cute toothless grins. I know they'll bite you as soon as that first tooth comes in, and they'll do it again with each one, just to make sure it's in good working order.

I don't wax poetic over days gone by; you know the old it goes so fast and they were just a baby, like yesterday. Well, no, time just goes on, like it pretty much always has. It's been three years since I first saw that little dark face and eyes and hairy body. Three years is a while. I've had a few three-year spans in my life, and as they go, this one was great. But it took the same time the other three year spans took.

But Three Years Old is a milestone in my book. Monkey's been talking since she was ten months old and walking since thirteen months, quit shitting herself (well, mostly) at around two and a quarter. She's definitely got her own ideas. So she's well past babyhood (though I referred to her as a baby today - go figure).

But three is... three is not a baby. Three year olds play soccer in my neighborhood. Three year olds go to preschool and learn stuff. Three year olds ski.

But most of what they do, at three, is turn into people. Miniature, but real people. And a lot of you might be saying, "Whew, congrats on getting past the terrible twos!"

You don't have kids, do you?

People who talk about Terrible Twos are ignorant poop-heads who just got caught up in the alliterism. There's a big secret to parenthood: it's actually Terrible Threes. No shit. Three year olds are sassy, rude, ego-centric people who will debate the merits of a juice box over Sunny-D for hours; well, that is, if you're dumb enough not to send them into time-out after the first hour.

They also know how to smile sweetly, tell you whether they want a clip or a ponytail in their hair, say "I love you, Momma," jump up and down when you let them pick out a balloon, rip off their clothes in order to put on the new outfit you just bought them, give strangling hugs, elicit a smile from the grumpiest guy in the grocery store, help you pick out snacks for playgroup, tell you thank you!when you tell them they get to go to school tomorrow, play hide and seek with their brother and actually count to ten before looking, sing the ABC song over and over and over, realized that mommy writes stories for a job (ok, wannabe job), paint pictures that look like something, and get absurdly excited over their upcoming third birthdays.

Tomorrow Monkey wakes up to balloons and cupcakes and friends and a new doll house and a big brother who's mad because he has to go to school on his little sister's birthday. It's the start of kid-hood for Monkey tomorrow.

Tomorrow's gonna be a great day.

test

Link

gone fishin

Per request, anon comments have been re-added. Please don't be a big fucking pussy and not say who you are, though. That's just lame.

Ok, the following three posts should keep you busy until my return. I love you all...
Just try not to have too many squabbles in the commentbox; and what, were you raised in a barn?? Pick up after yourself, brush your teeth, and push your chair in.

air hockey v. foosball

I just saw a debate over air hockey and foosball. As debates go, especially between these two, it was mild. They even came to consensus. But, the whole lights-out theory aside, they were wrong. (Besides if the lights out then you can't see the damn game, right? Who would play foosball in the dark?)(Ok, geeks would, but more on that later.)

No contest, hands down, air hockey is a clear winner. Air hockey is a one-on-one match, frantically, fervishly fast, best played in the thick of drunk with no-holds-bar cursing when you're scored upon. Air hockey tables are only found in bars, where those types of games belong, because they're big and heavy and expensive. Rightfully so. Bar games belong in bars.


On a hot day, the breeze is nice too.

I hate foosball. It sucks. You never get to swing the right way; especially if you're some loser chick you always end up going backwards. And they give you that look when you let the ball pass. It's not fun. You also can't have sex on a foosball table. Well, not decent sex.

Most guys love it. But then, they're team players. Wouldn't want to stand on your own for a few minutes, watching for that devilish puck to wing your way, and learn the hard way to keep your fingers off the damn rail! Nah, got to have a buddy or coworker to blame when the game goes south.

Computer geeks love foosball because they think it makes them cool (it doesn't, but shhh). Nearly every one of PHF's jobs has had a table, or two, and these weren't lopsided, sticky-handled contraptions that were missing several key players like a goalie. No, these were bought special for the purpose, carefully selected; people took fucking pay-cuts to purchase the best ones; and they were housed in "clean-rooms" with booties for your feet and magnetic neutralization air locks and chemical showers. PHF misses foosball at the office, because his office is in the basement, and foosball only goes with "Early-Dorm Decor", which our basement most definitely is NOT.

In my experience, geeks play foosball:
a. when they are stumped. This apparently happens a lot.
b. when the system crashes. This apparently happens a lot.
c. when they want to fuck around. This, too, apparently happens a lot.

When not blogging, geeks play a lot of foosball.

I bet the Blogger offices have a foosball table or two, reckon?

he's at it again

I'm pretty sure he's gay. Repressed, maybe, but Dumbgasm is on his way to admitting it. My theory is that he is escaping the house with four or six roommates to hide his nighttime "activities" in the garage. Dunno for sure, but I got this feeling...

He mentions it all the time. I'll pull a few quotes:

A recent title:
high five. RAISEYOURHANDIFYOURGAY!!

This title has no relation to the post and we all know that Jack is the only one who got permission from Blogger to do that.

And another:

Odd that there is a different lifestyle for me right now.
Not that kind of lifestyle.
A single lifestyle.

Kinda makes a point of it, doesn't he??

Then, of course, there was that whole Trent thing.

I think he might be coming to grips with it though. He had a singles party for S&BJ Day and they had to wear pink to get in. So he had the pinkest of the pink. There's a pic, even. I looked at it really close, thought No, it can't be, and then blew it up to look at it bigger.

Yup. Same Old Navy t-shirt as my daughter.

facing your demons

A long, long time ago (in this galaxy though) I swore to God - who I was sure was taking an avid interest in my ten year old self-discovery mission - that if He would help me keep my eyes open I would be one of those people who would see.

Let me explain. I think you either know what's going on around you or you don't. There's some middle ground there, and some people flip back and forth like bacon, sizzling merrily along without realizing that what lays outside the pan is a big hungry gut; but basically people fit into the "Know" category, or the "Denial" category. I also think it's a choice we make at some point, from the womb to early adolescence. I don't think it's always a conscious choice, because some folks got some bad shit to forget, right? But when I was tennish or so, I made that choice.

Looking back, I'm proud of wee little me for recognising that there is a choice. I think it was my soul talking at me, frankly, not God. No doubt my soul was a lot more savvy than my prepubescent self. Anyway, I swore that day to be "in the know." I even knew it was a choice with ramifications, and I said (out loud if I remember correctly), "No matter how painful, no matter how hard, I would rather always Know."

It was a momentous moment.

Knowing has always manifested itself most potently while facing my demons. Actually I think that's what it is; facing your demons, recognizing your fear and letting it sweep over you in a great, drowning wave, and hoping like hell you'll come back up on the other side.

I've had a lot of experience with this. The examples won't seem so great, but they're experiences that have changed me for the better. Hopefully Knowing will always change me for the better.

I had a shitty middle school experience. Lincoln Junior High was hell on earth, and in the middle of the sixth grade I became its newest detainee. They tracked (ability grouping - illegal even back then, as I learned at the good ole Kansas School of Ed) and as a new student coming in the middle of the year, I was stuck in the lower track. The teachers and other kids sucked, including but not limited to:

The lesbian gym teachers who used to watch us run naked through the showers. Oh yeah, and they tossed the towel so that we had to sort of leap for it, jiggling our little boobers in the process. Fuckin' weirdos.

Mr. Philips, the science teacher whose hall pass was a toilet seat and who used to be all composed and shit and then just lose it on our asses for no fucking reason. I've always been scared of yelling, still am to this day. I used to suspect that one day he'd start a rampage, smash his beakers and test tubes to the floor, and run screaming out of the building with his toilet seat pass around his neck. In the fantasy version the toilet seat would get hung up on a car bumper and he'd be dragged through the streets of Naperville, IL and his cold, bloody body finally dropped in Centenial Beach. No one would ever find him on the bottom of that, heh.

The English teacher who recognized that I could read and write as well as or better than her at age 12, and did absolutely nothing about it.

The girl, hell if I can remember her name, who tormented me for a solid year and a half until I told her to go fuck herself, I just didn't care what she thought. (I recall the scene vividly. I was walking down to the art room and she was sitting there outside the room and we were all alone in the hallway. I think it was before school. But she started in and I said my piece and she sort of shut her mouth with a surprised little snap. I sat down in the hall to wait too, and then she asked me what I was there for. It was a tenuous truce; but she never messed with me anymore, and she even went so far as to say, when someone else did, that we all should get over it. Nobody at that school ever messed with me again, come to think of it... There's something to standing up for yourself, isn't there?)(Goddamn if that knowing thing didn't just happen AGAIN!)

Anyway, you get the picture.

Well, guess what I got to do as an adult? I got to go back to middle school as an itinerate teacher/counselor. I got to walk through the halls, pretty much still shorter than most of the students, with my notebook under my arm and try not to look too dorky. And guess what? I was still a dork. It still sucked. Middle school will forever suck for generations of students. But I also learned I didn't care anymore. I was just... over it.

Then there are the handicapped. Yeah, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talkin' about. It's uncomfortable as hell when one comes around, huh? God forbid they talk to you... Well, when you go work for a wheelchair company for a few years it really changes your view, and not in the way you'd expect. Yeah, I gained respect for people in chairs and what they do and what they're up against. But eventually I got past that milestone to an even better philosophy. Wheelchairs are tools, not so different than strollers, as far as I'm concerned. I got fairly technical with it in my job, at one time I could practically take one down and put the damn thing back together again and there are hundreds of pieces to a decent chair, too. We spent hours in them, mostly because they were more comfortable than our office chairs and a well-oiled chair is just pretty damn fun to ride around in (for those of us who could get back up out of them whenever we wanted, at least). And of course several of my coworkers were in chairs for real. It just got to be no big deal. Past ignoring it or even trying to ignore it, but more like... like when a kid has braces. It's not a tabboo topic, but it's not something you talk about much either. It's just... there.

There's this chick at the gym in a chair and I asked her a few weeks ago, "Is that a titanium or a paint job?"

She looked surprised, and then she said (kinda proudly and rightly so), "Titanium."

I said, "Awesome."

I've been in a titanium and they are ultra-cool (and damn expensive too). I also got to meet some para-olympic atheletes supported by the company and these guys were hot. Built like nothing you've ever seen, lean and muscled and most of them were really cute in the face too. Those "racing chairs "
are awesome pieces of equipment. They are no different than a skier's skis or Lance Armstrong's bike, and I know that while a lot of people could say that, not a lot of people believe it in their hearts. I consider myself fortunate to be able to think that way. Again, I'm over it. There's not much mystique left to wheelchairs for me.

Oh, and I was scared of needles, fucking terrified of shots, and in my second pregnancy I had to give myself two shots a day in the stomach for seven months.

Not fun.

Needless to say, I got over it. Now I have five piercings and I'm contemplating a tattoo. The pain of the tattoo is the least of my concerns.

Yes, of course there are more demons, past and present. I have more than your basic law-abiding citizen's healthy fear of prison. I'm scared of the idea of losing a limb - unreasonably terrified that even if I lost the tip of my pinkie toe it would forever change my life (besides hurt like a mother-fucker.) And of course there's the children; they say that to have children is to forever put yourself out there. There's simply no true escape from fear once you have children.

But I still made the right decision that day.

I guess when I have no more demons then... well, then I'll go crawl into a hole and die.

Until then, bring 'em on.

this week sucks too, dammit

I suffered from a mommy-induced breakdown yesterday. Mommyhood has encroached upon me lately with a vengeance, sticking its measly fingers into every aspect of my life, switching what I want to do with what I need to do. I won't insult your intelligence by tempering this statement with a bunch of half-hearted platitudes like, "But I really enjoy being a mommy," and "My kids come first," because, frankly, that's bullshit. Most of being a mommy is like herding cats; snarly, obnoxious, rude little cats with their own agenda (as every self-respecting cat has) and then cleaning up the mess made in the process. Oh sure, they're cute and cuddly, and I love 'em to death - wouldn't have it any other way, really. But shit, lately I've been their be-otch (through no fault of their own), and it ain't fun.

Ordinarily my priorities go something like this: Me (translate: writing), PHF, the kids, and then whatever else needs doing. I think my priorities are in good order. If I don't write for a few days (like this week) I start pointless, nasty, lo-blow arguments with PHF (like yesterday). ( Sorry dear :/ ) No one understands my compulsion to write, and that's ok because I don't expect them to. It's a shame that it's there, but it's just a fact of life for me that I must write a bit everyday, and that each week must be punctuated by at least one hours-long, caffiene or alcohol induced jag of furtive creativity. Once I accepted that I literally will write my fingers numb and my shoulder into a cramp if I'm allowed, I became a much happier person.

I'm like the animal who chews its leg off to escape a trap; the story closes around me in a sort of trap of urgency until it gets OUT.

As for my other priorities; the close second is PHF. I chose him, after all, and he's mine. I've got a responsibility to put him ahead of all others - even vowed to it if that means anything. He was around long before the kids, and with any luck he'll be around long after. (Kinda like myself - with any luck I'll survive the madness.)

Then come the kids.

I don't think that they're third on the list is a detriment to them. After all, they've got a lifetime to be first for themselves and a significant other. But they're kids; second class citizens with fewer rights and a limited vocabulary. And I'm bigger than they are (albeit not by much) so they have to do like I say.

Yesterday afternoon, while stuggling mightily and without much success to express what the hell was wrong (I didn't cry though, dammit!) I never came up with the fact that I wasn't writing. It wasn't until last night, at the Dark Horse (Tuesday Night Tricycle Races! but that's another post entirely) one of my friends told me she'd written nearly two hundred pages in the last few weeks. She's been laid up, sick and there's nothing else to do, after all. And it hit me. What the hell have I done? I was pretty prolific on the blog last week (ie Music Post) but I've been avoiding my fiction. It's been festering under my skin though, and yesterday it broke out into a raging red rash. Time to get back to it.

After I get done buying all the shit for my kid's birthday parties (yes, parties; yes, she's only three; yes, I know she's over-indulged; we have a lot of friends so what-ev) buying the rest of her presents, laundry, working out, swimming lessons, volunteering at school, and packing for the lake, that is.

Ok, this blog has become so much about me that I'm frickin' bored as hell with it. Next time maybe I'll go for some social commentary and political analysis.

Or, I could always just post a sex scene.

i got questions, you got answers

Stole this idea from Amber Lynn. I realized I do have questions. So going on down my personal blogroll:

King Al- Where the hell are you!!?

Death - Nothing really to ask, but you are one cool cat.

Cryptic - How old are you? And, tell me the truth now, you really do get picked up in bars all the time, dontcha? Too cute not to.

Greg - What are you gonna be when you grow up? And do you have a Chinese middle name? (That would be kick-ass.) And are you really nineteen? You seem too damn mature and shit. (Way more than me.)

Jack - What are you gonna be when you grow up? And what d'ya look like - just basics, ya know, brown or blonde? And is your name really Jack Spencer?
Hmm, maybe if it isn't I don't want to know...

Jake, Kyle, Pete, Never Sober, etc... who of you live together? I'm confused and too lazy to research all your blogs.

Lunatic - How many, you reckon? Thirty? Fifty? And what is it about you?

Mayor- What's your ulterior motive? (Because I know you've got one!) Are you married?

La Chat - who are all the initials on your blog for - I can't figure them out. Is that a boyfriend or husband or what? Ditto on the lazy thing.

Blue- what would you do if you could do whatever you wanted?

Monkey - What do you do in RL? (don't have to be specific - you know, desk monkey or truck monkey or whatever?) What's your favorite hobby/pasttime/sport (and blogging isn't a sport!)

Krypto - What did you do this weekend?? And if things were different, would you let me come "put you out of your misery"?

BDS - How many still live in Goddard?

All others:
If I know you; tell me something about yourself that I don't know.
If I don't:
Got somebody? What's the one thing you hate about them?
Don't got? Do you ever hook-up just for fun without intention to call? And is it really great?...

happy s&bj day

The steaks are chillin' in the fridge, awaiting marninade.

My Valentine's gift is proof of exactly how tolerant PHF is of my lewd behavior, my crass remarks, my scamming teen-aged boys at the mall, my on-line and otherwise flirting; as well as proof of his belief that try as I might I couldn't find another one like him if I tried:

He got me the movie Troy.

no guts no glory

There are now incriminating photos of Dumbgasm on his blog. Him playing video games. Him sitting next to a "friend" and looking for all the world like a fucking chick. (I think that was PHF's quote: "He looks for all the world like a fucking chick." Can't be sure; I was drunk at the time.) Duran Duran does not begin to describe his hair.

Oh, and I saw the "garage."
Su-weet.
(not.)

For those who doubt, these pictures would be the proof that he exists.

For those who believe... trust me, it's way worse than you imagine.

But I don't think I'll be posting them any time soon, if ever. Two issues:

Can't get the fucking pic program to work. It sucks, I suck, Blogger sucks... etc. Everyone else does it with ease, but not me. I'm no loser with computers. I have the capability to muck and fuck until I make the goddamn thing do what I tell it. But the prior pics on here were accidents. Fucking accidents. And it's an accident I cannot recreate.

Or, will not recreate.

Because I've already quoted this poor guy extensively, sometimes out of context - though Fire Faerie saw him and his blog this weekend and told me that I wasn't that far out of context. But because of him and my uncontrollable mocking of him, somewhere down deep there's an acidic mint on a pillow with my name on it. It's a place where country music is piped in 24/7 and I'll wait in a year-long queue for the door in those shoes that I wore last night.

But there's no reason to drag this poor guy along with me. He's one of the ones who doesn't know. (I know you don't get that. You will; read on this week.) Poor guy. He's got enough problems; he sure doesn't need me spreading his pic around the net, as well as his words.

Besides, you never know... he might find me. And there is no guilt like the guilt of someone caught-in-the-act.

drunk post

Going full out, no editing. Still haven't taken off incredibly sexy yet painful high heels. PHF taking babysitter home. 40th birthday party for a couple across the street. Strippers. Wow, I type pretty good drunk.

Guy stripper upstairs:
Why is there always a grannie present??
When asked why not as exciting as chick stripper (read: no babyoil like downstairs with "Skye"):

"Girls like fantasy."

Bull-fucking-shit.

Fuckin' incredible abs though.

Girl stripper:
Skye.com

my height and body but with boobs. big debate over whether they were technologically advanced or not.

big hit of the evening: taking shots from glass between her thighs (usually done in twos - 5 bux a pop) and then licking whipped cream chaser off nipples. Couldn't find five bucks to get PHF to do it. Jebus that would have turned me on.

Kinda a turnoff how she wiped down with antibacterial wipes between each round though. Nipple piercings were also a turn-off.

But she stayed pretty late.

One guy (whose wife wasn't there) was inordantly interested in blogs and the whole philosphical ramifications of blogging. Took the whole fun out of it but PHF says he was just interested in me. Jackie and Greggie, you came up :)

God did I just use a smilie?? Fuck me. I'm drunk.

happy saturday

Last night was fun. The guys got off imitating "goat-boy" from SNL all night long and I love those jokes that keep reappearing. La-a-a-a-a-ghed until I cried.

This morning I stayed in bed until ten. I think it was a solid eleven hours. My entire arm is numb and my shoulder is killing me, but the kids were awesome and hung out without fighting and PHF cuddled me and everything. (All right, get your minds out of the gutter!)

Utter-fucking-heaven.

Tonight we have a party across the street. Super-happy-fun-time-awesome, to be sure. Nice to know I'll just have to stumble across the street to get home. I don't know these folks all these well. Wonder if they'll get mad when I flirt with the cute husbands?

Hope y'all are having as a good a day.

Heh. This is such a fucking lame post. Hopefully it will be good fodder for someone ELSE'S bloghop.

Oh, speaking of, my morning wasn't as cool as Dumbgasm's:

"Cartoon breakfast was pretty good too, I got to make it for the last 1/2 hour of it. Kind of fun, but seemingly low attendance. I wish I could have gone to the whole thing."

a picture for those of you who can't read

 

now he wants to be a girl

Dumbgasm just ran his name through a compatability/dating program at his school, only he changed his name to the female version. Think Pat... no, think, hmmm, Michael to Michelle. Anyway, he came up with a list of names of guys who would work and is wondering if any of them will call...

If I were him I'd be wondering if they'll come to his sleepover. No word on how that went down (or whom), or if the sleepover even happened, but I still hoping.

potty break

The latest from Dumbgasm, incriminating names edited out to protect the innocent, colors edited out to protect the brain cells:

Do you know the awkward feeling you get when you start talking to someone in the hallway, right before they head into the bathroom? It happens alot in [building]. Those bathrooms right there by the student lounge? Today I was walking past them, and someone I had made eye contact with and was about to greet to hung a left and went right into the womens bathroom. That was close. I almost said hello, which would have led to her standing with the door half open saying hi back. Creepy.

Creepy, indeed. If you're, like, twelve.

And a commentbox response:

I know how you feel. Today I was coming from the basement to our building and this girl was going to walk past me so I like stop and talked to her when I realized I was standing right in front of the bathroom door. So i felt kinda awkward as i figured out she wanted to go use the room.

On that note, I've got to go pee.

holy fuck that's huge!!

Ok, I'll probably need to take a break after the music post. It's a long 'un so sorry.

music snobs, you know who you are...

Warning: each day is worse than the one before. I won't bore you with the boring details except to say that putting my two children to bed took me nearly an hour and that doesn't include a bath, and they miss their dead cat, to which for some unknown reason I became possessed by Satan and replied, "Well, I can't bring her back, can I?"

And everybody cried SOME MORE!!

Don't you wish I was your mommy??

**&^%%$$$#@##$%&^&**

A quick update on you-know-who. I was going to wait for an answer about whether I could steal a name from Never Sober Guy, but he slammed my jeep, so screw it. Waterbed guy is now dubbed: Dumbgasm. I thought it fit nicely with his feature on his waterbed, and the dumb part works for the location of the bed, among other things.

Nothing new to report except that today he discovered colored font, which will be good for better expressing his emotions.

**&^#$%^&*())((*^%%$**

Now, onto our feature presentation:

What follows was a rather diplomatic post about music tastes (mine in particular) of which I wrote the rough this morning. However, I suspect things may take a turn for the worse. This is a response to something Tommywommy said on Jack's (<--- see over THERE for link)(ok, that took as long as just throwing up a link) post about headphones. Basically, he ripped on Ipod. Then he said to me "Bring it, girl" which totally turned me on, and he should know better than to do that THIS week of all weeks. Next week I'd just "take it out" on PHF. This week I'm taking it out on all you. I suspect some of you are the teensiest bit of music "snobs" (translate: know-it-all fucks) who might assume because I like Green Day and Lincoln Park and because I own an Ipod that my music tastes are mundane.

First to address the Ipod issue. Ipods are rather like an abusive boyfriend who buys you lovely gifts and takes you to fancy parties. It's an absurdly expensive, inferior, yet convenient, user-friendly, stylish product that I am often displeased with, but also love with a passion beyond reason. (I fucking dropped mine twice today. Fucking-A.) (Hey, this is fun, I think I'll put my additions in parentheses so you can tell the difference between my mood this am and now! Ok, well, it's fun for me, so piss off.)

I'm no music expert, and I find those who are a bit tiresome. (I hear one and yell, FIRE!! to escape.) I don't seek out underground bands and the latest shit, unless it comes at me through the radio or from friends. Frankly I don't have the time. Boulder has a great scene and I put my time in coffee shops and bars, but the kids are too young now. (Read: free show, four bucks in coffee, twenty in alcohol to bring me down after the caffeine, and a cool fifty in babysitting. The band had better be pretty fucking awesome.) (I'm really selling parenthood to y'all, huh.)

I took a few year's hiatis from new music in the 90s because all the radio stations in KS frankly sucked. (Sucked doesn't begin to describe it - I went from Lawrence, a mecca for music and other forms of intelligence, to Wichita. Wichita.) I recently started actively listening again when I started writing, and imagine my delight to "discover" all that ten-year-old great music. Yeah, I discovered it late. I didn't listen to Nirvana until after well after Kurt was dead. I'm trying out Industrial; with a much more patient ear than I had in my 20s, I might add. I'd heard Green Day before, of course, but I just recently invested in all their albums. So sue me. What the hell does it matter when you discover something? That's one of my problems with music snobs - they got real bad "heard it first" syndrome. (They also can keep everybody's name straight and I'm awful at names. You should see my blogroll - it's got everybody's names on it next to the names of your blogs so that I can keep them straight.)(But I love each and every one of you for YOU!)

I can't speak about popular music all that intelligently, but I sure as hell can listen intelligently. This is because I was blessed by having teenaged guys as older brothers (I'm ten years behind) in the 70s right when all the really great rock was in its drug-induced, guitar-smashing, long-hair, tight-jeaned splendor. I was too young to go to concerts, but I listened to the vinyl and I had cool xxsmall t-shirts, like the Stones and The Who, that they brought me back from the actual shows. I could recite Hotel California from memory like poetry. I have some of the Beach Boy's autographs. I knew who Elvis Costello was before he was anybody, because my brother went to listen to him in a bar and no one else was there so they chatted for awhile.

Additonally, my dad invested in a decent stereo when stereos first got decent: component based with fuckin' monster speakers. When it came time for me to get a boom box for my room, Dad wouldn't let me because the sound was inferior. I had a real stereo, fairly good for the time, and it played vinyl, 8-track AND tapes, which were new then.Even my mom; whose sole but eloquent contribution to my popular music education was to say, "I don't do country;" always listened to rock and popular music. (Satan, tie me up and make me listen to Britney Spears if you must; but true Hell to me is hearing the opening strains of any country song without spotting an exit sign.)

(My parents also let me watch Saturday Night Live when it was new - as in I saw Killer Bees when it first aired. I was pretty little, and most of what I recall is them doubled over in laughter and gasping, "This isn't appropriate for little Sex, here, but I don't want to stop watching to take her to bed." Never quit watching it either. Well until about five years ago when it really started sucking. Jebus, guys, give up the ghost already.)(Another interesting side note: I saw Jim Belushi on the stage - can't remember the fucking play - the day John died. He went on anyway and I've always respected him for that. And I saw Yul Brinner in The King and I and Cats in London and Mark Hamill in Amadeus and he smiled at me. It was a matinee. We were the youngest people in the place.)(I don't know where I'm going with this. Holy fuck, I've got to get some sleep, so moving on...)

I think I have a decent working ability to recognize good music when I hear it, if not always why it's good. I also have a natural ear. I can always recognize artists' voices when they sub in other bands. When listening to Green Day live I realised ahead of time that Billie Joe wasn't going to carry out that long note at the end of Holiday - the rhythm was off and I could hear that he didn't have the air to do it. (He did one later, even longer. That boy's got lungs on him.) It took me one vignette on Idiot to realize that it was a rock opera, and I talked about it being an opera before the guys on the radio did. That's why I insisted on seeing them live right away so that I could see it performed fresh. (To my everlasting disappointment, they did not perform the entire opera. Fuckers. But I'd see them again in a heartbeat.) I know enough to appreciate that Chester has a vocal range practically unheard of in this day and age, as well as a valuable sense of humor about his ability. (He reminds me of someone of old, but I suck at names, remember?) I can appreciate how Brandon Flowers does so well in Britain because I've heard years of music come out of that country, and I can hear the influences on Franz Ferdinand and Social Distortion because I heard those influences when they were new.

As to the Ipod, yeah, I know the sound sucks. I love music, but I have a little bit of trouble catching nuances of the tunes since my ears are a bit worn from attending concerts for about TWO DECADES longer than many of you. I also like listening to music LOUD. Always have, always will. We have some serious, custom-designed stereo/media equipment at home. I don't know about the Bose headphones, but I've been in the store and their shit doesn't begin to compare to ours. However, my stock Bose system in my car is ok (no point in investing in real stuff when there're tender virgin ears in the back seat). Better than the MBCourts in Beastie - I blew one of those in the first two months. Courts used to be awesome ten or fifteen years ago, but maybe not so much now. I don't listen to my Ipod to get a "total music immersion experience". I listen mostly to keep the losers from talking to me. I have all albums on my Ipod and mostly I listen to entire albums.

Oh, and no discussion of my taste can go without a mention of PHF. He shaped my later likes - he did the 80s with gusto, but the grimmer stuff like the Cure and Cult and Depeche Mode. He also introduced me to REM. I'd heard them before, but he took me to my first show. We've seen them four times, from sixth row in a teensy Kansas City venue to Red Rocks. Currently I've got a couple of folks to advise me about music, among them BB. He's got superb wide-open taste - but then, he went to school in Austin where music is obviously king of the hill.

Music lists are also tiresome, but in the interest of learning more (yeah, here's where you get to tell me what I should like - hang on Tommytunes, we're nearly through), I'll share a little. We don't have the hugest library - probably around 200 or so, but I'll tell you what's in my changer at home - which is the biggest indication of what I'm listening to while writing, which means what I'm really listening to. Lorenna McKennit, that rap/linkin park thingy, the Cult - Sonic Temple, and an older Offspring, can't recall which one, and Sum 41 from a few years back. Feel free to make suggestions of things (crap) you like and I'll give it a try. Those who scoff my taste, I'll say in advance to go fuck yourself.

Shows I want to see (but probably never will):
U2. New album sucks, but the old stuff is golden.
Stones. Does Keith Richards even still have the fine motor skills to chord?
The Who. It was always a fucking lottery. I never win at anything, not even Bingo.
REM. Maybe at Red Rocks in July. Last September was fucking freezing!!
Something industrial. I have a feeling this would be best live, but what the hell would I wear?? BB, help me out here...
Linkin Park. Yes, Tomilicous, Linkin Park.
Flogging Molly. This one is more likely.

Music types:
Country. Sucks. The. Big. (T)Wang.
Jazz is only good live. I loathe recorded jazz.
Christian Rock. eh. I swear to give your bro-in-law a try though, FF.
Rock - Soft rock or any bastardization of rock is a travesty. Rock is sacred.
Punk, Punk-Rock - probably closest to my tastes, but I get sick of anything.
Alternative - ditto.
Chamber/Classical- I can take a short bit recorded, but I love much of it live.
Showtunes -Let's leave it to the gays, shall we? I tried for years to like musicals, but people breaking into song just ruins a good play for me.
The Wiggles, and various other kid music. I know lots of moms who listen to that rubbish in the car with their kids. Good for them. I think I've made it clear that I'm hardly mother of the year. (My kids will thank me later.)
Rap- I wanted to like it. I really did. But I find it mostly annoying and so full of slang and profanity that even I won't play it in front of the kids.

Oh, and yeah, I had my metal days too. Then I grew up and went to high school.

Ok, let me have it...

disclaimer: read post below first

No links for you! You guys have to prove to me that you won't abuse the priviledge by leaving a bunch of comments that will lead him back here. I might be able to trust, say, Tommylommylooneytunes, to go and return without commenting. But I can't trust the rest of you! Besides, how will I maintain exclusive hazing rights if everyone can read him?? But I promised updates, so here's the first.

In an effort to field questions about why he put a waterbed in the garage he informs us that he's moving out there, despite sharing a nice house with great roommates, because he sleepwalks and creeps out his roommate. (His pic wasn't the first clue that he was creepy.) Also, there are lots of outlets out there. Why this is important, we've yet to learn.

Oh, and if you were wondering, the waterbed only cost 25 bucks. Sounds nice doesn't it?

...it took care of the problem of no clothes storage out there, because it has six drawers built in...

Or, you can keep your stash in it.

...So I'm not going to move out until probibly after spring break, but I might have a sleep over out there with some of my friends tomorrow just to have fun

Yeah, that'll be great...

Obviously, he runs with an exciting group of folks. If the above plan doesn't sound titilating enough, this is what one of his (I'm gonna have to make up a real handle for him and I'm taking suggestions) mates said the other day about going to McDonalds:

The 2nd amazing thing was the pop machine... Yes, there was a first amazing thing about using an ATM card at the drive through. Fascinating shit, that. ..The guy just imput all the information like the size and beverage. Then it was like... LIKE?? Is this guy a twelve year old girl, or what?? ..all automatic from there. It had this arm thing pull out the cup then was like on a revolving track and ice was spit into the cup. Then the pop was poured in then another shot was put in to top it all off. Now if the machine could have just put the lid on it and handed it to me i would have said McDonalds you have gone to far and are scaring me.

Holy fucking shit, what will those crazy people at McDonalds come up with next?!?! However, I am interested in the "second shot to top it all off'... d'ya think all the petitions and boycotting have finally paid off and McDs will start serving alcohol??

I know I'm being nasty, and my fascination with this guy will probably end by Saturday, when I plan on rectifying the fact that I'm undersexed and stone cold sober. So I'm not as tolerant of the exceedingly prevelant stupid assholes in Blogland as I usually am.

And I only got three hours sleep last night since I drank tea and hot chocolate instead of whiskey.

And I think I stepped on someone's toes a bit today, or at least caused him a bit of anxiety, and for that I'm feeling truly sorry.

And it's only fucking TUESDAY!!

I hate this week, all week long.

one hundred percent true bullshit i've read on blogs tonight

As promised, the latest bloghop. The goal is one a month. Or more, if I'm feeling vindictive. Or particularly fine. Or whatever.

In the style of Krypto, quotes are unedited and in italics. (Thanks in advance for sharing your modus operandi, Mr. K.) Quotes are also taken completely out of context.

This is the first bloghop that I will compose as I read: usually I take notes and compose later. Let's see how this goes, shall we?

1. Poem after poem after poem after poem... three months worth (I checked the archives) and all about the same damn guy. No wonder he dumped you, bitch. You're a fucking black hole of need. Go stalk him already and have done with it.

2. Photos from... Iowa. I think I've seen this one before. My cousin calls Iowa "I Owe the World an Apology". He's pretty hilarious, my cousin.

3. Details about cleaning out her closet and now she's moved on to the bathroom - complete with photographs of her bottles of shampoo. I'm embarrassed now because I mentioned something about cleaning out my closet lately (actually it was PHF's - he's the one with all the out-of-date PLAID). This must be fate's way of telling me that I neared Loserville the other day. Accept my apologies. It won't happen again.

Shit, she uses some cheap-ass shampoo.

4. A truly fucking gorgeous Portugese guy; but predictably alas, much of his blog is in Portugese as well. Down, girls, down!! Christ he's hot.

**letmecatchmybreath**

Ok, in the interest of science... oh, who the hell am I kidding? For the ladies: I'm posting a link to his pic. DON'T make me regret this by doing anything stupid, and guys, I MEAN YOU!

5. Lots of colored fonts on a black background (ouch! my eyes are burning!) and lots of major personal change (ouch! my brain is burning!)...

6. Notes on a class on Sales Management. Huh?

Here I simply must digress. Business is BORING, people. Sales is even more boring. It's only the necessary evil to get the money to buy the things that make me happy. Nothing more. Sales people are the most obnoxious asslicking fuckers on the face of the planet and I'm convinced that most of the world's problems would be solved if they all would just GO AWAY AND DIE!

People hate to sell me cars because I am immediately so predjudiced against the sales people that I go in pissed off and piss them off right back. I'm actually a marginally friendly person, but if someone acts the least bit salesy toward me I turn on them like a rabid, undersexed, sadist bitch in heat. Seriously, they learn to hate me verrry quickly. You should have seen the Audi guy who didn't like my joke about "how you could just put a couple of flags on the front of the A8 and call me the ambassador." PHF laughed, but the comment talked him out of the car. The sales guy thought I insulted his product (hey, it wasn't me that designed a mid-size limo and called it a sport sedan) and he still hates me even though we bought a rockin' A6 from him. I don't think I ever called him asshole to his face, but then, I can't be sure...

I thought it was one of my more brilliant car buying comments. I thought it was pretty damn funny, in fact.

ok, next...

7. A guy who was born in Canada, grew up in Indonesia, went to high school in Australia, spent half a year in Hawaii, and ended up back in Canada. This is my story...

Holy fuck that's facinating. Tell me more!

8. David got his tests results back that was looking to see if there was anymore cancer in his body or bones AND there is NONE!!!! (besides the tumor he has in his Kidney)

I know I just fast-tracked myself to Hell for posting this, but isn't this just a tad... um, sad and ironic? I mean, I love you guys and all, but I can't imagine posting about someone close to me having cancer. In fact, if I drop out of sight without a word then you can safely assume that something AWFUL has happened to me or someone I love. Oh hell, I'd probably have to drop a line to my oldest blogmates Jack and Greg (we go waay back - you know, all the way to October of 04), but I don't write about that heavy shit and I think it's rather pathetic when people do.

Ok, back on task... trying to think of something nice here... the guy had cancer, after all...

Hopefully writing your blog helps you, uh, deal with it...?

:D


Dear Satan,
If I sign up early can I have a room with a view
into the courtyard pool filled with the boiling oil?
And do you have any off-season discounts I should
know about?
thx, Sex


9. A blog about baseball written by someone who provides this self- description: "And I'm single, so ladies if you like scrawny, displaced guys from Indiana, give me call."

Let me just go on record: The only thing baseball is good for is the cold beer. Period. End of story. Fucking boring game, people who talk about it are even more fucking boring. Jeezo-pete, and scrawny too. And he wonders (out loud in his blog) why he can't get a date.

10. Why do lawyers think they're so interesting?

11. Steph's blog. Steph is in high school, if you didn't duduce that from the title. Steph wants to be an actress. Steph has a boyfriend Alex who is smarter than her because he knows they're both going away to separate colleges and will meet other people. (Alex is not so smart in telling Steph this though - it's not exactly the way to get laid. Or, well, having met Steph, maybe it is...) Steph has a cat who she loves and homework that she hates. Steph doesn't like the bus and wonders when her daddy will buy her a car.

12. the stupidity of post titles such as im feeling much better i got a haircut today and heres my new backpack which is actually a briefcase wtf was only eclipsed by the bloggers style and made me want to cry i get beaten down by how fucking stupid people are i think it was clever joe who said that most people are nothing more than bacteria or something like that i thought of you krypto together we could start a punctuation revolution

13. Steph's blog... AGAIN?? wtf? Musta hit back. Ok, maybe doing this real-time isn't such a good idea.

14. My coworker's brother works at a Chili's opening near my office so I was invited to lunch there today. Since it was a pre-opening training lunch, the food was complimentary - the only thing we had to pay for was the alcohol. I don't drink so I ended up getting an order of Boneless Sesame Ginger Chicken Fingers, a bowl of Broccoli-Cheddar soup, a Cajun Ribeye with steamed broccoli and sauteed mushrooms, onions & peppers and a diet Coke in exchange for a $5 tip!

Does life get any better than this?

Uh, yeah, if you're not a complete loser. Loser.

15. This guy signs off "good night, good fight" on every post and it's really bugging me. What does this mean? Can anyone tell me what this means? Have I missed some essential cultural trivia or is this guy just totally gay?

16. This one describes himself as "not unkind." Yeah, specifics on the internet can be dangerous, dude. Never know who's reading. Good thinking.

17. An entire personal blog about coffee. All that caffeine and I still couldn't stay awake.

18. PHF would be orgasmic over this one. It's about turning some shitty old volvo into "an award-winning race car." How about "a race-winning race car", moron?

19. It is just dawining on me that it is February, and I haven't had one single hug yet this year!

I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.


20. Ok, here I've got a confession to make. This last one is out of order. I actually read it second, but moved it down to save the best for last. You are in for a real treat with this. Take a mother's advice, go potty so you don't wet your pants. Really. We'll wait.

The first thing I read: I checked out a waterbed and bought it. I'm bringing it here tomorrow. Pretty sweet. I cleaned out the garage to get it ready for the waterbed. It needs another good sweeping and then a bit of carpet, and it will be ready for occupancy.

Ok, is it just me or is that fucking creepy or what?!?!?!

In the prior post he writes: Trent looked awesome, wearing tight jeans and a tight shirt with my orange leather jacket. He says that he looks gay... (Personally, I've got to side with Trent on this one.) ...He doesn't realize that even if he looks a little gay, it is really hot, and enough girls said that to him that he realized I was right...

Poor, poor Trent.

And in the same post: Skate night was fun, I wish I could skate better, and more often. I really have trouble with going backwards. Yes, he means roller-skating. The eight-wheel variety.

This is a college student! He's either the biggest dork in Blogville or he's a brilliantly creative writer with many, many best sellers in his future.

But wait, there's more! In another post he writes: My dad bought that bus. I don't know if I posted that on here or not. I hope I get to use it sometime, it would be alot of fun.

Use it for what?? To bring chicks back to the waterbed in your garage??

I have to bookmark this just to find out what happens next. He claims not to drink, but he does say this: It makes you wonder, however, if you really are crazy, and this world you live in is really just one made up inside your head, and you might actually be locked up in a straight jacket. Yeeaah, makes you wonder...

Roller skating, waterbeds in garages, and his dad bought a fucking bus. I still don't get it and past posts are not enlightening me. If you promise to leave no incriminating comments, I might link him to him from here at some point in the future. In the meantime, rest assured that I'll keep you updated. Good fucking humor, that one.

I can't stop reading it...

"What am I going to do with my hair tomorrow?" I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. There's a pic and his hair... well, think Duran Duran. No, think bad imitation of Duran Duran. Did I mention the awful moustache that's way wider than his mouth and way darker than his truly awful hair?

It's got to be a joke. For his sake, please let it be a joke.

I've never gotten so much mileage off of one blog before. It's Hell for me for sure, now. It's taking everything I have in me not to leave rude, hilarious anon comments on it. Muuust... resist... muust hit next blog now...

**

Later : Oh mfg, he just posted again tonight:

The waterbed is set up nicely in the garage. I measured for carpet, and went and looked at the roll of carpet in the attic storage. It was the right width, so I carried it down and rolled it out, and the length was right too. Sweet. It comes just past the door, so you can walk in, take off your shoes on the carpit. That and there is still cement in the workshop part.

I'm at a complete loss. I'm just... speechless. I just spit hot chocolate all over my new keyboard. Fuck.

Later STILL: Shit, I can't stop adding to this. I just found:
I steal my roommates office supplies in my sleep. Seriously, I woke up the other day with his permanent marker under my pillow.

On that note, I'm off to read about vampires by the people who brought us such eloquent Elf sex. And yes, once again, Krypto, I'm thinking of you...

naked mopping in prison. are you excited yet?

You know I don't do political/social/cultural interviews, unless it somehow relates to me or sex (or some combination of the two) but this I couldn't resist. Besides, I'll find a way to bring it around to sex anyway. I nearly always do, right? So bear with me(or is it bare with me? teehee) .

Martha Stewart is the doyenne of keeping house. She rose up through clouds of dust to create her own rag - a magazine on how to live. According to her, "how to live" includes pasttimes like polishing silver and going to tag sales and making homemade crafts with your kids and shit like that. I was into that once. Now I couldn't give a flying fuck (though I am interested in a flying fuck...). Funny how time changes things. But I digress.

Wobbly-hood is fast approaching Martha now, but in her time she was a model. She was pretty hot, too, in an early eighties sort of way. No, there's no link. If you're so interested, Google her. Too many links in a post drive me mad anyway.

Since then she seems to have tapped into the national culture of "home-making." A longing of and for women, who'd gone out into the work force, to come home and do something meaningful with their lives. (How vaccuuming properly is meaningful, she never explained to my satisfaction; but whatever. She's the zillionare, not me.)

I think that's p.c. bullshit. I think she tapped into something more prevelant, and ultimately more powerful. I think she realized the money making potential in a man's horniness. Because; if blogs are to believed, and I think they are; apparently guys think that chicks doing domestic chores is hot. (The fewer clothes the better, of course.) Never got why but apparently it is so. It must be all wrapped up in that freaky wanting-to-fuck-your-mother syndrome that Freud thought up back before we had more important things to think about like the latest styles at Abercrombie.

As far as chicks doing chores: I think guys are tools if this sort of thing turns them on. And if it does turn you on, my advice is to keep close to the vest. Most chicks won't appreciate it.

It's about doing creative things with mop handles, you point out. It's about interrupting vaccuuming the stairs to fuck on the stairs. It's about French maid uniforms.

Do French maids even exist - now or in the past? I somehow doubt it. Oh, there are maids who are French, obviously, but do they wear short-short skirts and tight aprons? Probably about as likely as porn-nurse costumes appearing as regular attire in hospitals; though I'm in agreement with Monkey - those uniforms would make hospital stays much easier to take.

But, you say (struggling to remain patient while waiting for me to get back to the point, which is being nekkid) It's not about getting the chores done. It's about bending over and showing me your ass while you scrub the bathtub.

Yeah, well, I think I might've associated housework with sex for six minutes back in 1991 but now it's been relegated to "pain in the ass" status. But to each his own.

Guys think that women in prison are sexy too. If real life imitates porn, as it should, then the women prisoners just screw the prison guards and each other to pass the time until they get out. And they do domestic duties around the Big House too, mopping and laundry, sweat dripping attractively down the cleavage revealed by their tight zip-up prison uniforms. So it's doubly exciting for guys, I guess.

Like housework sex, I never thought prison sex was all that appealing. But somebody (coughcoughtools!) likes it, because prison porn abounds. Usually the porn- prisoners are wearing cut-offs and tight tank tops. Sometimes they aren't even grey. But hey, it's porn, right? Not real life, as much as Monkey and I would like it to be.

With all of that on my mind lately I decided to consult Martha herself. She's the one expert I could think of that had experience in these two topics - housework and prison, and I'm hoping she'll enlighten us on the link between the two: guys' disturbing, adolescent sexual fantasies.

Me: Thanks for joining us today, Martha.
Martha: I'm delighted to provide help in any way possible. I even have a question/answer collumn in my magazine, Martha Stewart Living, available worldwide for the nominal subscription fee of...
Me: Yeah, well, moving on...
Martha: It's just that subscription rates are way down and the publisher...
Me: I think my audience, which mostly consists of twenty-some boys with a daily masturbation habit, are not your target demographic. Unless...
Martha: Unless?
Me: Unless you've got naked chicks doing dusting?
Martha: er, no...
Me: Too bad. How's prison treating you?
Martha: Very well, considering. I'm on laundry duty, and I must say I've quite revolutionized the system around here. We now are able to change the sheets bedsheets every day, as opposed to semi-annually, like before. During my forty-five minutes of daily outside time I've managed to grow a bit of lavender in a cold-frame and it's nearly ready to be dried for pillow sachets...
Me: Any cute guards there in prison?
Martha: No. They are all women.
Me: That should make my audience sit up a little straighter.
Martha: (after a silence) Well, it's not like that.
Me: No sex?
Martha: NO! We do our chores and read and write letters...
Me: So you claim that pornography does not provide an accurate representation of prison?
Martha: I thought this was going to be about getting blood stains out of concrete...
Me: Well, maybe we should move onto housework.
Martha: It's my area of expertise, after all.
Me: You mean, building a media empire dependant upon the fragile egos of anal-retentive career women trying to satisfy men who expect them to make a high salary while keeping house to your arbitrary standards and fucking like Cosmo whores at night is not your specialty?
Martha: er... I don't think that's quite...
Me: Hehe. Ok, ok, just messin' with ya, Martha.
Martha: It's Ms. Stewart.
Me: Ok, Ms. Stewart. So while developing your skills in cleaning and cooking and keeping house, how did you manage to keep up your skills in the bedroom?
Martha: I've... well, I do need my beauty rest, so...
Me: I read that you only sleep about four hours at night.
Martha: Yes. I pride myself on industriousness and efficiency in all aspects of my life.
Me: All areas? Industriousness and efficiency hardly seem like desirable qualities while fucking. If I told a guy in a bar, "So I'm pretty industrious and efficient in bed," d'ya think that's gonna get him to go home with me?
Martha: Some men... perhaps... Why are we talking about this?
Me: How's your love life treatin' ya? You know, before all this?
Martha: Well, my love life has faltered of course...
Me: What? No cute stockbrokers to play with... that one guy was pretty hot... of course, he turned state's evidence against you, so that probably cooled.
Martha: I'd like to change the subject.
Me: Ok, let's wrap this up. As the Queen of Household Chores, do you think doing housework turns boys on?
Martha: Without a doubt.
Me: Why is that?
Martha: (shrug) Hell if I know. Seems stupid to me. But it's where the money is. Now, didn't you promise me a plug for the new show?
Me: You started casting already, right?
Martha: That's right, Sex. I'm heading up the new Apprentice show. Filming will start up as soon as I am released.
Me: Yeah, I got that email from your magazine. It so neatly demonstrated the new depths of American media, US business morals, and the state of American culture today that I thought it was a joke.
Martha: How do you mean?
Me: Come on, Martha. Don't you see just a touch of irony in a felon convicted of insider trading heading up a television show about newcomers to the business world?
Martha: We expect ratings to be very high.
Me: No doubt.

don't say i didn't warn you

For reasons I won't go into here, next week I must embark upon some personal maintenance. This requires some... sacrifices that will last five days. Just no sex or alcohol.

Yeah, you heard me right.

No. Sex. No. Alcohol.

I may as well just curl up and die right now. But it's unfortunately necessary, and just as well.

Of course, the timing could be better because I'm also struggling through editing the last chapters of my third book. Never a completely fun endeavour, to be sure.

Like the beginning of a relationship, the first chapters are the honeymoon. There's an overwhelming sense of relief. Thank God it doesn't suck. Then I realize, Hey, this is pretty good.

Actually, it's really good.

It's a joy just to open the file, to look upon what I slowly realize to potentially be the most beautifully strung together words known to civilization, and to know it is utterly mine. No other eye has seen these words. It's like I've got a hungry, young, late 1980s Brad Pitt locked in my basement and I get to go and sit and watch him in his little cage... blonde hair swinging, perfectly symmetrical face snarling, naked body glistening with terror-induced sweat...

Ahem.

Then in the middle of the process we, the book and I, begin to settle into a more comfortable rhythm. The book knows how to titilate me without that accompanying fear of stepping wrong just because I didn't know. Sure, sometimes the lovemaking is lackluster, but in general I know I'm building something great here. It just will take some more time and patience. And along the way I rediscover that great conversation or sex scene that I'd forgotten. It hadn't made sense at the time, but I stuck it in there anyway in hopes that the fates will grace me with the why. And they do; or at least part of it (because it's only the first revision and I get to hop on this delightful carnival ride again, and again, and hopefully again once someone buys the damn thing). But I'm catching on now to the book's nuances; to the growth of the characters and the importance of certain plot events. While not as scintillating as editing the first scenes, it's still exciting. I still get that feeling in the pit of my stomach when I open the file.



And then the end draws near.



Things have been going so well and then suddenly, I hesitate. A new character appears out of nowhere, and I think, Who the hell are you and why didn't you show up during the rough? Get the fuck out!

But the newcomer won't leave. He is accepted into the circle. Everyone likes him but me. He settles in and sticks his tongue out at me over the shoulder of my main character as they chat. They're interested in each other, I can tell. He's no good for you, I think. He's not likeable; he has no useful skills or even any morals.

I resolve to ignore him and write him out in the next revision. But he keeps... turning up. And then it hits me like a thunderbolt. The book has replaced me, the author, with this new friend. It's enamoured with this friend, but I can tell this friend is greatly complicating something that had once been pure and beautiful and eloquent.

My writing around this character becomes stilted and clumsy. I'm tongue-tied as he courses his way through the book, meeting and greeting and eyeing me occassionally as if to say, "Yeah, I'm here to stay, so you may as well find me a bed."

I stall and blog and sort through my closet. I actually play army with my kid. I read. Sometimes I sit down to write, but it's only to realize that this book will have to be dragged kicking and screaming toward its end days. Not the happy conclusion I forsaw and so I tentatively suggest to the book that it might cooperate.

To which the book replies, "I'm the third book in a four-book series. You even resurrect the main character in a fifth book, for crissake. What did you expect, roses and a box of chocolates? This isn't fucking Valentine's Day. It's Steak and Blowjob Day, so fire up the grill and get on your knees, bitch."

"I trusted you to be a good book!" I cry in agony.

The book ignores me and gives the favored newcomer a sharpened sword and Mark 22.

"Hey! That's not your gun!"

But my words are muffled, what with the book's dick in my mouth.

The new character doesn't care. He takes the pistol anyway. He disappears, weapons in hand, secondary character in tow. But I know in my bones he'll be back. He'll reappear in that hornet's nest I call the final book to the series.

And it all happens without a word of explaination. I thought I knew what was happening here. I was learning the prevailing themes. A pattern was emerging from the fog of seemingly unconnected plot events. It was turning into something... good. It was fun to read. It was a good book.

Now the last three chapters seem to be utter, rancid bullshit and I don't know how to find the holy grail in all that muck and waste.

I know from experience that it will come. It may strip away part of my soul as it does, but it will come. It's just a waiting game. And while I wait, I may as well augment my misery and quit drinking and having sex. And I don't dare try to fill the void up with food, because I need to lose five pounds anyway.

It all starts Monday.

I feel mean. I want to be nasty to someone.

I feel a bloghop coming on.

Meet Beastie. 

yeah, I digress. so sue me. it's five in the morning.

Is it possible to be sort of humilated and sort of flattered at the same time? Now that I write that it doesn't seem so odd, but at the time it felt very odd.

Yesterday we were eating at Red Robin...

All right, I must break here and wonder why adults without children in accompanyment would ever eat at Red Robin. It's loud, obnoxious, the food is ok, there's often a guy dressed up like a big bird that walks around, and there's balloons. They even sing at you when it's your birthday. (Didn't we give that up with Bennigans back in the eighties?) It's one step off a Chuckie Cheese, for crissake. But, eat there they do, and my story wouldn't be possible without 'em, so let us continue...

(Editor's Note: the author fails to add that, on occassion, she herself has eaten at Red Robin with only adult(s) in tow. Furthermore, she fails to add that she is routinely the only adult at Chuckie Cheese with a beer in hand; and though she claims to hate it with a passion- the restaraunt, not the beer - she knows the birthday party song by heart and likes to play air hockey at the little table on her knees because she can "beat the s*** out of the little f******s, bwahahahahaha!")

(This would be one of two things she enjoys doing while on her knees.)

(And she thinks Whomp-A-Mole is pretty fun too.)

...and I went into the bathroom to... well, anyway, on the way there I noticed that there was table after table of guys, obviously worker-bees on their lunch break. I was the only chick in that part of the restaurant and more than a few eyes followed my progress to the loo. As I've said on here before guys stare at me all the time. I do make an effort with my appearance, and I won't pretend that I don't like it. But I've never thought I was quite attractive enough to warrant all that attention. I mean, my sex-hair is only half-way grown out and I surely am not the only one who thinks my ass is too big. However, I'm used to the lookie-loos, and it strokes the old ego.

Well, on the way back this guy who was sitting at a table with about five guys and surrounded by these tables full of other guys dropped the lid to his ketchup. It landed next to my left foot. So I knelt down to get it. When I stood back up to give it to him, not only were all the guys at that table looking at me, which I guess I would expect, but the other tables had gone sort of ... quiet. I looked around (it takes longer to tell it, really) to find that nearly every guy in that aisle was staring at me.

??!!

Heat of embarrassment rose from my chest like a crimson dawn. My wardrobe flashed thorugh my mind. Had I unwittingly shown off my incredibly tiny chest to about twenty guys at Red Robin?

Nope. For once I didn't have on a v-neck shirt.

No short skirt either, just jeans and my favorite black motorcycle boots.

But stare they did and all because I gave this guy back his lid to his ketchup. I'm sure it was just for a second, but I froze under all those eyes. Then I sort of lifted my chin and marched on through the stares, feeling suddenly more like a desert tray than a mom trying to have lunch with my kid.

I didn't mind walking through the crowd of guys before, enjoyed it when I was just passing through. But I ain't into putting on a show, even if the show is only picking up something off the floor. That was... sort of mortifying. Actually, very mortifying.

Maybe there was tp stuck to my boot? Nope, I checked.

Tp. Hehehe. One time I went on a date with this way cutie-patootie (just friends, my ass. Do friends make out with friends? Man, was he a good kisser...) and it was a geek party. So I did it up: glasses with tape, ratty hair with odd stick-out braids, tp out my waistband, ugly skirt, mismatched buttons, socks to my knees; the works. We supped at this motorcycle bar across the river - best burgers in college - and when I went to get a beer at the bar this harley-dude told me how hot I was. I laughed and went back to my table and told the people I was with about it - it's a funny, ha ha - but the guy I was with said, "Well, you are."

"Even now?"

He nodded solemnly. "Even now."

It was about then we quit being just friends.

But honestly, I'm not that great. I don't get it. I mean, I'm regularly horny, but most of the time I'm not thinking about that. Is there a sign on my freakin' back or what?

But back to Red Robin, I had to take MonkeyLass with me to the loo the next time (two trips minimum for every lunch out with a two year old) and damned if they didn't do it again. Not quite to the degree they had before, but it was noticable. I thought I was imagining it, but Monkey confirmed it. Of course, she thought the attention was all for her, and she skipped and flirted and said hi to every table while I just stuck with what had worked for me before and went red again.

Boy, Virtigo, that chick at the strip club that tried to get me to dance that time was sure barking up the wrong tree, huh? But MonkeyLass... well, if college doesn't work out then she just may have a bright future on a pole.

one for jack

I've been meaning to look up my first post because Jack (see sidebar for link - yeah, that guy) wrote a piece on first posts awhile back. Clever? Doubtful. But top marks for conciseness. It was just a wee quickie from way back in September:

I can't wait to see if I come up under sex in google. This could be a big responsibility.

Guess I should go google it, eh?

Ok, I'm back. But why ain't I first on the list? Oh well, eighth ain't bad, I guess.

Let's try just sex, shall we?

Holy fuck! 340,000,000 choices? I don't have the time to wade through all that!

i'm a sex bomb. big revelation there

Stole these personality tests from Mitchieville.

My score:
You are a WRCL--Wacky Rational Constructive Leader. This makes you a Golden God.

You think fast and have a smart mouth, and you are a hoot to your friends and razorwire to your enemies. You hold a grudge like a brass ring. You crackle.

Although you have a leader's personality, you often choose not to lead, as leaders stray too far from their audience. You probably weren't very popular in high school--the joke's on them!

You may be a rock star.

Hey, get me. I could be a rock star some day.

I took the relationship one too. What do you think - is this me? Aside from the cheating -- I get all the raunchy nasty a girl could ever desire right here at home. Obviously internet flirting is another animal, altogether... and no, I did not make up the first line, Greg and Jack. (For those of you who are new to SS@S, they're the ones who gave me the name "Sex" so many months ago.)

You are a XSYG--Expressive Sentimental Physical Giver. This makes you a Sex Bomb.

You are sexy sex sex sex! The sexness! You are the sexiest, hottest and most charismatic of all types. You are a captivating speaker and a great dinner date -- relaxed, self-effacing, charming and generous. Your type probably has origins in something sad -- trying to keep the peace in a tough family situation, or an early heartbreak -- and you'll probably want to address and resolve that at some point, but in your relationships that heartache is pure gold!

You lie effortlessly -- not necessarily a bad thing. You can have problems with fidelity. You need frequent praise and validation, and in seeking it you can make decisions that aren't consistent with your general good judgment. In other words, don't cheat on your significant other just because someone is paying attention to you.

You strongly dislike conflict, and will avoid it. Like an XPYG, you give so much of yourself to your partner that you feel dismissed and unappreciated if you don't get the same in return. But you internalize your feelings more and have a hard time getting over them. You don't *want* to cheat -- you just keep finding yourself in vulnerable situations. But you'll stay with your partner in the long run from guilt and a desire to please.

Your sex life will always be hot. You are one of the rare people who can keep the fires of passion going forever -- if you find a good match. Find another XSYG and you will never need (or want) anyone else again.

is there a beer coupon on the back of this ticket??

I've never been ticketed for speeding. The one time I was pulled over I was pregnant, and the girl cop said, "Shit," as soon as she saw me. Apparently it's tabboo to ticket pregger chicks.

Not to say I don't speed. Just the other day I turned to my mom and said, "How did it feel to go 120 just then?" (We have one faaaaast car, besides the Jeeps.) For the record, she didn't freak and didn't lecture. Well, not too much.

When we first built Beastie the Rubicon (real jeeps are built, not bought) PHF warned me about the shimmy of the tires when driving 55. Since he was being just the taddest bit patronizing (so unlike him!) I told him - in front of the guys who built the damn thing, "No shimmy at 55, hon. It's at 75." I have more miles in the thing than he does, and I drive it a hell of a lot better than he does anyway. (Here I'm trying to spur him to comment. Let's see if it works.)

PHF doesn't really like when I drive us because I drive so fast. I love the rumble-grumble roar (very lo-rent) of the engine in my Jeep (chipped V8 with an air intake) and it's just fun as hell, anyway. He drives fast on occassion too, but not as regular as me. He's been pulled over a couple of times but neither of us have ever been ticketed. When we do we'll have to throw a big party, I guess. As if we need an excuse.

Anyway, the guys over at Beer Drinkers Society have learned a thing or two about cops pulling one over, and they have graced Blogland with a few words of advice. Go take a gander. They're good people and they know of which they speak.

where to?

We've got a chance to bail out of this hellhole for a weekend this March.
(Ok, that's strong language. Actually, if more of you knew how abso-fucking-lutely fabulous it is to live here... well, it wouldn't be because even more of you would move here. Stay out, bastards!)

Rules: must be for a weekend, three days max. Must be continental US. Must have two of three factors: tanning/laying by pool, heavy drinking, something to do. Some of our choices:

California. PHF vetoed this at about "Ca-"

Vegas. Lettt's see, beer in hand for 55 hours straight, wild sex whenever/wherever I want, shows, crazy folk on the street, and a perpetual grin from the inanity of it all. Yeah, it's a contender.

Florida. During spring break that makes oh so many towns we'd have to avoid. However, the tan factor helps push it up there. Perhaps Key West? I can taste the rum punch now, as well as feel the sand between my toes...

South Texas. Never been to Padre. However, PHF frowned over the spring break factor. He just hasn't had time to contemplate the college-aged eye candy. Of course, it goes without saying that it was the first thing to come to my mind.

Chicago. It's been 15 years at least since I stomped my old grounds. Could be fun. Could be cold and shitty weather. Lots of beer and shopping and shit to do though. Hmmm...

New York. Never been. Long flight. Overwhelming for a weekend, perhaps? Could be shitty weather as well. Lots to do, lots to drink.

Aspen. Yes, we could fly there and ski and pahtay with the money types. Or I can sleep in my own bed at the lake and drive 45 minutes to ski for a whole hell of a lot less trouble.

That was all we could come up with tonight. Ideally I want to relax, tan, party at night; or in the case of Vegas, party every single minute and fuck the tan.

Any ideas out there??

daily horoscope

Your world is filled with delicious options. Time to sample the buffet.

Isn't that always the way when you need to lose a few pounds. Fucking Universe. It's conspiring against me... against me, I tell you!!

This part was more promising, though I'm leery any time the actual Universe is named because of (see above):

Talk about a fun, exciting time! The Universe has finally heard your silent plea for new and interesting company -- and better still, it's arranged to make that wish come true.

I was just saying last night at dinner (right after my youthful appearance sparked a round of checking i.d.s that was rivaled in idiocy only by this nation's president) that I've decided that want a bona fide entourage. You know, a few folks to follow me, hang on my every word, etc... in a word, some Peeps. (PHF's term, not mine!)

PHF pointed out that perhaps my blog audience was an entourage of sorts.

I said I didn't think you all would appreciate being called peeps. "You know some of us bloggers" (ewey, I still hate that word) "still have a measure of self-respect left. Sure, we enjoy the company of our little stranger pen pals to nearly the exclusion of all other activities. Sure, our self-worth is now measured in hits and comments. Sure we fantasize about people who likely look and behave nothing like the characters they perpetuate on the net. But we have standards, by God and no one," I was standing up by now, beer in one fist, pounding the white-table-clothed, steak place table with the other, "no one will ever call us Peeps."

Then everyone of course started making little chickie noises and I ran out of the restaraunt crying like a little baby who's just been pinched. But I didn't spill my beer.

When I returned after seeing to my eyeliner and mascara (of which I wear a significant amount) Virtigo pointed out that I do have an entourage, and have had for lo these six years. She was referring to the ubiquitous Lad and MonkeyLass.

She had a point, dammit. But, that means all of you are off the hook.

Funny comment by the Lad:

This very a.m. the kid got up, but for some odd reason went back to bed. After about the first five times of telling him to get up... What I said was "get up, honey." What I was thinking was "Get the fuck up, for crissake, you'll be late to school and then I'll have to go in and sign something in the office!" Anyway, when I started sounded irritated his response was thus:

*giggle* "I didn't hear a please."

me: *dramatic sigh while trying not to laugh out loud and not succeeding* "Please."

him: *giggle giggle* "Say the whole sentence, including please."

Which of course is what I always say to him. Unfortunately, it doesn't stop when we are children, though doesn't.

I'm working on a post with the working title "Actual shit mothers have said to their adult children." If you have anything to contribute, send suggestions to taming_the_tiger@yahoo.com, and thanks in advance. (Not that I don't have plenty of my own experiences to draw from.)