Monday, January 31, 2005
So I didn't mean to leave a post about pubic hair up all weekend. To anyone who was made slightly ill, I apologize.
Which brings me to another apology I must make. To Celti (you'll have to scroll down to find the post). I realize I'm extremely late in proffering one, but I wasn't aware of it until last night. Still however, it must be said: I'm sorry my Not One Damn Dime post upset you. I didn't mean any personal offense by it, and my intention was not to insult you personally, just to point out (with my own personal brand of non-compromise) the foolishness of the boycott. But I admit it sounded very harsh and unkind and for that I am sorry. And you don't have to leave anonymous comments. If I put it out there, you have every right to call me on it. It doesn't mean I will respond with hearts and kitties, but it opens up a discussion and that's almost always good.
Okay. My ego can only withstand so much apologizing, so onto a story that puts me in a really bad light.
My in-laws came into my house when we weren't home to deliver ice cream for the kids. My house was a friggin' mess. Not just a cluttery mess, but also a needs-to-be-vacuumed-because-the-kids-dropped-crumbs-all-over-the-floor, kind of mess. I am completely hypocritical in that I wouldn't let anyone see it like that, but I only ever take vague stabs at cleaning it up. I think I have selective ADD. But that's beside the point. MY IN-LAWS CAME INTO MY HOUSE WHEN WE WEREN'T HOME! I can honestly say I have never been more mortified. I can't believe they would just do that.
Let me just say that I love my in-laws. They live too close, but they let the kids spend the night almost once a week which is an unheard of luxury and a large part of what has kept Jeth and I sane and married. Not that we don't love our kids, but it's nice to get rid of them and take stock of where you are every so often. Plus it would afford us some much-needed sleep when the girls were very small.
But they still came over without asking - just unlocked the door with a key that is only to be used for emergencies, and walked right in. Jethro was just as upset, and he asked his parents to call first so we have a chance to straighten up so we don't have to be mortified. Jethro said they laughed and said ok.
On the bright side, it seemed to have awakened the muse of housecleaning within me, and our kitchen looks pretty good.
There isn't much else going on right now. I have a feeling I'll have to dig into the past for anything really amusing.
Friday, January 28, 2005
But I do know how to get rid of mine, or at least make Jethro get rid of mine. And for anyone who hasn't tried it with their parther, all I can say is ya-fucking-hoo! I don't want people thinking I'm some inept person who walks around all fuzzy.
Which brings me to a story. You know that stuff NADS? I'm sure everyone has seen and made fun of the infomercial with the Aussie ladies hocking their product. Well, being a sucker and intrigued with the fact that you could also eat the product, I bought it. It was delicious, but ineffective. In retrospect I probably should have tried it out on a leg first, but no. I went right for the portal of life. Incidentally it is kind of funny to be smearing something called NADS on your schmoobie.
I followed all the instructions carefully, making sure it was a little warm, smearing it on in the proper direction, dutifully rubbing it three times. Then for the moment of truth.
"Here goes nothing," I thought.
"MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS FUCKING WRONG WITH CAPITALISM!!!! MOTHER-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCKING OW!!! THOSE BITCHES!! THOSE FUCKING UNETHICAL AUSSIE BITCHES!!!"
Droplets of blood appeared and the hair was still attached! I gave up the endeavor in sheer agony.
I think I've used my NADS twice since then and both times in was in a culinary capacity.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
I went to Wal-Mart at about midnight last night. Anyone who can't appreciate the stew of human comedy that is Wal-Mart, well you'll just have to read about it from my perspective.
I was walking down the personal hygeine aisles searching for shampoo and a bikini trimmer minding my own business. There were two employees talking (loudly) about a display in the section, and they were standing right in front of the bikini trimmers. One was a skanky lady with permed hair, a smoker's voice, and about 3 pounds of eyeshadow. The other was a balding man who looked managerial in a sleazy kind of way. Not being terribly shy, I paused so they could move out of my way.
They stopped their conversation and the "lady" wheezed out, "Can I help you?"
Good grief. The only things I could possibly have been looking for were of a pretty personal nature, and I didn't really want her skanky ass or the balding greaseball she was talking to "helping" me.
Biting back a, "Yes , I need my pussy shaved. Can you help me?" I managed a polite, "No, thank you. I'm just looking." I decided to look for the shampoo first and I walked off to the skank saying, "Yeah, I went ahead and moved the display of those nasty douches..."
Shuddering slightly, but still trying not to laugh, I found my shampoo and went in search of some Tony Chachere's.
I have to be very careful how I say this. I don't want to give off the wrong impression or anything. But I if I were ever to find myself in an the unfortunate situation of being a widow, I think I would wait about 3 years, then screw the pants off any guy between the ages of 18 and 25 provided they walk upright. I think I'm turning into a dirty old man except inverted. I want to prey upon the young.
Jethro doesn't have anything to worry about as long as he's alive. He will look 25 until he's 40. Lucky bastard. But I digress. Actually, I'm done with this subject.
New Topic: I haven't written about sex in awhile.
I was having sex last night and I discovered that I kind of do a running commentary during the act. Not in a radio announcer way...well maybe in a radio announcer way if the radio announcer was a horny girl. And it was more a series of questions and statements. "How's that? All your other girlfriends sucked didn't they? Oh HELL yeah. I'm the best aren't I? Harder. Oh HELL yeah." Kind of like that. I'm actually very worried that it's distracting and unattractive. Fortunately, I think Jethro tunes me out except when I say harder.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
I actually didn't tell her that. I'm trying to cultivate better relationships with my sisters and I figure I can start by not offending them immediately. It's a bad habit we all have from our dad who was the world's harshest critic. We grew up taking great pleasure in one-upping each other, and it made for a harsh and brutal environment. It is no wonder I get along better with boys. They seem sweet and cuddly compared to the estrogen zoo I grew up in. I'm guilty of contributing my share to the chaos, but I also took the brunt of a terrible situation.
I don't usually like talking about this stuff, but it's been on my mind lately. When I was 15, my father had been diagnosed with leukemia for 4 years, and needed a bone marrow transplant. We moved to Houston so he could have it at MD Anderson Cancer Center. As our terrible luck would have it, my grandfather (my father's father) was diagnosed with liver cancer and decided to come to Houston for treatment as well. We all rented a house together, and it was a pretty tight squeeze which became tighter when my eighth sister was born. Six months after her birth, while my father was in the midst of radiation and chemotherapy, my mom was in a bad car accident and broke her arm in three places.
Sick grandfather, sick father, sick mother, new baby. It was a lot for me to deal with. All my school-age sisters started school (we had been previously homeschooled) except me. Someone had to watch the little ones, and my mom was hurt and had to stay with my dad, so the task fell to me. I resented the hell out of not being able to go to school because I needed a social outlet desperately. But I had no choice, so with the good grace of a disgruntled teenager, I did what I had to do. Fortunately for me, my little sister was an angel wrapped in gold and rarely gave me a moment's trouble and she has stayed an angel to this day.
I can't say the same for the rest of my sisters. They were going to a Catholic school with a bunch of snotty rich kids, and they began to look disparagingly at our situation. One sister decided she had to have a pair of Cole Haan loafers, which were around $100.00, and she hounded my mom until she bought them. The others were just as bad in their own ways.
I realize now they were being teased by the snotty rich kids, but it didn't make me feel too great when one of them informed me that I was a "loser" because I didn't go to school. Selfish Bitch. Nevermind that I read more while I watched my sisters than they probably have to date. No. Their contempt stemmed from me not having any friends. This was torturous. I didn't have any friends because I didn't go to school. And I couldn't go to school because I had to watch the little ones. The ingratitude of their remarks made me want to rip out their eyes and disfigure them for life, but I satisfied myself with whacking them upside the head every now and then.
After our grandfather and father both passed away, I could have gone to school, but I would have been a year behind. Screw that. I wasn't going to waste any more precious time than I had to. I started working at 16, about a week after my father died. I got my GED when I was 17 and started community college. I transferred to a University from there.
My relationships with my sisters have improved somewhat over the years, but I think I will always feel like it's me against them. I've convinced myself that I have an unfair advantage, but it's still aggravating to feel so alienated from my own family. My sisters are all a little clique complete with inside jokes from the days they all went to school together. They are shallow, trivial, mildly amusing, but definitely shallow. They don't get my sense of humor at all, and can't talk of anything deeper than music. I love them and I like watching and listening to them, but I don't like them at all even to this day.
If this post is totally out of focus it's because it's 3:30 am.
Sorry for the self-pity.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Because they're incredibly cool, Nixon decided to invite everyone out for one last party before he had to start fasting for his surgery (removal of his entire colon). We met up with them at a bar. Nixon was good and tipsey. All the guys were buying shots and toasting him, and all the girls were dragging him out to the dance floor and using him as their own personal stripper pole, which he seemed to enjoy in a mellow kind of way.
His wife is the most adorable girl. She looks like a little chipmunk and she has an identical twin sister. Every guy was trying to act out their twin fantasy by trying to get them to dance with them. A few got lucky.
I was sitting at the bar observing things, when I saw my sister's church choir director. I tapped him on the shoulder and told him who I was. He looked around wildly looking for some place to hide his beer. I told him not to worry. We talked for awhile, and then he left to go hunt girls. That was trippy.
About 1:30, everyone started leaving. Jethro and I had just ordered more beer, so we stuck around a while longer. Sandra's sister decided to stay with us. I thought I would try and find the choir director, as they were both quite obviously single. We went looking, but he'd gone, so we sat back down.
There was a table of about 6 guys who kept trying to make eye contact with two slutty girls on the other side of the room (not us). I guess getting a signal of affirmation, a few of the guys moved towards them. As it always is, one of the guys was reluctant and he was first cajoled, then forcibly pushed towards the slutties. One of the slutties looked at me for some reason, and I gave her a thumbs up and mouthed, "he's cool," just because I like to do things like that. The guy was still hesitating, so I went up to him and said, "For the love of God, go over there." His window of opportunity was diminishing rapidly, and I'd hate to see him lose out just because he's a total pussy.
He trotted over, and twin girl and I sat down with the friends who stayed behind. One was so kind as to dominate the coversation, loudly proclaiming his sexual approch/techniques.
"If I haven't given a woman 5 orgasms in one night, then I haven't done my job. I'll give you 5 orgasms, take you to Neiman's in the morning, but then I don't ever want to see your ass again."
I asked him if he'd had much success, and he claimed a great deal, but they always called him back. Refraining from suggesting that if he never wanted to see their asses again, perhaps he shouldn't give them his phone number, I asked him if he'd ever met a woman to whom he could not give 5 orgasms.
In reply he stated that it didn't matter how large a woman's ahem is, if a guy knows what to do, 5 shouldn't be a problem.
I made a circle with my hands and mimed putting my head through it. I was just trying to get him to laugh a little. He didn't, but his friend, who was a great deal younger and trying to play it cool, laughed compulsively and spit out a little of his drink.
Jethro came by and received usual compliments on having such an unusual wife, and we left.
It was an amusing incident, but I couldn't help feeling a little bad for the guy. Sure he was an ass, but if everything he said was true, his sex life consisted of diving into large-coochied women, taking them shopping, then trying to avoid them for the rest of his life. If it wasn't true, than it was what he aspired to and that seems even more pathetic.
SATURDAY = POLITICAL ACTIVISM in which I nearly lost a limb. I wrote about it HERE if anyone is interested. Jethro has written his perspective here.
Saturday night, I was completely exhausted, but we went out again anyway to an Irish bar downtown. I was too tired to drink and I had the unfortunate experience of seeing what a bar looks like when the lights go on while in a state of sobriety. Yuck.
Sunday we spent with the girls. Gwennie's behavior has improved so much that we took her and Emma to Chuck E Cheese to celebrate. It's all about timing at those places. 7:30 on a Sunday night was perfect. Hardly any people. And our local Chuckie maked pretty decent buffalo wings.
Once I get to writing, it seems like I can't stop. So I'll stop before I get any more mundane.
Friday, January 21, 2005
So I have been asked repeatedly to tell the bj story. It will sadly be one of my shortest postings ever. Basically, we were coming back from LA (Louisiana) back when no one cared if you were 21. I was quite intoxicated, passed out face down in Jethro's shorts. I had a dream that I was at the doctors' office and he was trying to use a gatorade squirt bottle as a tongue depressor. Inexplicably, he kept telling me to "swallow." When I came to, Jethro's eyes were rolled back in his head and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. Oh yeah, and I was topless and my hands were tied to the bus window.
You can take your hands out of your pants now fellas.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Where was I? Oh yeah. This NOT ONE DAMN DIME scheme is a political statement protesting the 40 million dollars being spent on Dubya's inauguration. The ever-so-brilliant-leftist thinking goes as follows: It's money we could be spending on the tsunami victims or education, so in protest, we will try to sink our own economy because if we hurt our own businesses, we will have even more money to spend on education and tsunami victims.
First of all, just for perspective, president Clinton spent 33 million on his. And that was without all of the extra security that is needed in this day and age. Secondly, where do you think the money for the inauguration is going? Why, to businesses that employ people. Lots of people. Regular people like you and me who would not otherwise see a dime of that money. It's not as if the donating corporations are simply going to give it away. That's all money that they'd keep in their tidy little bank accounts if they didn't spend it on the inauguration.
And for a slightly more nauseating perspective, look at the Hollywood awards shows. Why isn't anyone boycotting over the injustice of having to watch the bulbous Star Jones waddle around in acres of expensive duds while the tsunami victims perish from exposure? Why aren't we ruining our economy over the twiggy actresses who throw up their toenails (in the face of the starving tsunami victims) so they can prance around in whatever hideous concoction with which they insist on assaulting our eyes, as they step out of their limousines and point their transparent fingers at us, telling us what greedy cunts we are because we haven't sold our homes and donated the proceeds to whatever bottom-feeding "charity" has wormed its way into their idiotic brains?
I'll tell you why. Because it does no good and in fact, does a great deal of harm. What about the businesses who donate to the tsunami victims and neighborhood schools? How are they helped by this boycott? How would they be helped by a boycott of Hollywood?
HYPOCRISY. SHEER, RANK, EMBARRASSING, MYOPIC HYPOCRISY.
So to everyone who is considering taking part in this boycott, I beg of you to draw it out to it's logical conclusions before you participate.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Monday, January 17, 2005
I must have been about 7 or 8 one day in January. We were watching Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech on PBS (the only TV station that was allowed in our house). It was the first time I'd heard it. Living in upstate NY, I was pretty far removed from race issues, experiencing it all through the benign liberalism of Sesame Street. But as I watched that speech and heard those great words from that great man's own mouth, I got chills. As the speech ended, I glanced at my father waiting for him to pronounce judgment on what we'd just heard. My father shook his head gravely, almost sorrowfully, and said, "That man could preach." It wasn't just his words, but his tone. This was the highest compliment I've ever heard him give.
It wasn't until I was older that I fully realized the enormity of what Dr. King was speaking of. My father was essential in shaping my view of the world and the people around me, but I have a feeling that Dr. King was essential in shaping his.
I've tried to embrace Dr. King's vision in my own life. I may fail to live up to it on occasion because it is magnificent and I am not, but I believe in it with my whole heart. And had it not been for his influence on my father, and consequently myself, I may have overlooked, through sheer narrow-mindedness, the most wonderful person in my life.
So I owe Dr. King a debt of gratitude. May he rest in peace and may his legacy live on.
I was going to write a funny Rome story where the uncouth Americans stick it to the intellectually superior, yet strangely inbred Europeans, but it demands more concentration than I have to give.
So instead I'll tell you about taking Emma and Gwennie on a trip to the Houston downtown Aquarium. The kids loved it. My mom and stepdad, and 4 sisters came also. The downtown Aquarium is a combination restaurant/lounge/carnival/aquarium. The restaurant is centered around the largest aquarium in North America, and they have stuffed their tanks with all manner of large and intimidating fish.
The carnival is mostly kiddie rides. They had a train that went around the seven acres and into a shark exhibit. Very boring. They talked all about how sharks were endangered, blah, blah, yawn, yawn, and how Jaws and scary movies had contributed to their demise....yawn, blah. They than proceed to tell us that a Great White Shark has escaped into Buffalo Bayou and to be on the lookout. Anyone with three brain cells knows what's coming. We pass over a small pond with a huge white mass quavering under the water. Out pops the animatronic Great White Shark and scares the bejeezus out of everyone 2 and under. The animatronic shark was gigantic and if it had been loose (and alive) in Buffalo Bayou (yes, I am aware that sharks live in salt water), someone would have shot it. So you can drone on and on about sharks being an endangered species but in the end, everyone reverts to survival instinct and there is nothing you can do except piss on the hypocrisy of the downtown Aquarium.
That being said, it was still a fun day for the kids. We all rode on the carousel which had various aquatic creatures instead of the usual horses. My mom rode an alligator, and being sometimes a silly lady, she began to whip it, hence the title of this post which I have always wanted to say out loud, but never had a reason.
They had a white tiger exhibit was cool too until I realized jealously that the tigers had a larger cage than I did house and it was cleaner. Poo on them.
That's it. I'm off to find something more absorbent to staunch the rivulets of fluid streaming from my nasal passages.
Friday, January 14, 2005
3 names you go by:
3 screen names you have:
3 things you like about yourself:
1. Musical ability
2. I'm charming
3. I have skills
3 things you hate/dislike about yourself:
2. A penchant for amorality
3. My hair
3 parts of your heritage:
3. American back to the Mayflower
3 things that scare you:
1. American surrender
2. Death in the family
3. Existensial crisis
3 of your everyday essentials:
1. Kiss or hug from Jethro
2. Yummy food
3. Interesting reading material
3 things you're wearing right now:
3. a sober expression
3 of your favorite bands/artists:
3. Antonio Vivaldi
3 of your favorite songs at present:
1. Morningtown Ride
2. Rollin' By
3. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down
3 new things you want to try in the next 12 months:
1. Cleaning my house
2. Driving on the freeways
3. Meeting a blogger
3 things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
1. Mutual Masturbation
2. A spouse who does NOT fart and then hold my head under the covers
2 truths and a lie:(no particular order to keep ya guessing):
1. I gave a blowjob in the back of a bus
2. I lie about my age
3. I've been on tv
3 physical things about a love interest that appeal:
2. Firm wrists
3. Bass player hands
3 things you just can't do:
1. Compromise when my pride is at stake
2. Stop drinking orange juice
3. Fuck when I'm angry
3 of your favorite hobbies:
1. Cut & Assemble Projects
2. Making amateur porn
3. Watching amateur porn
3 things you want to do really badly right now:
2. Clean my house
3. Meet Tinyhands
3 careers you're considering:
1. Travel Brochure Writer
2. Novel Writer
3. Professional Mom
3 places you want to go on vacation:
1. Back to Rome
*3. Lappland (or as the natives prefer to call it in this PC day and age, Samiland)
3 kids names:
3 things you want to do before you die:
1. See great-grandchildren
2. See a book I've written published
3. Have a great house
3 people who have to take this quiz now:
1. Jen (Therapy Eggs)
* I changed this from New Orleans because I've already been there.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
You are a GRAMMAR GOD!
If your mission in life is not already to
preserve the English tongue, it should be.
Congratulations and thank you!
How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by
Yeah, baby. Even though I know it isn't entirely true. I gots turrible grammar.
Happy Birthday Small Fry
Today is Emma's birthday. She is a whopping 4 years old. The joy this child has brought to my life is indescribable. She is sweet and quiet and such a dear little thing. I think I'm going to take her to Wal-Mart and let her pick out a toy for her birthday and then we'll go eat at McDonalds. What more could a 4 year old ask for?
The night she was born, I'd been feeling weird all day. I wasn't having contractions, but I was feeling "off." Jethro was working and I wanted him to come home so I told him I was having contractions and he better get back here. He left work early, but called my parents so they could come stay with me. I fully intended to tell him I was lying when he got back, but I didn't want to do it in front of my parents who insisted I go to the hospital. Jeth and I left and I told him it was probably a false alarm. He said, "Let's just go to be on the safe side."
I explained that I was no longer having contractions to anyone who would listen to me, but they all just nodded and smiled. The nurse finally checked me out, and said, "I'm certainly not sending you home. You're 5 1/2 cm." For the layperson, that's active labor. No one was more surprised than I was. I'll spare the gory details, but suffice it to say that I didn't have an epidural. I wasn't in any pain, and by the time I was, it was too late.
My family, Jethro's family, and several friends were in the waiting room, and some idiot at the hospital left the door to my room open, so they got to hear the whole thing. I swear a lot. No, it's true. Lots of foul language. Rumor has it that several people fainted. Jethro almost did, but that was because the room was small, and he was overheated from wearing scrubs over his clothes, not because I was swearing. I never noticed.
My sister-in-law was the funniest. After it was over, she came in and her face was white to the lips. She looked worse than I did. She was all shaky and couldn't hold Emma because she was so disturbed. She had to sit in a chair and put her head between her legs. And she didn't even see anything.
Anyway, it was a wonderful night. Emma was the sweetest thing ever. But she had a high-pitched cry that woke up every baby in the nursery. She had the cutest dimple in her chin - the same one my father had. I like to think he gave her chin a little tweak before she was sent down.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
What kind and generous Lefties. How tolerant and diverse.
The Klan puts less pressure on minorities than they do.
So let me get this straight. A successful minority is a whore? A minority who advocates self-reliance instead of government handouts is a prostitute? A minority who wants to preserve the system that makes this possible should "go back to the massage parlor" and "sucky sucky long time?"
Voting for Kerry doesn't give anyone the right make racial slurs. Being an atheist doesn't give you leave to blur the lines between right and wrong. Just because no one can hold you to a specific moral code, doesn't exempt you from decency.
You'd think the sheer hypocrisy would be some kind of deterrent. But apparantly consistency is lost on this specific type of air-wasting scum.
Obviously the subject is of interest to Jethro and I. Ask Jethro's family. It wasn't government entitlement programs that moved them out of the slums. It wasn't even the charity of the Southern Baptists who sponsored their move to America. It was constant hard work, minumum wage paying jobs, reusing tin-foil, and never buying paper towels or eating in restaurants. Just like my immigrant ancestors did so that their children would not have to know the same.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
But they aren't major things and I count my blessings, believe me. It's not every woman who has a man slaving away so he can eke out a decent living so she can do whatever the hell her pretentious mind thinks it ought to be doing. I no complain.
I bring all of this up as a preface to the following anecdote. On Saturday morning at 10:00 am, Jethro and I were (what else) Having Sex - the really good -I'm-not-thinking-about-Topher-Grace-or-Rachel-Weiss-because-you're-so-fucking-hot kind. The kids were watching TV, the door was locked and deadbolted, and things were going great. At the worst possible moment (or best depending on how you look at it) the doorbell rang.
In a panic, I got up to answer it because sometimes it's Jethro's parents who sometimes come by to pick up the girls, or drop off breakfast (because they're totally cool like that). I opened the door, and lo and behold it's two church folks all dressed up. With TRACTS. If there was ever a moment my soul needed saving, it was right then.
The man opened his mouth to give me his "Come-to-our-Church-and-you-will-find-enlighenment,-God,-and-the-cool-people speech, but I interrupted him with one sentence.
"Go away, I'm having sex."
I didn't even wait to see their reactions, I just closed the door.
I tell it like it was funny, but I don't think I can properly relay how NOT amused I was. Who goes around knocking on doors at 10:00 am on Saturday morning? No one normal or considerate as far as I'm concerned.
Anyway, I'll make it up to Gooch simply because I've happened upon a couple of things that may amuse him.
The first: I was egotistically looking at my statistics, and saw that someone found me by searching for:
naked jew sleeping in bed
Methinks they were looking for Gooch.
The second: I happened upon this somewhat accidentally and thought it might help Gooch on his quest for possible agnosticism.
Circumcision proves the existence of God. It beats all of the other proofs hollow - forget all of that Ontological and Teleological stuff. Get the hell out of here with your Thomas Aquinas. The practice of circumcision is the proof that settles the question once and for all.
If you were going to invent a religion, would you start by cutting off the end of your genital apparatus? Only God would have thought of such a thing, and only an almighty God would convince people to do it. Would you do it for Elron Hubbard? Hell, no. And this, by the way, also proves that God has a great sense of humor.
Shut up. I thought it was funny.
Monday, January 10, 2005
I spoke to the perpetrator of the identity theft, and threatened to nail his balls to the wall if he didn't come up with the money he owed us. I told him if he didn't pay up I was going to the ethics board of the college and was going to have him expelled. I said I didn't care what he had to sell and he had the gall to interrupt me and tell me he had nothing to sell. I told him he could sell his ass on Montrose (Houston natives will know what I'm talking about), but he better find a way. I told him that at the point I was at, I'd pay off the debt myself for the pure malicious joy of garnishing his wages when he's a minimum wage earning, polyesther uniformed order taker. That and the joy of seeing three years of his life flushed down the shitter.
It's not true of course. I would rather he pay off the money and never have to speak to him again, but I think I was pretty convincing. He now returns Jethro's calls with an impressive promptness. It's not over, but the worst of it is. I can rest easier knowing that Jethro's credit is ok.
More on Rome later, which has been the most fun (for me) of anything I've written to date.
Maddox has something funny to say about U2's latest.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
I just wanted to quickly note that Andrea Yates capital murder conviction was overturned. My opinion would probably surprise most, but I think it was the correct decision. That woman is a serious danger to herself and others, but I believe she was truly a psychotic. Not true of all women who kill their children, but I believe it was true of her. She will probably be convicted again because we don't take the murder of children lightly here in Texas, even by people who should be considered legally insane. I am willing to accept any jury's verdict, but I know how I would find.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Becky hailed from Minnesota and she was big and blonde and loud. A nice enough girl, but take her our of her Midwest element, and she was larger than life. When anyone would ask us where we were from, she'd say "Min-ne-SO-ta" in a slow and inadvertent Italian accent. And she actually expected them to know where that was. Being in a foreign country was the most exotic, erotic experience for her, and I am pretty sure her intellectual, academic, and international goals could have been fulfilled in the solitary event of getting laid by an Italian.
Bewildered and disoriented, I was dragged down the freezing stone steps. Becky was chattering excitedly and putting my jacket and hat on me while we ran through the convent. Waiting just outside the wrought iron gates were two men on mopeds. It embarrasses me just to write that. One was a local fellow named Alex who we had nicknamed Jesus because of his long hair and beard (much to his disgust). The other was someone I'd never met. The stranger was on a slightly larger moped. He had maneuvered his crotch as far to the front as he could and was grinning expectantly.
"You get on with Alex, and I'll get on with Mario," said Becky authoritatively.
"No fucking way," I whispered vehemently. "Where the hell are we going? I'm not getting on that thing. It's barely big enough for Jesus!"
"That's why you're the one who has to ride with him."
Becky outweighed me by 20 lbs. and she was as strong as a bear. She practically lifted me onto the tiny little moped where I became quite well acquainted with Alex's bony ass. We flew up the Janiculum Hill in the twilight at a breakneck pace. My eyes were screwed shut at first, but flew open in terror as we weaved in and out of traffic. We headed for the outskirts of Rome, and I prayed that they weren't serial killers.
We ended up at an old crumbling stone building. It actually looked more like a great mound of crumbling rock that may have once been a building. We scrambled off the mopeds. Becky was exhilarated, and I was shaking a little, and we followed the two men inside. It turned out to be an indoor soccer field. Becky had used all her feminine wiles to get us into an amateur soccer practice.
We sat around on the bleachers and most of the guys gave us the old eye. That's just how it is. Then, en masse, all the men started removing their clothes. Like it was nothing. Hairy penises, hairy, hairy asses, no one seemed to care that there were two American girls, living at a convent, sitting right there.
"Whatever you do," I said to a gaping Becky, "Don't point."
I tried looking at the ceiling, but hairy, hairy men adjusting their jock straps have an odd gravitational pull and I couldn't look away.
To be quite honest, I don't remember either the game, or the ride home.
Monday, January 03, 2005
I'm very international. I bet no one has suspected it so far. I was born in Athens (Greece not Georgia), my younger sister was born in Iran, and I'd lived in 4 different countries by the time I was 4.
But Rome I did all on my own when I was 20. I am really proud of having taken that trip. I did it on practically nothing. I mean, my school tuition paid for room and two meals a day, but for spending money I spent less than $500 dollars in 3 months. Actually it was $300 to be exact, but it seems like such an impossibly small amount that I just tell people that it was less than $500. I did it by walking everywhere, seldom eating lunch, and only going on two trips - one to Assisi, one to Vitralla, a small medieval town a few hours outside of Rome, and one to Florence.
I'll start at the beginning.
The small Catholic college I went to in NH had a study abroad program in Rome, Italy. They paid a convent a sum of money, and the nuns boarded us for the "spring" (more like the dead of winter) semester. Try and ease yourselves past the hilarity of Zelda as a Bride of Heaven, and you may find some items of interest.
The convent was located in Trastevere which is a blue collar neighborhood across the Tiber River from the rest of Rome. My first overwhelming impression of it was how stone freezing, f*cking (can't really swear in the same sentence as "convent") cold. I had been warned, and I had prepared physically, but I was not prepared to feel the cold of the marble floor through the soles of my shoes. The convent was all marble and ancient stone. I forget how many centuries old it was. You could feel the ghosts. It was really cool.
A small sour old lady named Gina glared at us as we came in, and at me in particular when she saw my passport. It was all dog-eared because I'd accidentally dropped it in a puddle back home. They kept all our passports so we wouldn't lose them.
Gina took us to our rooms. They had labelled each door with our names. There was an odd number of girls, and I had caught the professor's ear last semester and begged him to let me have my own room if it were possible. I told him that I was a slob and on top of that, was easily irritated by other people (which was entirely true). The good professor had taken me at my word and I found myself alone in a cold little stone room.
I put a blanket over my head and briefly pretended I was a nun; forced to take the vows by a wicked stepfather to prevent my marriage to the son of his bitter enemy. I stared out the window imagining that he was looking for me. I longed to call out to him, but was prevented by the vow of silence.
Then I unpacked. But instead of hanging up my clothes, I put every stitch I had on, wound a scarf around my head, and got under the covers, where I shivered myself to sleep. Someone woke me up for supper.
I have two things to say about the nuns' cooking. So good, and so fucking bad. The pasta they made every night is the stuff of dreams. I can't remember how they did it, but it involved the perfect amount of parmesan cheese. I honestly don't think you could have had better anywhere else in the city. Not that I would know. I ate out once the whole time I was there. The rest of the food was mediocre at best, but they did have some nice cheeses, and after a week of "continental" breakfasts at 7:00 am, and suppers at 8:00 pm, I was pretty happy with anything they set in front of me.
This is going to take much longer than I thought, so I will have to write it in parts.
Damn. I detest foreplay.