reunions – what a drag

One cigarette a week is about what I'm currently allowed. It's all dictated by outside influences. Such as I don’t smoke in front of my kids. Of course. I am a responsible (in the loosest sense of the word) parent. PHF disapproves. He’s no tight-ass either; smoking is a vile, disgusting, smelly habit that’s bad for you. He’s just being a grown up.

And if my momma knew...

One time when I was in high school she found my cigs and there was hell to pay, I tell ya. Hell. To. Pay. Well, most of you have mothers. You can imagine.

Those Who Don’t Partake (to shamelessly steal a labeling method from TG) are given a viable opportunity to look upon us with disdain. Boulder is a “clean” town – no smoking indoors without a separate ventilation system. We are forced to stand outside, hands in our pockets in winter, sweating in summer, sharing a light and a story. But I say TWDP don’t know what they’re missing.

Sure, it’s about the nicotine, at least occasionally. This morning I literally sucked in smoke with every other breath, half a cigarette’s worth, during the short walk between Monkey’s preschool and Starbucks. It’s been a few weeks and I wanted that damage. But basically, I’m an untouchable. I’ve smoked off and on since I was 13. Nearly a quarter century of it, and I’m not addicted. (This sounds familiar. Perhaps I’ve mentioned this recently.) I don’t even smoke every time I go out. I mean, shit; sometimes it’s just too damn cold. Sometimes I’m in disapproving company. Sometimes I plain old don’t have a cigarette, or have one and don’t want it. It’ll be a year before I have that experience of real longing again. So then, I guess it’s not about the nicotine, really almost ever.

It’s really about being a part of a sub-culture - something I should be well past by now - of people who say IDGAF. We’re all in exile there; on the back patio at the Pub, say; and there is a reliable camaraderie to be found among the outcast. I’ve met people I would have never before met – like the members of the Indulgers (playing Connor O’Neil’s 8 April, 10 pm - be there or be square). Once we met six guys, twenty –somethings, and we got an entire dissertation on piercings and tattoos. These guys had it all – nipples, eyebrows, gratuitous amounts of ink on their backs and arms, chunks taken out of their ears. We never quite arrived at the why of it all, but we tried. In turn they were interested in married sex and parenthood and giant diamond rings and the like. Again, they never quite arrived at the why, but the fun is in the journey, right?

One time last fall PHF got drunk enough to smoke. He is incredibly sexy when he smokes. He holds his cigarette like a European, and he studies the smoke like he’s studying the face of a lover. He got the best sex of his life that night. He thinks it was the strip joint we went to later, but it wasn’t. It was me watching him smoke that one cigarette.

In high school I met a whole circle of friends (all guys) and earned their respect because I’d only smoke reds. (I gave up that nasty shit long ago, but I still won’t touch menthol or long, skinny, faggy fags. Too girly for me.) I met my best friend (yeah, a guy) from high school back on the smoking patio at Topeka High. I was a newcomer as a junior, and all the popularity contests were won by then. I was picked up and subsequently dumped by a guy quite quickly. (Oddly enough, the same exact thing happened in college. They even looked alike and had the same faggy mannerisms. Did I learn nothing? Apparently not.) The smokers were a friendly lot, agreeable to a cute chic who would share a cigarette. So what the hell, I always wanted to be a rebel anyway.

I saw his car the other night on Gattica - the car where Victor is conceived the natural way. The rear window, the actual glass, goes back to point. Don’t even recall what kind of car it was (I’m sure one of you boys will tell me though). There was always shit stashed back there – you know, like books and old homework assignments and empty cigarette packs - and I even rode back there once when the car was chock full of a bunch of big guys. I was the only one tiny enough to fit. This was back in the day when I was still scared to touch a guy beyond kissing, and when I figured out that drugs were a complete waste of time; back in the day when my bf just had to let me get in this car and go off with a bunch of boys without protest, because it was what I was going to do. A fuss would only make him look like an idiot in front of all those guys. (Yeah, it was an unconscious test and yeah, he passed.)

I got my 20 (!) year reunion invite the other day. I thought, hmm, I wonder what point going would prove. On one hand, people go to these things and the stereotypical tale is that they have to lose weight and appear all successful and shit. But what did I have to prove? Did I even care? Would I even remember anyone?

I made average grades in school. I was neglected by my guidance counselor and teachers, except for my art teacher. No one was overtly mean, but no one talked to me much. I had no girl friends. I dated a guy all steady like and gave up on the other friends pretty quick, as a girl will when her daddy has left her. I was friends of a sort with the cutest boy in school, Sean Kelly – god, even his name is romantic somehow - and he told me later when I was home from college (and completely entranced with PHF by then) that he’d wanted to date me. He stared at me all the time, he said. He wanted to ask me out but I was always with the bf. He thought I didn’t like him. I missed out on those clues, even – I was in some smoky fugue of repression. (No, I didn’t kiss him, but I sure as hell wanted to. That was the most tempted I ever was. There, you all know. Damn, he was hot.)

I was looking for something back then; and maybe I still am since I smoke sometimes. As much as my family has given me - they make it relatively ok not to find that elusive, satisfying “thing”- it’s not with them. I didn’t find it in the arms of my bf, or smoking on the back patio with a ragtag collection of high school guys. I didn’t find it in the rear window of that car. I sincerely doubt I’d find it at a reunion. It’s not in the outside smoking corral of most of the restaurants in Boulder.

I think I know that I’m looking for something at all only because I get a glimpse of it with you all; when I chat to people in Australia or the East Coast or Chicago or LA. And every now and then one of my characters reminds me that it exists. It knows who I am. It calls to me. But I can’t put a name to it – whatever it is I’m searching for. Fortunately my family makes it ok not to find it.

But I won’t quit looking. I probably won’t ever quit.

the bb is mightier than the gdfhtml

"All hail to the mighty architect BB.
BB is King.
Kneel before your BB and pay him homage.
Long live the BB!!"

I owe you drinks, man!

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again with the haloscan

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

who the hell cares about football when the players are naked?

We got to go to CU yesterday for a tour of the CU football stadium. An aquaintance's husband is the Director of Football there. Busy job, busy man. 100 hours a week during season. The program makes 34 mil a year, pays for all the other sports, and it's run like the business that it is. And yeah, he's been depositioned for the lawsuit and yeah he couldn't say anything and yeah he came off a bit defensive over the bad press. He's at Ground Zero, after all. The fallout has taken down the President of the University and the Athletic Director. But nobody's gonna touch Coach. He's gettin' the results after all. We got to see Coach's office and how they can digitally line up footage of plays next to the Xs and Os. Pretty cool technology.

And last year's bowl trophy was so heavy that our tour guide couldn't carry if off the field so he had to get a player to do it.

And the players actually earn a grade for playing - like it's an actual class. Football Studies or some such. Who knew?

But enough of that crap - I was more interested in the players. As in, looking at the players. They were all over - the spring season starts tomorrow. We met the running back, and a couple of coaches, and got our pic taken with the quarterback, Joel Klatt. Tall, blonde, personable... the sort of face and body that makes me wonder just how pissed off PHF would actually be if... er, well, nevermind. We exchanged glances a couple of times but I was the picture of decorum. He was the picture of pure yummaliciousness.

We saw another player trying to negotiate his way through all of our kids heading up the stairs. I told him, "Surely you can push your way through us."

He laughed.

They wouldn't take us in the locker rooms though. "There're nekkid people in there," he said, after checking.

"We're mothers," I said. "We've seen it all before." I was full of the quick quips yesterday.

But we got to go back into the weight room and the training room. No one was lifting, but there were some scantilly clad, barrel chested players in the hottub. Now that's what I'm talkin' about.

They stood up and grinned and waved at us mommys and kiddos. What a bunch of friendly guys.

sprint sucks

My connectivity sucks right now, so posting will be as erratic as this post. (Dare I say rambling musings? Or Musing ramblings?) No word on when they'll get their shit together. I plan on using that time to find another high-speed connection for my area.

The story is going well. Six pages so far and Jack is fleshing out a little more. He's not as sarcastic as I thought he would be... he's kind of sweet actually, but he tries to be tough and uncaring. How this personality trait fits into the story I don't know yet, but it will. It always does.

~

Heh, I just found that key again. ~~~~~~~~~~
Cool.

~

Cause I like everything wrapped up in neat packages:
Ok, I could give a shit about neat packages (well, except for that sort of package). But I do appreciate multiples of ten. Ok, I don't, unless we're talking about orgasms or fingers to suck on...

Oh fuck it. It's been three days and I'm getting ansy.

100. I wear my watch crystal to the inside of my wrist. Always have done. The character Aidan from the books do too, but his is all scratched cause he wears cheap watches. Mine is a diving watch (though I don't dive ~shudder~) with practically an indestructable crystal.

Heh. Ironic, that.

101. I hate deep under the water and the undersides of boats and docks, especially in the ocean - snorkeling would rank up there with country music for me - even though I love the water and boats and I grew up in a sailing family. (Ok, granted, I'm more for the beer that goes with the sailing, but the sailing is fun too.)

There, aren't you glad you all know that? Don't you feel complete? I know I do.

~

Today's horoscope:

This situation isn't all about you.

Well, knock me over with a used feeding tube; it's not?? WTF??

Okay, now that the melodrama is at least quieter, if not entirely over, you can relax. Fortunately, a certain someone will be only too happy to distract you. And you'll be only too happy to take them up on it.

Odly enough, there was a melodrama yesterday. But oooo, a distraction. That sounds promising... As long as he's the sort who's an attentive kisser.

Shitfuckdamn. It's probably the shoe shopping for the six year old that I have to do. Shoe shopping with kids always drives me to distraction. What does that even really mean anyway? I usually use "drives me to drink" because it's at least honest.

~

Finally a joke from my three year old - which I can type in my sleep because she tells it alllllllll day long. I'll write it verbatim:

KnockKnock - Say who's there!
Who's there?
Coconut in the coconut tree.
No, Monkey, you're supposed to say, Coconut. And then I say, Coconut who?
And THEN you say Coconut in the coconut tree.

Not that it's funny or makes sense, but she's three and has excellent verbal skills.

That's supposedly a good thing.

writing... blues? not quite

This will likely be of interest to no one but myself and perhaps the Blue Boys (almost called you "blue balls" tee hee) and Inland. But I'm writing - straight writing, I call it. A relief after all that revising, and apropos since I started my last series two years ago Easter Sunday. I got super nasty on PHF's ass this am and said to myself, Self, go fucking write already, will you??

Ok, to clarify, I'm writing a science fiction short story set in futuristic Boulder. I've got all sorts of cool ideas to work with, the city is practically a secondary character. It's not flowing and yet it is... It's so different from my series. It must be what it would be to kiss another man besides my husband. Exciting and scary and clumsy. I know Aidan and the boys so well that I can write for them almost without thought. I know what Aidan will say before he says it. I know Kaelin's capacity for violence, and how he controls himself.

I don't know this Jack person at all. (Yup - Jack, you can be flattered. Even though you disappear for over a week without a word. I know it's spring break but you don't write, you don't call... so boo hoo on you.) And it's first person, so I'm telling it in his voice, except he just started talking and so he doesn't really have a voice or hair or a face or anything yet. Kind of weird. I think, though, he looks like Lunatic - whatever HE looks like. No worries. That will come.

The true challenge is how to treat all the futuristic stuff. Jack takes all this new technology and shit for granted, right; like we take our lives, our credit cards, our cell phones, our cars, our internet, our blogs all for granted. Somebody comes to Now from Fifty Years Ago (ooo ooo ooo, I think I just came up with a title) and they're all amazed and we're all, "What? It's just my cell phone, and it's two years old besides. I mean, it doesn't even take pictures."

I've read some stuff in this genre (more as study - I don't love it. Why is what I read and what I write so disparate? I don't know.) Anyway, the best thing I've read yet is a young adult novel called Feed. It's told by this sort of typical teenager who takes everything for granted, as teenagers will. The dimensions of his personality emerge through the details of his narration and through his thoughts and dialogue. You see this dichotomy (why do we use certain words over and over? Apropos and Dichotomy. Jeez, check out thesaurus.com, Sex.)- anyway again, you see this dichotomy between who he is, who he's becoming, and who he has the potential to become (or had, more likely, because it's a tragedy). It's got slang that makes sense immediately. Like, you hear (er, read) their slang and think, "Yep, that's how we'll be talking in twenty five years."

It's a masterful treatment of a brilliantly frightening world, and quite the expansive look at where we're headed as a species. Except that the truly scary thing about the novel is that we're there already, sans the Internet inmplant.

Read Feed.

But back to me and my story.

I won't get into plot and character, etc. My ideas are my own and to talk about them means they won't get written. (At least not by me.) These stories force themselves out of me somehow, and I prefer them to end up as actual fiction, not chatter. But any advice for writing this budding futuristic tale?

I'm gonna end up writing this story twice I bet. Once as discovery for myself and once to subtle it down, to naturalize the narration. For some reason that process seems very appealing. Shit, I'm a weirdo.

my new blog is a one act show

What a pain in the ass it was to think up 99 things about me so go read the stupid thing if you want.

Happy weekend!

flash fiction

This is a game of sorts, called Flash Fiction, with rules:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: power
3. The time is: 1968
4. Within the story, you must use this text: all due respect.

Apparently I'm supposed to link back to Diminished Fifth. I guess he made up the game. 250 words?? I'm a novelist, not a poet. But I'll give it a go:




“Goddamn it, the light won’t come on.”

“It’s probably just a blown fuse. I’ll go look into it.”

“Be quick about it. I’ve got places to be today.” When thrust into the darkness, one must rely upon other senses. I heard breath that whistled a bit. A nearly crushed larynx will do that to the air passing through it. I could smell sweat and dried blood and icy fear. My trigger finger rubbed along the warmed grip of my new Walther 22LR. I couldn’t wait to find out how it performed at short range. “Hey, asshole. You scared of the dark?”

His voice was frayed with pain and closer than I’d expected. “Not at the moment.”

I heard the door again. “It’s not the fuse.”

“Goddamn it, Jonesy. Get a flashlight or something. I don’t have all day.”

“Ok, I’ll be back.”

There was a shuffling from the mark so I lifted my gun. “Hey, stay put, asshole. I didn’t ask you to move.”

“I’m hurt, you prick.”

“Hey, a little respect here.”

“Why? You respect me?”

“Enough to spend a bullet on you.”

Laughter in the dark always sounds harsh and frightening. Especially when it comes from the guy who’s on the business end of your gun; and especially when it’s so fucking close. My thumb jerked to my trigger release but not quick enough. As the darkness lit up with a dizzying flicker and faded back to black, I heard that ragged voice say, “All due respect, likewise.”

what kind of drunk are you?

I slept in until 9 am today and now I get to go shower and go to Build a Bear!!! Yea! Coz what we need round here is more friggin' stuffed animals... And if I'm lucky the Lad and I will get to go see Robots. Double yea. I love kid movies.*

I took this quiz. I take internet quizes all the time but I don't post them because I don't want people to know what a loser I am.

Oh.

Well, this one comes via a bloghop (coming soon to a blog near you!) "does not play well with others." There was so much to work with there, but the guy is actually pretty funny, so I'll refrain from bashing him on my blog in lieu of flirting with him on his blog. Anyway the quiz is What kind of drunk are you?

Which drunk are you? You're hungarian kinda drunk You're playin' the accordeon all night for family and friends and spreading drunken joy around you, you are a mentor to all of us pathetic losers...

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

See? I knew it. I'm a freakin' mentor and you all are the losers. And here I was, thinkin' it was the other way around.

PHF doesn't know this yet but he's taking me out both nights this weekend and I'm getting smashed drunk. It's been, like, a whole week...

Fuckin' crud.

*sarcasm if you missed it.

big dicks

I got crud. I lost my voice. I'm knee-deep in fiction editing, and I've been staring at my own, old words for too long. I’ve gone completely gray, inside and out. I wrote a whole post on this, but it was as boring as I was, so I deleted it. Instead I’ll write about the only non-fiction thing I’ve done in the past few days.

John Elway was a significant investor in Galyans, a sporting goods store. Like the mall in which it was established, it was classy, expensive, huge; it had the premier, seen-from-the-highway-location. There’s a faux river and falls just outside the door so that you can go try out the fly-fishing equipment. Kayaks hung from massive log frames. They carried every decent pistol on the market, target weapons, as well as a great selection of bows and sporting rifles. (I did some research for the books there.) Skis, snowboards, bikes, ten different backboards to pick from, skateboards.... and all the North Face and Spider and Roxy and Independent to go with it.

It got bought out.

Now it’s Dicks; a name which does bring to mind sports, but perhaps not with the positive connotation they might hope for. PHF calls it Big Dick's. I know. I'm sorry. You'll never be able to think of it any other way.

Now there are lots of soccer shorts and Nike and basketballs.

It seems ok, I guess. Why every guy in the place was scamming me, with my crud-induced croak and current gray outlook, I dunno. PHF said it’s because I’m cute, dammit. I said it’s because I put on extra blush to make me look like I was something other than gray, and because they’re losers. But that’s besides the point. We wandered, we bought some stuff, we missed looking over the real guns. (The paintball P9s don't hold quite the same allure somehow.)

But I couldn’t help notice that on the front of the mall, highway side, is a new huge sign that says:

DICK’S.


Classic bait and switch, if you ask me.

truth is truth, but a lie is all about perception

This is going to be a tough one, and much will go unsaid. But I’ve seen it on the horizon of my psyche: a storm of questioning and doubt and disgust with religion. Yes, disgust even; because personal history has proven that I have a hard time with people who put God first. Once someone puts God first they seem to think they’ve got a sort of license to feel bad for those who haven’t seen the Light. They make a personal decree of sympathy for those that don’t go along. Oh, they mean well. They’re going to do whatever they can to save the heathens. They pity the gays and those who would have abortions and the Muslims and all the non-believers out there.

Except, the problem with pity is that it’s just one shade grayer than the black of hate.

I want to be one of the ones who can go to church and feel bad for my sins and have it all washed away. I like ritual. I like Christmas and Easter. I like the concept of Jesus. I like the ancient hymns and the smiles of welcome. But I was cursed with being a thinking individual. Somehow the rules aren’t enough for me. I also have a keen perception of those around me. I see the judgment in their eyes that stems from the judgment of God. It’s hard to feel forgiveness and forgiven when the people around you are filled with such judgment.

After reading Greg’s essay on Christianity and with all this tumbling about on my mind, per chance I stayed up late and watched “Bowling for Columbine” last night. No, I hadn’t seen it before. I’m not much for propagandist documentaries. (“propumentories?”) Besides, I live in Colorado. I watched as Columbine unfolded. I waited for those kids to get out. I saw those kids, thirty minutes away, running away in terror from the guns in the hands of their psycho classmates. My son was 9 months old and it hit me more acutely than it might have at any other time. Nothing like your beautiful, smiling baby on your lap to bring shit home.

And I saw the aftermath of Columbine. I live the aftermath.

One of the most potent after-effects is an utter taboo on toy guns. I don’t know if it’s nation-wide, but here in suburban Colorado it’s pervasive to the point of law. I think it’s ridiculous, though I follow along. (Yes, “Baaa!!”)

But boys like toy guns. And if you don’t give them one, they make them. The kid next door brings over elaborate hand-made paper guns all the time. These things have trigger guards and safety releases, for crying out loud. And so the kids still shoot each other dead in the backyard. Anybody can make a gun out his hand anyway. We don’t buy them guns, but they still play guns.

I’ve broached the subject with other moms. “Maybe it’s no big deal. Every man I know played with toy guns as children. None of them are psycho about guns, or killing, or fascinated with violence, or threaten people if they don’t agree with them, or any of it.”

But these moms look at me like I might as well just throw out the car seats, too. No matter how well adjusted, you give a kid a gun and he's gonna go kill someone. As parents, by taking away the toy guns we’ve done our part to stop another Columbine from happening. Keep all guns, even plastic, out the hands of children.

A simple solution to a complicated problem.

The film got me to thinking about the media; and not just its interesting premise of the media's role in the perpetuation of violence in the US. With the Rise of the Right, the US media must do what it can to sell to the Right as well as they have to the Left. It’s a quandary because the media is so Leftist, yes? Leftists aren’t argumentative by nature; they love to say: “Let everyone think what they will, just don’t push it on me.” Hence, the media tells the Left what they want to hear to get them to tune in. It’s worked for years.

But the Right is trickier to reach. The only thing a Good Ole Boy likes more than bullying his way through a rousing argument with some lib is the perpetuation of the fear that is the rationale behind their philosophy. The argument part is taken care of by the media being Leftist. But the fear; now that has proved tougher. Thank God the Muslims stepped up when they did, because the Gays and the Blacks weren’t quite cutting it. The Right had been like a sleeper cell; biding their time, waiting for when their message made a shred of sense. In turn, the media had been biding its time with the Right, waiting for its opportunity to tap into that market. But now the media has its chance to make sheep of the Right, just as they’ve done with the Left. Fear, that ultimate justification, sells to Right quite well. By some great cosmic stroke of good fortune, the media is able to kill all the damn birds with one shotgun shell.

Another simple solution to a complicated problem.

What does gun control and the media have to do with religion? How did I get off on these tangents, except by virtue that the gun advocates seem to often be the same Bible-toting, gay-hating, fear mongering horde? Besides that obvious similarity, I saw another, more frightening correlation glowing faintly in the light of my television screen. So much of what is wrong about religion is that it, too, tries to provide a simple solution to a complicated problem. I wrote last night on Greg’s blog:

"...Against my lifetime commitment to "knowing"; I think God, or whatever the hell it is, is something we are better off giving up on entirely knowing. I don't think we're capable of knowing all of it, and I don't know that trying is all that important. In fact, not trying (but with some intelligence about it) may be what's important...

Wow, I might have just stumbled on a personal definition of faith."

Amber writes that someone told her once:

“Energy moves in a circle. God is energy. Therefore, God is a circle.”

Silly what people come up with.

Yes, silly. And, you notice, simple.

We can’t know all of what makes the world ticks. It’s just too rife with complication and dichotomy. We can’t know what God is, not entirely; just like we can’t put our finger on one single thing that would keep two kids from picking up assault weapons and killing their classmates.

Many would argue that our inability to know shouldn’t keep us from trying to learn all we can about our world and our God. Ok, so it shouldn’t. But that effort is only really worthwhile when we realize that we’ll never know the whole Truth. In fact, Ignorance may be the only Truth, and perhaps in that Ignorance lies Faith. I guess this might come down to being ok with never knowing, and that's a difficult reality for a thinking person to accept.

And I can't keep from wondering is God ok with it?

girl-talk

Ok, guys, time for a little girl-talk, so you just take a little stroll down this aisle, or this one, whichever tickles your fancy. Come back in five minutes.

Are they gone?

I think there are the basic four undesirable PMS symptoms: Fat, Acne, Crabby, and Just Gross Feeling. Actually, some people get headaches too, but I never do. Anyway, usually I just go with one or two of these. This time - all FOUR! I'm thinkin' I've put on about five pounds, my face looks like I'm about fourteen, I'm "just a tad" snippy, and I seem to have a thin coating of slime on my skin that no one can see but that I can feel. It's about once a year that an onslaught like this happens, plus I'm coughing up a lung from what looks like bronchitis, so me not so happy. Oh, and I'm late too; so the joy can prolong itself.

I know, TMI, TMI. Shuddup already. But I do feel better just telling someone. Not, you understand, better enough to not sob, bite PHF's head off, and then run screaming to my room and slam the door the next time he makes one of his kind "suggestions"; but better enough to keep from screaming at my children. Of course, PHF won't be able to unintentionally offend me until late this afternoon, since he went SKIING on all the 24-HOUR-OLD POWDER with his buddies today. But that's ok, my irritation will keep.

And if any of you guys stayed around for this discussion instead of heading off to one of the more appropriate venues provided by your hostess here at SS@S and got subsequently turned off/grossed out; well that's too fuckin' bad, buddy. I got one image for ya (kindly provided by so many of yourselves): you all jackin' off in the shower. Yeah, that's right. You guys love to talk about masturbation like it's the sexiest damn thing, but, if ya didn't know, it's NOT the turn-on you think it is.

Oooh, now see, that would be the crabbiness rearing its ugly head. So solly.

Plus it's fucking cloudy! It'll probably snoooow over the mountains again. I'm so happy for all the skiers out there.

I'd go back to bed, but then I start coughing again, and I already woke up at four am to have a good worry over my kid doing drugs when she's sixteen. (She's three - plenty of time for procrastination in that department.) Besides, I want to chat with someone, and I'm hoarse, so I can't talk to anyone here. They all raise a hand and their upper lips and go, "No, no, you don't have to talk. It's ok."

I stayed up late (in hopes of sleeping late - but I got a goodbye kiss from PHF at 7 am and I rarely go back to sleep once I wake up) watching Gladiator. I liked it. Now it was on TNT, so I'm sure I missed some of the gratuitous violence, and there wasn't nearly enough skin in it to satisfy me (I'm going to set aside some time for Troy in the next few days). But then, Russel Crowe always looks a bit like a guy who had been working out steadily for a year but quit two months ago to drink beer instead. He's just not cut, not shapely, like your friend and mine, Brad. And his face is so... eh. But his lack of expression (is it too much Botox or is he just kinda dumb? I dunno) served him well for this role. Hare-lip, who played the Caesar's son, was excellent. What a great whinging psycho. I'd say he should be typecast as one from now on. I also liked the scar-face guy who tried to help Maximus. Does he really look like that or was that incredible make-up? The only truly stupid part was all the dream/dying sequences where he's floating around and sees his family. Now that was d-u-m, dumb. They could have just skipped it you know. Wasn't it enough when the princess said, "Go and see your family now." ??

Oops, did I just ruin it for anyone? I'd apologize if I weren't too crabby to care, but I am.

I can't really recall my history in this - did it happen anything remotely like this? Probably not. I seem to remember that the guy who followed Marcus Aurelius was a bumbler, but I'm going to poke around online and find out. Sounds about right for a sick, PMS-y Sunday afternoon.

ah, new car smell...

We've made a few changes here at SS@S. I'm only writing this because I'm bored and too sick to do much else (not a word, Greg. Not one word.) I added a blogroll - yup, little ole me cuttin' and pastin' away. Apparently I chose the most trimmed down, budget template that Blogspot has, because it came with nothing like a links list or fancy editing buttons. Gots to do it all by hand.

But that's ok; I'm good with tools.

Yeah, those kind of tools, too.

Anyway, these are the folks I read. There are a few others I check from time to time, but these are the regulars. Blogrolls have become popularity contests of a sort, which is why I resisted posting one, but finally I decided I was bored enough to take the time to look into it.

Haloscan - self explanitory. I'm really getting off on changing that up, so it may take a few days to settle. Monkey-lass's fav color is purple, so that's why it's purple. I happen to not like purple so much, but I'm trying.

The Celtic Knot is mostly symbolic of my books; but also of blogs in general. Our paths cross like the lines in the knot, sending us through and over and under each other; but only for an instant. We always have to keep moving and we never get the chance to get too involved. Sometimes it looks like a tangled mess, and sometimes it makes a crazy sense, but we all manage to make a beautiful, cohesive whole.

That, and I just really dig the way it looks.

mood lighting

PHF's latest idea.

talk to me, people

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Don't forget to read the new post below, actually written by myself instead of Haloscan the Imposter.

hair of the dog to ye

Going out last night for St. Pat's (and my subsequent hangover/cold) got me to thinking about all the bars I've been to over the years. Not just any bars, but the ones I called home for varying durations and reasons.

Not that we got to go inside Fado last night; there were tents set up in which bands played and beer flowed. It was cold for a street party, but in fairly short order we weren't feeling any of that anymore. The Indulgers played until they looked tired and kinda crabby. But they sounded great, professionals that they are. Poor guys (and girl).

I start at #2 because my parents were definitely the type to drag their youngest along to a bar when I was a child. No doubt #1 consists of some dank place with the best burgers in Tulsa, but it remains a nameless memory. Mom couldn't recall any for sure, but she agreed that they probably did take me to bars when I was quite small.

Bar number 2: Kites, Manhattan Kansas; Kansas State University
I can recall hangin' for a weekend with my brother, more than once, up at K-State. If you needed one word to describe my big bro, it would be "Wildcat." I'm ten years behind him (almost exactly) and so I'd be about ten or so when I went there. Kites was a typical college bar, lots of purple shit all over the place. There are lots of bars in Aggieville, but that's the one I recall. Good burgers too (you'll notice a theme here that good burgers are nearly always a prerequisite for being nominated to Sex's Bar Hall of Fame. Not always, but it helps.) Kites forever fixed the allure of the college bar in my prepubescent mind; however, to my brother's ever-lasting dissappointment I went Jayhawk instead.

My brother just emailed me - I contacted him for research purposes, and I quote:

"As a sidebar , Kites is now back in existence in Aggieville , it is now 50 years old. Also Rusty's Last Chance in Aggieville was named Sports Illustrated's 12th best sports bar in America!

Now you got me thinking about my list! One of my favorites was the Elm Tree Bar in the front yard of the Kappa Sig house, a sort of impromptu place. One night one of the farm boys brought some Rhubarb wine in a milk jug from back home. The next morning I went to wake up a couple of the guys who had 'slept' in the front yard and I noticed that ten billion ants had crawled into the empty jug ...and died. One of my other favorite bars I've never been to is the Dexter Lake Club from the movie Animal House.

You mind if we dance wif yo dates?"

Obviously we come from good, hearty stock.

Bar #3 Speck's, Topeka, Kansas
The next bar is from my high school years. Get into the Way Back Machine, friends, and return to a world where the drinking age is 18 years old and IDs are rarely checked. Fine years, likely never to be again. I know I looked like I was twelve; I still look years younger than I am. No questions though, they just let me in. Standards weren't as strict back then. And yeah, my mom knew I went. No biggie.

I could play pool back in those days, actually quite well. I never bet, but on two beers and some Old Time Rock n' Roll on the jukebox, I could run the table for a few games. Guys with their own sticks got pissed because some sassy, short sixteen year old girl kicked their ass. Of course I always played on slop. I'm a decent liar and have a good poker face when I need it. (After all, I was a teenager. One thing a successful teenager must be proficient in is lying.) Looking back, I'm sure they knew what I was up to, but apparently I was cute enough to get by with it. I always went with guys, and not guys I dated (steady bf in those days). Most likely it was with this guy in high school who was my best friend, or these guys I worked with at Bonanza.

Bars #s 4,5,6,7, "The College Years." Lawrence, Kansas, Kansas University, GO HAWKS!

To place the time frame within the proper context of Jayhawk Basketball: I was at KU during the Larry Brown years, we had a run of something like 50+ wins at our Allen Field House, and Danny Manning led the way to the Championship. (Beer Guys, feel free to correct my memories, if needed.)

#4 The Wheel. My brother helped me move in to my dorm and sat me down with this good advice: "There will be a bar where everyone goes Friday afternoons. Find that bar and you'll have a successful college experience." Just a half block from campus, it was the bar I spent my first Friday afternoon in college, and many, many after. They reliably let underage drinkers in so it was more a froshie type establishment, and the beers weren't the cheapest in town. But it was crowded and fun all the same, a great spot to meet folks. And Pyramid Pizza was just downstairs, hense many Friday Night dinners. What with all the pizza and beer it's a wonder I didn't gain more than five pounds that year. Ah, to be so young and metabolic again.

#5 Johnny's. Good burgers. Seriously good. A two-sided bar- actually there was more to it than that, but one "side" was the motorcycle townie guys. Nice bunch of guys actually, if you felt like slumming over there at the bar. Motorcycles always filled the front sidewalk of this bar, and took all the best parking places besides. I used to ride my bike down there on Friday Nights. It was definitely The Friday Night Spot. Also a great place to bring the parents when they came to town.

#6 The Bull (Bullwinkles) Another Friday afternoon hang-out, once we outgrew the Wheel. Just down the street from the Beta House, this is where these smartie-pants all hung out. Not the friendliest bunch of guys, but at 85 cent cans, often free if you were the only ones in the place, The Bull was hard for a destitute college student to resist. Teensy place, built in booths, and ants on the walls. I recall once my friend and I went in there, and the bartender said we could drink free until another chic came in. The place filled up with Betas and we drank free from 1 pm until we left at 6 to go shower to go out that night to Johnny's. Ah, good times. Lean, but fun.

#7 Hands down, my fondest college bar memories are from The Hawk though. Thursday Nights $1.25 Barrels (about two beers worth), but they were strict about IDing in the later years (appreciated once we were of age). I got my Barrel when I was a freshman, the year of the drinking age change. It got to be remarkable that it lasted so long, most people bought one every year and they tended to break, you know. People would stop me just to look at my Barrel when I was a fifth year, and marveled that I still carried it to the bar. I bought another one and it broke, so I went back to Old Faithful (circa 1985) and it served me well lo those many years. Today it enjoys a relaxing retirement on my desk, holding my pens.

Thursday Nights at the Hawk. Attendance mandatory, unless you had a test on Friday.

#8 The Dark Horse Boulder Colorado. When we moved to Colorado we didn't go to bars as much, and when we did it was mostly micro-brew pubs. We became beer snobs and gained 20 pounds. But the one regular bar we went to always was the Dark Horse. I think I like this bar so well because it reminds me of Johnny's - a townie/college bar. It's located near the dorms, but plenty of locals hang out on one side of it. Again with the delish burgers, and awesome curly fries too. There's crap hanging from all over the ceiling - big stuff: like a sleigh and a lifesize plastic horse. I can't even think of it all. And there's writing all over the walls too. When my son was six weeks old, finally let out of house arrest (he was born in December and the doc wanted him kept indoors and away from the colds going around) the first restaurant we ever took him to was the Dark Horse. He just stared with those ginormous blue eyes of his - for an hour he stared at all the stuff in there. We still take the kids there pretty regularly, and it's cool because now we're playing air hockey with them and The Lad eats a whole burger of his own. Those college guys also make a mean grilled cheese: Monkey's favorite. Fireplaces, sticky floors, and Tuesday Night Tricycle Races. What more could you ever want from a bar?


#9 The Pub - Connor O'Neils, Boulder, Colorado
Anyone who reads me knows this pub. It's my home now: I know the band, I know the bartenders. The Pub is home to the best green salad on the planet (don't know why, but it is). Great food, great atmosphere, and Stella on tap. My brother, the one who'd lived in England, said it was the first Stateside Stella he'd had. I can't imagine life without the Pub. Monkey asks to go there, because she knows she'll get cherries for going potty.

#10 The Lariat - Grand Lake, Colorado
What can I say? Local bar, filled with hardworking mountain men and tourists. Also will serve to be inspiration for a story - right now it's just an idea in progress; and difficult to work out since I'm starting with the theme. It's like working backwards - usually I write and the themes emerge. I guess I'll just have to return to do more "research".

Dew Drop Inn No list of "my" bars/pubs would be complete without this honorable mention: The Dew Drop Inn, a pub off in the woods near Wargrave, Berkshire, England. I sat in this ancient pub in the middle of the woods with my other brother (he lived in Britain at the time) and I could imagine that two centuries ago highwaymen in cloaks rode up on horseback to find local news, a pewter mug of ale, and a warm bed. In fact, I kept glancing toward the door, fully expecting to see some enter, the shoulders of their cloaks covered in a dusting of snow. It was an odd night, an odd experience, and proved to be the inspiration for my recent series. I was only there once, and someday (hopefully) my readers can discover it for themselves in my third book. (the book, incidentally, which I am currently revising and is keeping me from posting as much. Sorry 'bout that. Work calls.) Cozy with all the English Pub requirements: low beamed ceilings, darts, fireplace, curtains on the windows, matching cushions on the chairs, and a friendly landlord to boot.

Why are these places important to us? That is - trusting I'm not alone in this affection - or would it be affliction? Bars have been home to some of my fondest memories. People watching abounds, the beer is cold, and the food is generally great. There is something else about them though; beyond the scamming and the drunken haze. I know I've written this before, but I think bars are little enclaves of opportunity. All I really know for sure is that I rarely to go to a bar and have a bad time.

So Happy Weekend. Lift a glass, hopefully in your favorite bar, and perhaps think of me in my bar; across the country or even the world. I'll be thinking of all of you and doing the same.

don't freak out jerry

My buddy and fellow mom, TG, is agonizing over her parenting again. It's a tough thing to be a parent, no lie. My favorite thing is when somebody who's not a parent comments. You can tell that these people are completely convinced that their child will be idiosyncrasy-free. Some of them even work with kids, often special needs kids; and this experience slants their opinions just a tad. Not that I don’t agree with them – I do! But people who aren’t parents becoming sudden experts in parenting - Hold your ground! Be the parent! Who's in charge? they cry with unindoctrinated fervor.

Ha! I say to them. There's a special circle of Hell reserved just for them, and it's called "Dinnertime With The Child Who Will Not Eat."

This show runs nightly and twice on Saturdays.

**

I just had a several paragraphs here on bad parenting. You know, shit that parents do that really irritates me? Like letting them watch dvds in the car when they're driving five minutes to the store; that sort of thing. Wouldn't want to force junior to notice that there's a world out there, would ya? Then I looked at it and realized that it not only sucked, but much of it reeked of the pot calling the kettle black (not with the car-dvd thing, though). So I thought again and came up with the one single thing about parenting that irritates me the most.

The one single thing that pisses me off is when parents don't realize that there are separate sets of rules for kids and grups. As in, grups get alcohol. Kids don't. Grups get to drive. Kids don't. Grups get to cuss a penalty-free blue-streak when something goes wrong. Kids get whupped if they talk like that. I figure they've got years ahead of them to turn into lazy, fat, shit-talking assholes, like we all are. But in the meantime, under my roof - you are gonna be a freakin' Mother Theresa, you hear me?? I cuss a lot. It's pretty bad. But if my kids ever try it, I say, "Uh uh, you don't. That's grown-up words." They accept it pretty readily. I think it's a relief for kids to know that there are separate rule books. They don't want what we've got. They can't take it. Getting in trouble just means they need more "handling."

What was my point in all this? Reading, reading... Dadadada...TG... Oh yeah, the questioning of oneself as a parent.

The self-questioning that goes on pisses me off too. (TG, I'm not attacking you here - keep reading.) Am I doing it right? Should I be harder on them? Should I be easier? Is this the right preschool? Should I let him eat what he wants? When he wants? What if he won't eat? What about profanity? PG movies for seven-year olds ok? No? Eight year olds? No tv? Some tv? How about music with profanity? Ok, just two cuss words on the album?

We live in this fucked up society of expert perfectionists who have made shit so friggin' difficult. Your kid's rude to you? It means he's got some psychological issues. You spank your kid at Target because he's being an asshole? People look at you, and if you're really lucky, someone will come over and "speak" to you. Don't forget your helmet to ride your bike - you know, the two foot tall bike with training wheels? Yup. Even on your driveway.

Come on, I've even been hit by a car on my bike and I didn't hit my head. (If you have a hit-your-head-on-a-bike story, save it. You're a minority, no matter what the ER docs say. Their experience is as slanted as the teacher who works with inner city gangsta kids.) Should I volunteer at school? Will it hurt my other kids if I don't spend that time with them? Do I need to keep an eye on things at school? Am I bad parent if I just don't wanna?

You should have seen the Lad's teacher when I went in to talk to her about some kid teasing him. She was nervous about the whole thing, and mostly nervous about how I was going to react. It became this weird triple negative that I had to battle before I got my point across (if I ever really did). It went something like this:

-Me telling her that this kid is teasing my kid at school.
-Teacher assuring me she's taking it VERY seriously. (Don't freak out, Jerry.)
-Me assuring her that while I know that kids are kids, yeah, I want it looked at.
-Teacher telling story about pissed off parent from the last "incident" like this. hey had to call other parents, the principal... she's testing me here. (Don't freak out, Jerry. You're not freaking out, are you?)
-Me assuring her that I'm not like that parent, I just want my kid to be happy at school.
-Teacher seeming to get nearly complacent about the whole thing. She's not going to get ripped a new one. I'm not a bitch. I'm not going to hassle her. She can blow me off.
-Me suddenly feeling like I'm not going to get this solved without getting really bitchy. (I'm freakin' out! Me, Jerry Seinfeld, is freakin' out!)

Obnoxious parents have made teachers so gun-shy that it's become hard to be just... normal. Balanced. Polite, courteous, and assertive without being an asshole.

I don't question myself much when it comes to parenting. Oh, yeah, I've got my moments, but in general, I'm the mom = I know best. At least, that's what my mother always said to me. "I'm the mom. I know best."

Stands to reason that as the mom, I know best now.

But then, late at night, I do sometimes question whether I question myself enough.

dumbgasm will not die

Let me share a freaky secret about Dumbgasm:

He's a geek.

Ok, so that's not the secret.

I don't get him though, honestly. Not cute, in the kindest stretch of the word. Baaaad hair. Not that great a writer. NOT an exciting life (ok, except he's in FL laying out on the beach and I'm at home with sick kids), doesn't drink alcohol (going so far as to use the word teetotaller), is a good Christian boy, loves his momma, lives in a garage... the list goes on (which to steal from Jason Mulgrew, means that I'm too lazy to keep typing it). And yeah, I know, still haven't gotten to the secret. But you're still reading, aren't you?

The freaky secret thing is he is surrounded by apparently semi-to-rather cool friends.

Folks comment on his blog. They say nice things. The pictures of his friends, of which there are many, show varying groups of fairly attractive, pretty cool, joe-blow college kids. The chicks aren't fat. They're cute. The guys are pretty hip looking, and not all that fat either since they apparently don't drink beer.

And along with a secret; a confession:

I underplayed Trent's attractiveness.

*hangs head* (heh, I hate that shit, don't you?)

Trent is actually pretty hot. Trent is built. Trent looks like he is funny and entertaining and can laugh at himself. Trent must be gay because he's too cute to be straight. The other guys are okay, not trolls or anything, and the girl with them in FL is pretty cute.

So why do they hang with him? In my experience, cute is as cute does. In other words, gay or not, hot hangs with hot. Not hangs with not. (Oh Christ, another poem. I simply LOATHE the springtime.)

Well, this is my theory: Goddamn if I mightn't have just found the last genu-I-ne nice guy on the planet, much less in Blogland (feel free to take that personally - you know who you are :p). Despite his looks, or maybe because of them; to all outward appearances he's completely confident and at ease with who he is.

And that is a rare gift, friends. Rare, indeed.

Simply put, I'm utterly facinated by this character. For awhile I've made fun of him. Now that my secret is out, I'm going to study him further. I may or may not post it on my blog, and the posts may or may not be mocking, as my mood dictates; but I'll try to post a warning in the title so you may skip town as soon as you see it.

And I'm still not inflicting all of you on him. Sorry. Find your own blog to make fun of. (Please make it be mine... please??)

spring break

Dumbgasm is on Spring Break in FL. He posts pix almost daily. No, not bewbies. They're more like his buddies throwing a baseball on the beach. (Isn't it supposed to be frisbies?) There's one of him laying out on the beach. He's very skinny and very pale.

Shit, I'm going to need asthetic therapy.

Anyway, it's a curious group - five guys and a relatively cute chic (well, she looks cute from the back - maybe she's got a harelip or something.)

Dumbgasm wears short-shorts to tan in, and complains that he might show more than he means to sometimes, so he'll have to be careful. It's all for Trent's benefit, I'm sure.

I got to see Trent, too. He's actually not awful. Dumbgasm obviously has a total crush on the dude, and Trent actually doesn't look all that gay. But then, in the pic where they're playing volleyball they all look quite gay, like they are hitting the ball as if they don't want to break a nail. Dumbgasm even says:

Look! My hands are doing nothing.

He must have just had a manicure at the spa.

They also played poker last night, and he called it Christian Poker. Does anybody know what that means? I thought gambling was off for the die-hards. But maybe they were going to donate the pot to charity or something.

Spring Break is wasted on the young. They clearly have no idea what fun is.

hello boys

Unrelated to anything but the title:
You know why I fucking hate Angelina Jolie so much? She's so goddamn sexy and tall and rich and has those fucking huge lips and shit. She also can take a relatively shitty movie and act circles around the paltry dialogue and questionable plotline.

But my jeep is so much more fucking awesome than hers.

I also hate the fucking snow. Actually, that's not quite right. I love the snow, I just hate its habit of coming twelve hours late. Like it's some sort of diva or something - as if the whole entire party revolves around the snow. As if.

Ok, well, it does, because I snowboarded again Saturday.

Good points:

1. I still love it. The sport is cool, the equipment is cool, the people who do it are cool. So hense, I'm cool. Right??

But I fear it will be much like my relationship with golf. I'll never be able to completely satisfy it in bed; but we will still have a wildly passionate, on-again, off-again affair which will leave me alternately devestated and elated; and nearly always sore and exhausted and hungover.

2. The Lad did marvelously at it - ready to learn turning at aged six! He went up the lift and all of it and came out nappy-haired and overjoyed. He wants to get a cool helmet and board and start doing jumps. A child's confidence does a mother's heart good. I got to tell my class - "Yea! That's my little boy over there!" He was doing so well, and he's still little enough to yell, "Hi Mommy! Look what I can do!" I about fucking bawled right there on the bunny hill.

3. I saw improvement, enough to impress even PHF. (An aside - ha, thought you were going to get off without one, did you? - It's rather amusing to have my own skier following behind, blocking traffic when I, uh, take a breather. He yells encouragements at the occassional fall and tells me when I do good. It's like having a personal cheerleading bodyguard - and a cute one at that. PHF is everything I'm not on skis. He is graceful, beautiful, perfectly parallel, his limbs work in concert; he is fricking eloquent. The sport speaks through him. It's really quite annoying.)

4. I spent not necessarily less time on the ground than last time, but much more by design rather than by accident. Strategic falling, I'll call it. I'm pretty good at edging stops and controlling my speed (not that I go very fast, you understand) and now I'm working on turning. I plan on not blowing money on lessons (though it's the same price as a lift and rentals) again (if ever) until next fall.

5. It nearly goes without saying, but the beer at the end of the day was pretty damn good, too.


Not so good points:

1. When PHF bought new goggles, our day topped out at over 300 bucks. For one day. Lift tickets are highway robbery, I tell ya. But, yes, dear, I know, you really did need new ones. Those scratches were annoying.

2. The snow pretty well sucked. It was that sticky, slushy manmade shit that catches an edge of my board and sends me flyin'. Ok, that didn't happen. But it sucked. And guess what it did all fucking night and through the day TODAY???!! Yah. That's right. Six fucking inches.

3. The mountain kicked my ass Saturday (figuratively). I'm in pretty good shape so it must be the altitude. Yeah, that's it. At 9000 feet there's no frickin' air.

Ok, no. It's not that high for me, I live at altitude, for crissake. I think (I hope) it's because I spent more time actually doing it instead of sitting on my ass wondering how I was going to get back down the mountain. I was done whupped, my lungs straining, my legs taxed, my ass red with exertion and for other reasons as well... which leads to point number 4...

4. The mountain kicked my ass Saturday (literally). My. Ass. Hurts. Not the tailbone this time; it was over on the cheekside, left to be exact. The Fall happened when I was nearly at the bottom, very close; tired but gutsy enough to take a turn. The Fall caused me to land on my ass and back. I would have lost equipment in The Fall, had it not been strapped onto me. The Fall was annoying because I almost made it through the day with a happy, intact ass.

It soooo huoots! Like, if I put on jeans and they are the slightest tight (I loathe baggy jeans) and I say, move, my ass hurts. Or if I sit in the back of my jeep on the ride home, my ass hurts. Or if I yell at my kid too loud my ass hurts. Or if I bend over to pick something up, my ass hurts.

I'm still waiting on the appearance of the bruise and I'll keep you updated; as I know you all are facinated by the status of my ass.

I won't take your lack of comments personally; we can all just yell out in a collective silent e-cry: FUCK YOU BLOGGER!!!

fucking blogger

Haloscan, anyone??

happy easter. run, bunny, run!

Yeddow:

I've got an easter color-themed post for today. First of all, I'm eating a Seroogy's Easter Egg, and if any of you know what that is, you'll be drooling fer sure. Let's hear it for Wisconsin! It's fudge and it's got a little yellow (or yeddow, if you're under five) flower on it. And my name in cursive: "Sex."

Nah, it's got my real name. My mommy brought it for me, didn't she?

Pink:

From Dumbgasm we hear:

"I got a comfy chair for my garage room. I'll upload a picture soon. It's pink.
I hear that pink is the new grey. (or gray)."

Funny how with a bit of editing it'd make a little poem.

Got a comfy chair for my new room
I'll upload a picture soon.
I hear that pink is the new grey.
And I'm pretty sure I'm gay.

Be sure to read it out loud. Poetry is meant to be heard.

I hope I'm not the only one who thinks that's funny, because I'm laughing my ass off right now. How embarrassing if I'm the only one. But I think it's worth blowing off the "no poetry" rule.

Purple:

The guys at Blogger are gonna get whomped upside their heads if they don't fix the fucking comments soon. I'll tan thier hides purple. The commentbox is the lifeline of Pajamaland. (We had a little debate over what to call Blogville on another post - damned if I can recall which one - and so I'm experimenting.)

In case I don't get to it soon:
Greg and Jack re: my last post-
Quit fighting, boys, there's enough Sex to go around.
And yeah, it's all true on that last post, every last word.

Greg and Jack, re: Greg's last post-
What do you say to the three of us getting together for a little 'experimenting"?

tag, i'm it.

Link

Inland, Dreaming writes: Now I have questions for you! I love this shit. Give me a topic and I'll roll, but not even dumbgasm is up to anything and I'm just goin' like crazy on the fiction so the blog is being neglected.

Why do you care what Martha thinks of your ass?

I'm insecure about my ass, and everyone knows she's the doyene of aesthetics. She likes my ass, so, to my reasoning, it's a nice ass.

If you could go to the land of the elves, what would you find there?

Lots of strapping young elven warriors having magical sex which sometimes leaves you an animal that you weren't before! At least, that's what I've found in the books I've read.

What can you not forgive? (no fair saying "stupid questions," either)

Not a stupid question at all. It's very telling, actually. That's why I asked it!

I'm the forgive and forget type. Holding a grudge just takes too much energy and time. I'm more likely to forget the person rather than hold a grudge. I do have a couple of weaknesses that stem from my past and if someone touches on that, I tend to not be able to forgive.

Ok, lame. I think my forgiving nature comes from the fact that I'm so obviously imperfect. Take this blog; hell, my whole online life. Shit, I'd never tolerate the same sort of philandering and flirting from PHF, but he just goes along with it. I think I could even forgive him an indiscretion (not a license, here, dear!) because I think it could so be me in those shoes. Ok, that came out wrong. Actually, I don't see myself ever sleeping around, but I could, theoretically, forgive myself if I did it. So hence, I could forgive him.

Theoretically.

But if forgiveness means trust; then I'm not so forgiving. I'm good at setting boundaries, so it's annoying when people don't catch on. I can forgive someone for the deed, but if you push a really wrong button, mess with something inside that I've not sorted out yet, then you would lose my trust. Forever. The unfair thing is you likely would never know because I wouldn't bother telling you. So far there's only one person who has lost my trust forever, and no, I'm not going to share who it is.

Oh, and you fuck with my kids, you fuck with me. And trust me when I tell you that is not something you want to do.

Sorry, that was nasty. It also is nearly verbatim that something one of my protags said a few days ago. But we had a RL issue earlier today. It's just a goddamn hard thing to tell your six-year-old kid that not everyone is going to like him.

Was there ever a particular moment when you knew PHF was the love of your life? If so, let's hear it. Or do you just conclude this from longevity?

We met up at a party at his fraternity. (Ok, it was cool back then!) Anyway, he was on the verge of break up with a girlfriend, I was on a date with Dak - no, I'm not making that up. Anyway, Dak was a nice guy and everything, but as soon as I saw that cute, fucked-up-drunk guy over on the dance floor I got all scamming and shit. He scammed me back, asked me to slow dance. (Madonna - Crazy For You. Jebus, that just says so much, doesn't it?) I said yes to PHF in front of Dak right after refusing Dak the slow dance (yup, see, I can be a total bitch). To my credit I didn't let him kiss me when he tried. Later, same party, I was in the middle of the best fucking game of pool in my life - PHF walks up, the ball goes all wonky, and boom!

I was in love.

Nah, just kidding ya. Yeah, all that happened but the love part was a little more gradual. I do remember after he called me and we had a study date two days after we met (he played with my hair and told me how hot I was, and that I was useless at calculus and I should quit it right away... man, was he ever smooth). Anyway, I remember going to bed that night and thinking to myself, Self, you've gone and done it this time. I really just wanted to play the field but we had more fun with each other than anyone else so we stuck it out. And longevity, sure. We've known each other since 1986.

I could never play pool after that, though.

What writing ideas have come to you in dreams?

It's not so bad now that I'm in editing; actually it's been awhile since they paid a visit. But during the second book (by far the best shit I've ever written) haunting was the accurate term. I lived, breathed, ate and slept those guys. Wrote that book in four months and it's required the least editing of all of them.

As far as flat-out ideas, they come from drugs or something. Not dreams, I don't think; probably more from characters. And all ideas that flesh out the original concept come purely from the act of writing; mostly dialogue. If I don't know where they're headed, I just sit two characters down and start them to talking, and damned if they don't figure it out for me every time!

In your life, have you been a one best friend kind of woman? Or more of a group of friends person?

Best friend type of person. Definitely. I still have a best friend from college, though we don't talk as much as we should (sorry, I know I owe you that phone call!)
Since I've been married it's weird because I don't really have a best friend. I guess PHF is it; though frankly, we're often too close to each other's issues to hash it out the way a best friend would. As far as groups, I've learned that I really prefer hanging with the guys, though you B's are "aight." You know who you are. I have tons of girlfriends and I know that I could call them to do something any time, or I could call any of them in an emergency. But confiding... truly confiding? I don't know.

I'm basically a shitty, neglectful friend who relies more on convenience than what's right and good in a friendship. It's because I'm reclusive really, unless there's alcohol or kids involved. Right now I think this blog is my best friend. How fucking lame is that??

martha's come "out"

Martha's out again. For how long, who knows, but for now she's back in Westchester, or where ever the fuck her house is, chillin' with her chickens and eating lemons and trying not to be annoyed with her ankle-tracer thingy. After months of negotiation (ok, ten minutes) she has agreed to come back to SS@S for another interview. Let's face it, she's desperate for the press.

Editor's note: The only stipulation is we've agreed not to bring up the lawsuit. I'm sure we'll lose anyway-
Sex- yeah, it's Martha F. Stewart, for crissake! She's got lawyers out the yin-yang
Editor- Can I continue?
Sex- Sure. Go ahead, Ed.
Editor- But the last laugh is on her. We are a non-profit with no money and no reputation to speak of.
Sex - Yeah, what's she gonna do? Shut down our blog?

**

Sex: Good to have you back on Sex Scenes, Ms Stewart.
Martha: I'm sorry I'm out of breath, but I must keep scrubbing my cabinets and baseboards as we speak.
Sex: Wasn't the house kept clean while you were, uh... gone?
Martha: In prison, you mean? You can say it. I was in prison. I can admit it. I'm not ashamed.
Sex: Um, Ok. So wasn't it kept clean while you were in the big house getting ass-raped by a burly she-bitch named Charqueil?
Martha: I don't know anybody named Charqueil...
Sex: Well, it's all semantics anyway, right?
Martha: er... and I don't think women get "ass-raped" in prison. That doesn't even make sense...
Sex: Well, you would be in a position to know, huh? So anyway, wasn't the house kept clean?
Martha: My staff is the best, but my standards are quite high.
Sex: I guess I thought you might let some of that go since you had alternative living arrangements recently.
Martha: Prison. Say it. Prison.
Sex: I'm sorry, but after all the prison porn I've seen, it's just hard to imagine you in there.
Martha: Prison isn't anything like those movies.
Sex: Aha, so you're admitting to watching porn? Can I have a quote to sell to USA Today?
Martha: No, that's not what I'm saying...
Sex: I understand that you can leave the house.
Martha: Up to forty-eight hours a week. I'm using the time to film my new show, the Apprentice.
Sex: That seems like a funny way to blow through that time. I'd be at the freakin' bars showin' off my new ankle-wear and svelte figure.
Martha: Well, I did lose weight in prison.
Sex: Good for you. Anyway, I guess I figured you'd just put a boardroom in the basement or something, and think up a better way to spend your two days.
Martha: We've had to be pretty clever with the filming... but of course I can't let out too many secrets about it. You'll see.
Sex: Uh, actually, no I won't. I can't stand that reality-tv shit. So what else will you do, besides work?
Martha: The gardens need cleaning and planting, and the chickens have quit laying. I've got my work cut out around here. And I really want to see my friends and family. I plan on lots of dinner parties.
Sex: Oh great. I'll be waiting for my invitation.
Martha: I don't even know you.
Sex: We know each other. We chatted that time I was trying to make swedish pancakes.
Martha: You were using a box mix. Just add water. I never could figure out why you were calling me, or why you were using a box mix. Really, Sex. You could do better for yourself.
Sex: Well, I like to keep my life simple.
Martha: I plan on enjoying a more simple life as well.
Sex: Oh reeeeally? You enjoying your lemons?
Martha: What did you say?
Sex: Oh nothing.
Martha: No. What did you say to me?
Sex: I just wondered how you were enjoying your lemons? You know, the ones that were picked an hour before your release and flown from Florida by private jet to a stretch Hummer and then driven to your house? The lemons which were timed to arrive ten minutes before you did, so that you could have lemon in your freakin' tea? Is that what you meant by the simple life?
Martha: How did you know about that?
Sex: Hey, my sources are anonymous. I'm obligated to protect them. I have my journalistic integrity to think of.
Martha: Journalistic integrity? You write a blog for pete's sake.
Sex: Hey, don't bring Peter into this.
Martha: It's an expression, not a real person.
Sex: Yeah, riiiight, like Pete isn't real. Everybody knows who he is. It isn't every guy who looks like Jim Morrison. If you hadn't decided to swing "that way" you'd be all over him too. But prison will do that to you, I guess. The porn isn't so far off, after all. Lots of girl-on-girl and girl-on-girl-guard, eh?
Martha: This interview is over. Don't call me again.
Sex: But we're still on for lunch before court, right?
Martha: You aren't supposed to bring that up.
Sex: Bring what up?
Martha: How I'm suing your pretty little ass for libel and slander.
Sex: Oh, yeah, that.
Martha: You aren't supposed to talk about it.
Sex: I'm not. You are. I didn't say slander and libel.
Martha: I think we're through here.
Sex: But you like my ass though, right? Right? Martha?

Oh well. But you heard it here first. Martha likes my ass. Now where did I leave that number to the Enquirer editor?

you know i don't usually kiss and tell

but in a word:

screaming.

things to do with your sex hair

Editor's note: this will be written while extremely intoxicated and edited while sober. The author will do her damndest to maintain the spirit of the drunken post while fixing numorous gramatical and spelling errors.

Act I

Virtigo and her better half bailed.

Yeah, I know. It sucks. We were headed for this goth club that plays awesome music. But after X many of days in Vegas (yeah, all together now: "POOR BB."), BB was feeling not quite so BB-ish. We're not spring chickens you know. We're getting up there.

I was so in the mood to part-ay. So a tame dinner out and perhaps a movie (which I didn't want to see anyway) was not going to fix this. I needed a night OUT goddammit. And to top it off, PHF was in a tetchy mood, due to much time with the children. Sweet as they are an afternoon will tax the most forgiving of psyches.

Hence a, er, discussion. It took the ride into Boulder to resolve our differences, and our pre-dinner apertif at the pub was stilted, to say the least. Dinner helped though. We both got food in our bellies and our moods lightened considerably.

But something weird happened at the restaurant. I fell.

On my ass.

Well, one cheek anyway. Actually it was quite graceful, considering. I ended up in side-thigh-knees-tucked-up-attractively, leaning-on-one-hand position. You know, like that chic in that painting who's sitting on the ground staring at her house in the distance and everyone wonders what the fuck she's doing way out there. Is she disabled? Is she lonely? Dreaming of a better life? Is that her ex-boyfriend's house?

Fortunately, I work out enough that a sudden fall is practically nothing. So no damage was taken, except to my ego. And that was mostly because some assholes at the bar laughed at me.

Laughed.

Assholes.

High heels? Check. New. 4 inches. Yeah, fuck-me shoes carry a risk.

Drunk? Two beers. Hardly.

The fucking floor was wet, and that, combined with new high heels, made for disaster.

You're wondering, of course, Who rushed to your rescue, Sex?

Nobody. Two fucking waiters were right there and neither one even asked me if I was ok. I sat there for a second before I sprang back up (I work out, you know). PHF definitely didn't see me or he would have been there. Any of my friends, guy or girl, would have rushed to my rescue. Ok, they would have laughed, but they would have stepped up. Greg would have rushed over and fussed for a good quarter hour over me. (Maybe I could have sat on your lap until I felt better?) Jack, even in a pissy mood, would have been right there with a hand and a wrinkle of concern in that pretty little forehead of his. Krypto, definitely. Cryptic and Stray, of course. Lunatic, Blue, Joe, Pete, Luke, Jake... any of you guys would not have sat there and laughed over the chic falling.

Ok, so maybe you would have. But if you've ever done such a thing, shame on you and don't tell me about it. Let me have my fantasy here. And let me give you boy-types some advice: if you ever see a chic fall, drunk or not, hot or not, (and I was damn hot last night, as Act II will prove) you had better be up off your ass double-time, kind hand outstretched, narry a smile on your lips. Bad things happen to assholes.

Seriously, people go to hell for less.

But, heh heh, I got mine after the intermission. There was one lame pool hall in between but then we went to a piano bar.

Act II

You know, dueling pianos? When it's good, it's great. When it's bad... it's awful. It's horribly embarrassing. Actually it's embarrassing anyway, because it's such a chic thing. To be clear, it was not my idea to go in there. PHF was trying to please me, and as there was nothing else to do (I suggested the pool to be nice to him, but he wasn't biting.) And it was only nine-thirty. We sure as hell weren't going home.

We watch for awhile and they're pretty good. Four guys with differing ability: a clear one, two, three, four. It's obvious who is number one and he is brilliant. But this mostly involves numbers two and three. (Let me take a break here for the odd, contemplative, drunken observation: Isn't it funny how someone can be not very cute, but put a piano in front of him and his personality comes through and lo and behold, he's damn cute. Then you see him later up at the bar on break and he's not cute again. Weird.)

Anyway, they're singing, of course. And playing piano.

Sex is on her way (finally!) to getting drunk. PHF is driving and is being fairly responsible, but enjoying the piano bar despite himself. He actually was starting to nod a little to the music at that point (later he would be singing along, but that's not what this is about).

Sex comes up with a request. "Werewolves in London." I've got a thing for that song for a lot of reasons, but it's a ringer for piano bars, of course.

"Waaaaaooooooo Werewolves in London. Waaoooooooooooooooooo."

It's a gimme.

PHF says two bucks, since it's a gimme, but I don't want to be cheap-ass about it. I put three bucks on it - probably the minimum bid - and walk my request up to the piano. I put the money down on the piano and turn to leave.

Number three QUITS playing and comes after me, actually makes it off the stage.

Number two yells at him to come back and save his scamming for his break. The crowd goes crazy. Fortunately I was just drunk enough to not go all red. AND they played my song immediately, ahead of about ten other requests. And a guy in a wheelchair danced to my song. If you read me much you'll know why that's pretty cool. Yeah, you can dance in a chair. He was good too, incredible balance and upper body of course, and way cute. Some chics picked up on him after that.

So, yeah, Amber, I'd say the the sex hair is working out nicely. Of course the fuck-me heels and skimpy halter top didn't hurt either. But the sex hair was done all super straight. It did look pretty good, even if I say so myself.

But I think PHF was right. I think I could have gotten my song played for two bucks.

what's in a name?

I'm thinking of a solution to a problem. Well, to clarify, I've come up with the problem, but not the solution. I started worrying over it when Greg noticed I called him Gregory. I was writing a rather mundane comment in response whilst thinking:

See, the problem with "Greg" is I don't tend to want to scream it out during sex. "Gregory..." works for slow sex. Yeah, he does that pretty well. Only he's not for slow sex all the time. What to call him when he's really goin' at it? Hmm. I must think up a solution to this problem. Not everyone can be named jackJackJACK!, but everyone deserves a good sex name.

Parents should be thinking of this when they name thier kids. My kids actually made out pretty well, but PHF's and my parents OBVIOUSLY didn't have fucking in mind when they named us. Especially with my name. Sheesh. It SUCKS for that. Of course, PHF has come up with an alternative for me. He's such a good, kind, wonderful man.

I think it should be law actually. I bet we could get it buried in a huge war finance bill or the social security revamp. Or, I know, maybe it could be like a tribal name, your secret name that only your lover gets to learn. Knowing your true name is supposed to give someone power over you. So knowing your sex name could give that person the power to make you cum. So instead of saying "She's such a slut," we could say, "Everybody knows her name." Like Lunatic. Quite a few chics know his name.

This name issue gets me to thinking. I didn't take to "Sex" right off. Actually I kinda hated it. Can't recall who it was, Greg or Jack, who started it. Greg, I'd venture to say. But I was all, "No, that's not ... I mean... that's not who I am." I even tried to start another name, but Sex persisted.

Somebody asked me a couple of weeks ago if I liked it. I shrugged. It's my name. I like it ok now.

I haven't been called "Sex" by anybody in person, but PHF loves to tell people at parties that my online name is Sex. I'm going out tomorrow night. If someone asks me what my name is, I'm gonna say, all low and shit:

"Sex."

And lick my lips.

Heh. Dare me?

tag, you're it!

SS@S rules for Question Tag:
All questions carry an implied why/why not. This is an essay test, people!

If you want to use my standards (all together now: "60% minimum Truth!") go ahead, we won't hold it against you. But do it well enough that you have to disclose us that some of the answers are "embellished." We want to speculate behind your back.

When you post the answers, offer to ask as well so the game can continue.

Our contestants are: Greg, Neurotic Monkey, Krypto, Inland, and Jack.

Gregory:
1. Is finding a significant other important to you? How would it change you?
2. Reincarnation? What would/did make you believe? Do you think you have past lives?
3. What will your life be like when you're fifty? Ideally? Likely reality?
4. If you had to pick a past period of time (fifty years ago or more) to back and live, when would it be?
5. Some life/spiritual theories hold a "matrix-like" reality as truth - we are not really here but it's the best our puny brains can come up with. Does this ring true for you?

Neurotic Monkey (whom I've nicknamed Manic):
1. Want to write a book? If so, fiction or non? Story-based or theme-based?
2. How much money would it take for you to not work, and how would you fill your time?
3. Or, could you not work? What would you do instead?
4. What is your most compulsive habit?
5. What is your most facinating pastime and how much do you partake?

Jack:
1. Hands down best sexual experience. (Details, man. We want details.)
2. What sort of betrayal warrants divorce? What's the worst thing you would forgive a significant other?
3. Do you keep up with current events? Favorite source?
4. What is your most unconventional quality?
5. Name three goals for your life (and how you'll achieve them) that have nothing to do with career or money or other people.

Krypto:
1. Are you religious, spiritual, or not so much?
2. Are there ghosts? What did/would it take for you to really believe?
3. What makes a perfect day?
4. Sex or Love? And what would you give up to get it?
5. What is your ideal work? Are you doing it/pursuing it?

Inland:
(This one's tougher since I know her. Ok, here goes)
1. Which blogger do you most think you could be friends with?
2. What do you like most about other writers? What do you like least?
3. What's the most difficult part of not having kids?
4. Ever communicated telepathically/dream-state with someone?
5. Define success.

Have a good time, and throw a comment on this when you answer so people can go hit your link. I got too lazy for gdfhtml.

don't even bother reading this, it's all stupid bullshit anyway

Take a swim on over to my friend's site. She found something hilarious to share. Which one is your favorite? Mine is:

Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

**

Today's horoscope:

This is a bumpy path you're on. Don't worry if you trip from time to time.

Fucking path. Somebody should put up a sign or something.

And my workout horoscope. Why the stars are concerned with my workouts, I don't know, but apparently they are. These are quite detailed.

The 1st through the 5th, you are at the start of the rest of your healthier than ever life! You've reconsidered and revamped. You've tossed the sugary sodas and plugged in the juicer. You're chugging carrot juice. Carrot Juice? I wonder how that goes with vodka... You're chewing linseeds. What the fuck are linseeds and why am I only chewing them? Do I swallow or spit? You're pumping iron and monitoring your pulse. Fuckin' A I am. I couldn't get my heart rate above 120 today and I was goin' at it. Ok, on the bike. Get your mind out of the gutter. My resting heart rate is so low that I'm practically frickin' dead. Hmm, I wonder if Pete could bring it up? You're de-stressed, not at all depressed and you're eating less. Not bloody likely. Wow! What a difference a healthy lifestyle makes, especially on the 8th and 9th! When's the last time you felt this good? Last night after my fifth beer. The 11th, you might add something else to your regime. Are you taking up a new sport? Today somebody did ask me to do a triathalon. "HA!" I said. I'll say it again, "HA!" I don't bike, run or swim (God, I really canNOT swim) so which part of the triathalon were they expecting me to do? Now if there was a triathalon that consisted of beer, wine and whiskey... then I'd be a fucking world record holder. So what other new sport shall I take on, around the eleventh? Any ideas out there?

I do have to laugh though because much of this is true. I've been working out like a fiend. I worked out for nearly THREE hours on Monday. Three. Today was two. I'm kickin' ass and not takin' names. Or is it kickin' ass and takin' names? Never can remember. Also, I'm currently sharing the weight room with what can only be our high school football team. These kids are immense. They're little scammers too, the randy bastards.

Kids get big so damn fast. Have I mentioned how my six year old is only a foot shorter than me? He's gonna be freakin' huge. How that huge a kid ever sprung from these teensy loins, I'm sure I don't know.

See, I said don't bother. It's all stupid bullshit - it's fucking ramblings and musings is what it is. Oh God the horror.

**

What?? You can't stop now. It's just getting good.

**

Pete (that cute young thang who looks like Jim Morrison... Let's all take a moment to reflect on Pete looking like Jim Morrison, shall we? See, isn't all the bad stuff gone from your mind? Aren't you all more relaxed? I am. Horny, but relaxed - but so what else is new, right?) ANYWAY, Pete (ahhh) requested an update on Dumbgasm.

He (Dumbgasm, not Pete) hasn't been up to much, though he's trying to get several friends together on a houseboat this summer for a week. 300 bucks a loser. Doesn't that sound like a lot? I think it sounds like a lot to spend a week on some crappy old houseboat with a bunch of repressed gay college guys who have bad hair and don't drink. Have I mentioned how they don't drink? However, I don't dare post his link now lest you all leave comments indicating your wish to attend. Oh, and tonight he posted this note with a pic:

Quite possibly the cutest photo of a kitten ever. Don't look directly at it, it is too cute. http://www.cutelittlekittens.com

It is cute, I guess, if you're totally gay. (I'm rather enjoying this. I haven't called anybody gay as an insult since 1987, when this asshole took my last cigarette. Oh, but I called him a fag who always steals my fags. Talk about huge. That kid was huge.)

He (Dumbgasm, not Pete) also is still working on his "big move."

I moved some clothes into the garage tonight. I'm getting closer, and as I think that it is getting warmer, indeed it is not. Today it snows. Perhaps I will postpone my moving out for a later date. After spring break it is usually nice.

(This is one of those times when I'm having a little struggle with not editing the crap out of his paragraph.)

No worries, Peter. As events unfold, you can rely on SS@S to keep you up to date!

**

For those of you who are running out of time, a warning. Don't have children. Once you have children an hour becomes forty-five minutes long. Am I right, TG? I don't know where that quarter-hour goes but it's gone. Probably to Paris Hilton. Like she doesn't have enough of, oh, everything. Bitch.

**

And finally, for those of you brave enough to play Question Tag (bwahahaha)I'll post questions in a day or so. Oh, and Jack, I'll try not to make them lame.

do you want to play a game?

It's Question-Tag. I'm answering Brandy's questions that she posted for me on her site. If you want to play you can answer my questions, individualized, and you post on your site with the same offer. In that way we can get spread this game through Blogland like herpes through the porn industry. (If my answers are boring, blame Brandy - her questions!) (Just kiddin' ya, Brandy.)

1. Have you ever cheated on a boyfriend or husband? If yes why?
Not technically. (He would think yes, I would say no.) Why? Because the alternative was way hot and way available. What the hell was his name?? What a great night. Nothing like multiple orgasms on top of a rousing game of chandeliers. We partied all the time together freshman year, slept together - well, passed out together, and finally did the nasty. Hmm. Good times. Still partied but quit the sex. Don't know why. Oh yeah, PHF came along.

2. Describe the lowest point in your life and how you overcame?
Lincoln Jr High, Naperville, IL. I overcame by going to high school (Central, if anyone cares). The second day I was standing around out in the hall waiting for a late teacher with the other students and I cracked some joke and everyone laughed. A cute football player boy told me I was pretty funny. I made friends with some of those people, another cute boy flirted with me, and the horror of Jr High Geekness was forever banished. Been flirting and teasing and joking ever since.

3. Do you believe more in God or Luck, explain?
Are the two mutually exclusive? I don't really think so. Interesting that you should bring this up. I'm about to embark upon a period of questioning religion - I feel it coming on. I'll try to spare you blogfolks as much as I can. However, right now this is where I am: I think most of the terminology and rituals and explanations only serve to put a human spin on that which we cannot comprehend. I don't have much hope for true understanding and I'm not sure if it matters. I think the concept of Luck is tied to the concept of Fate, and I think both are basically bullshit. God (or the Universal Consciousness, Allah, or Collective Us -pick your flavor) has got better shit to do.

4. What is the worst thing you have ever done to someone one you loved?
No one single thing, but several small ones. I regularly argue with my mother. I don't play with my kids. I've done nothing in this life or previous to deserve PHF, and I continue to do much which should negate it. An ordinary man would have run away screaming long ago. Fortunately PHF has had way worse done to him, so he thinks I'm cake.

5. What is the worst thing you have ever done to someone you disliked.
I took down an asshole that PHF used to work with. He didn't lose his job or anything, but I made him show his true colors in a social situation in front of his coworkers. They enjoyed it and we laughed at his expense later. That's the only thing I can think of right off. But mostly if I don't like you I ignore you until you go away. And that can be pretty damn bad, I'm told.

And I love questions, so here is another. SS@S's newest friend (read: victim) Neurotic Monkey inquires:

Also you seem to get a lot into a day: writing, yogurt eating, working out, running, tantalizing webnerds, parenting, sex (both real and imaginary), bantering with bloggers. You're like Kelly Ripa, minus the whole threatening restraining order against me. So I have to ask: What's your secret? Would you say it's Opium, or more likely the blood of a virgin princess? The reason I ask is because I have a cousin who swears by the opium, but I recently read an article in Maxim that said I should give the blood thang a try. I would just like your opinion.

My days are busy indeed. I do have a few secrets that involve neither of your suggestions, though the blood thingymabob sounds mighty interesting. Everyone knows that Maxim is the be-all end-all of how to make your way in this crazy world (fuck that Simple Life. Maxim has it all over Simple Life).

1. Absurdly expensive bras.
If I can make myself look like I've got some semblence of breasts quickly and without much fanfare, the whole day goes better.

2. I watch no tv.
Except for one hour late at night which was taped by Tivo. I watch nearly nothing popular except for Scrubs and Alias, which is why I'm so attracted to you. Besides getting off on your sexy on-line Voice, I am actually just using you for your knowledge and opinion of popular media so I can nod at the right times during conversations about the latest Bachelorette. You think I jest, but I've heard of exactly one movie that won an Oscar. Instead, I watch weird shit like Carnivale and Keen Eddie and MI5 and the occassional Inspector Morse. I watch weird, bad movies too. Oh, and the porn, of course.

3. I sleep very little.
What time I spend in bed is mostly taken up in bestowing exquisite sexual favors upon my darling PHF or watching tv. Sometimes I read in bed. And eat crackers. (It's a deal-breaker with PHF - the crackers - so I can only do it when he's out of town and then blame the crumbs on our darling chilluns when he gets home. Also, shhh, just between you and me, I eat them on HIS side of the bed so my side stays clean, though if you tell anyone I'll deny it and then have you killed by La Femme Nikita.)

4. We raise our kids up to be independent.
It's called benign neglect and more parents should try it. My kids know my writing is work and respect it pretty well. They're pretty fun too, and love all the same stuff we do. Especially the babysitters. We ALL love the babysitters. Babysitters rock.

5. Must write. No choice. Yada yada yada - you've all heard this one before. I can do it with kids yelling at me, I can do it in five minute spurts, I can sit for four hours and do it, I can write fiction and read blogs at the same time. Two machines, no waiting.

6. I have nearly the same urge to work out as I do to write. Must go to the gym and scam thirty-something dads and twenty-something lifeguards. Must lift weights so as to kick asses of people who annoy me.

7. And there's Jack and Greg. Must keep in touch with them on a near daily basis. They keep me hip and horny.

Shit does get neglected. Like laundry. (I'm currently waiting for the "uh, honeeey, could you do laundry so I can have socks again" talk.) And bills. Hate to do the bills and put them off as long as possible. I also have my house cleaned every week. See, I said I've done nothing to deserve a man like PHF.

And there you have it; answers to all the serious questions I can handle in one night. Warning: My questions won't be so generously thoughtful and deep, and there will, of course, be a special little SS@S spin on the game. Can't win if you don't play!