Thursday, December 28, 2006
I think that was because we spent it mostly with my in-laws. I made Christmas Eve dinner there (which turned out really well) and we all went to Christmas Day brunch at the Four Seasons downtown. It was spectacular. Omelet stations, caviar, ricotta cheese blintzes with a spicy pear compote, and bottomless mimosas of which I drank several. We in the Western World like to pride ourselves on our civility and the suppression of our killer instincts. But set out all-you-can-eat Alaskan King Crab-legs and even the most refined among us discover they are not terribly far removed from their tribal roots. A gentleman wearing a svelte Movado wristwatch nearly stabbed my hand clean through when I fought my way through the greedy crowd and tried to sneak out a tiny little crab claw. No wonder they call it the World's Deadliest Catch. God forbid I'd tried for a whole leg. They would have ripped out my throat and nailed it to the wall as a trophy/warning.
But it was worth every hair-raising moment.
We spent Christmas Day evening with my family, which was blessedly uneventful, except for a brief shouting match on vegetarianism and global warming. I don't know what it is with my family and Doomsday Scenarios, but everyone, with the exception of myself, are insanely susceptible. It's weird because I am a firm believer in organic eating whenever possible. And who isn't in favor of pollution reduction? But because I don't subscribe to the notions that animal meat is sacred (delicious? Yes. Sacred? No.) and that global warming is the direct result of eeeeeeeevil capitalist man-bear-pigs, it becomes impossible to accept that I have, in fact, critically considered both issues. One of my sisters even told me she didn't want to discuss any dissenting opinion of the causes of global warming because An Inconvenient Truth had really moved her. I told them all they ought to become Jehovah's Witnesses because at least then they could believe all that crazy shit and still retain some charm. I am not the most well-liked in my family.
Now once a year, at least one of my sisters loses her mind and waxes nostalgic for the family outings of old and decides that we all need to collectively do something together. This year it was the ballet. Yesterday, all of my sisters and I made good on our Christmas present to our mother and took her to see The Nutcracker. We had to take two cars and drive on freeways which are scary enough with good drivers. Toss in two female drivers who don't know where they are going, add in all the other females who at some point throughout the day must each have their own way (from parking to using the restroom) to the inconvenience of all, and we're back to our tribal roots again. But it was fun. Gwennie and Emma loved it so much. They dressed in their little Christmas dresses and behaved so well and looked so pretty you'd never know they are holy terrors the whole rest of the year.
And they loved their dollhouse. Many thanks to everyone who rendered an opinion.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Fairytale of New York
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true
They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last
I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you
Here's for Angi----------------------(blog)
Here's for John in NH--------------(blog)
Here's for Jack----------------------(blog)
To everyone else, Alec told me your names were too hard to pronounce and to go back from where you came you lousy miscreants.
But a Merry Christmas everyone from yours truly. May your holiday be happy and your chestnuts well roasted.
(H/T: Jim Treacher. Thanks.)
Thursday, December 21, 2006
I guess what I believe is that you can't demand your husband fulfill his traditional role as husband unless you fulfill your traditional role as wife (or vice versa although I still don't know why anyone would want the traditional role of husband). Or you can mix it up, which is more complicated but more fun.
We all suck.
I talked to Trashman yesterday and we both came to that conclusion. Although he thinks I could suck for money and make considerably more than a broke crack-whore. He knows the business well, so I am encouraged. At least I have something to fall back on.
I am almost done with my Christmas shopping. But I want to get something for my brother-in-law and I have no idea what to get him. He put together Gwennie and Emma's dollhouse and it took him 2 hours. I had no idea it would be that complicated, so I feel kind of bad. But he has no vices. He doesn't drink or smoke, and he works very hard. I think I'll try to find him the CD of Johnny Cash singing Hurt by Nine Inch Nails.
Gwennie and Emma are going to have a stellar Christmas. They don't deserve it, but I deserve to have a little fun, so they better make my fucking day. I want smiles and shrieks of delight and a little shrine to Santa in the corner of their rooms and their solemn assurances they will believe in him for the rest of their lives.
In a strange turn of events, Gwennie has convinced the neighbor boy who doesn't believe in Santa that he does in fact believe in Santa. Or she's at least gotten him to say he believes in Santa. The force is strong with that one. She'll make a fantastic lawyer. Or cult leader.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I said in the comments, "Actually, I agree with your Catholic co-worker. But who fucking wants to be the man?"
I was kind of kidding. I don't subscribe to the whole "women be submissive to your husbands" deal. And I don't say that as a feminist (whom I detest on an academic level more than I could possibly iterate in one post), but as a regular person with strengths and weaknesses that wouldn't serve my family well if they were bound to a traditional structure.
Inanna summed it up much more concisely when she said, "I am the man and the woman… so… where does that leave me???"
I amended my statement and said, "...Most marriages end up balanced in some way or else they fail. All I was saying was that with prostitutes so readily available, and men being the easy fuckers they are (bless their dear, slutty little hearts), who fucking wants the traditional role of husband?"
And that last sentence is my question of the day, which I will say again for the sake of pure redundancy. Is there still any appeal left in the traditional husband's role? I'll be honest. If I were a single man, I'd say "screw it" and find myself a nice hooker. It would be cheaper and with less sexual politics.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Then I had an epiphany. The Asian Mall. When you buy something ordinary then throw in a pair of chopsticks, the recipient will think that you think they are cultured and refined. And what better gift to give someone than the idea that they are cultured and refined?
Besides. While there, Jethro and I could get this soup that we crave regularly but is not common to the Vietnamese restaurants in our vicinity. This soup is the reason that I will try anything once. Chicken feet, tripe, congealed pigs blood, the yolk part of fertilized eggs both duck and chicken (I haven't been able to bring myself to eat the embryonic ducklings and chicks yet).
This soup consists of a clear broth and contains tomatoes, various herbs, noodles, fish components in a paste that is the consistency of scrambled eggs, and snails. To add insult to what must seem a most injurious meal, you mix the most unpleasant smelling sauce in it. On it's own, the paste looks, tastes, and smells like something belched up from the most foul regions of Hell. In the soup it adds just the right amount of salty, spicy pungency.
The Asian Mall is just like a regular mall except that everything is translated into very poor English. Every entrance has wording on it that says:
No pop pop
Allow in this building
Or something to that effect.
Upon walking into the mall, I noticed that they had finally taken down the Christmas wreaths (that had been decking the halls every day for years) just in time for...uh...Christmas.
We walked to the food court which is just like any other food court except that everything is translated into very poor English. I have to rely on Jethro for all my information and he makes me carry the bags and walk a foot behind him. It's kind of sexy.
Jethro ordered Pho (a less exotic beef noodle soup) for Gwennie and Emma and two bowls of snail soup for us. The ladybehind the counter couldn't believe I was going to eat it. When she brought it out, she just stood there smiling at us. I could hear her thoughts: "Go White-Girl, Go White-Girl, You Can Do It, It's Almost The Birthday Of Your Lord and Savior"
Jethro said it was actually a huge compliment that I would order and eat it. It meant that it was so good, it's reputation had spread beyond the usual customers. That made me happy.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
John from the comments, in response to some careful flattery and outright deceit, now has a blog that you can visit. He's funny. Go see him. Go on. I'll wait.
In the meantime, I'll tell you a story about John from college.
The college we went was a small, Catholic, liberal arts school in New Hampshire. It was pretty as a picture. The dorms were firetraps, but the rest of the campus was an old farm with quaint buildings. The cafeteria was in the old barn, as was the chapel (where I finally stopped going to Confession).
John and I have somewhat similar pasts. I'd even go so far as to say that of all the people (black, white, Gentile, Jew, male, female, potent, impotent) I've ever met, he is the most like me. But I think our respective histories had made us both somewhat prone to dramatic expression. Mine was more fragile and internal, while his was flamboyant and occasionally spectacular.
Case-in-point. We did Secret Santas around Christmas. I had drawn the girl who was to eventually be John's wife. Part of the Secret Santa game was to make your victim perform various humiliating acts in the week leading up to the big reveal in order to receive the final present. Not being particularly imaginative in this department, I bought a tube of hideous orange lipstick with a note telling her she must wear the lipstick for the entire evening or forego the riches in store for her. She was a good sport.
The tube of lipstick was lying on the table next to her when a tall, dark, slovenly handsome young man picked it up and wordlessly enveloped his mouth in it. His name is changed, but we'll call him Declan. And as I now recall, he kind of had a thing for facial artistry. A year later when we were in Rome, he decided to don The Crow make-up when he found out his girl had cheated on him. But in a slight miscalculation on his part, he ended up in The Crow make-up plus some bright-red lipstick. I think he accidentally threw in some John Wayne Gacy (a simple mistake that could happen to anyone).
Declan was sitting placidly next to John's now-wife, when John came bolting down. He took one look at him, promptly grabbed his face, and planted a big one right on the mouth for maybe 2 or 3 seconds longer than The Scene in The Godfather II. I don't think I saw tongue, but if I did, I know I blocked it.
Now Declan was a homeschooled lad who had at one time been fairly overweight. Before coming to college, he started running and lost a significant amount. Since he was rather good-looking, no one had any idea of his lack of experience with regards to romance. (One's prospects are limited if you are an overweight homeschooler. I know of what I speak).
He played off John's kiss rather well, but couldn't hide a small, shy smile before he arranged his features into a blasé expression. Come to find out some time later, that was his first kiss ever.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Strangely enough, given my penchant for excruciating, unwanted detail, I have no desire to discuss it.
I went to the laundromat Saturday and did almost all the laundry in the house. For too long now, I've been sliding by doing the bare necessities. I decided that something would have to be done when Gwennie and Emma tried to go to school in a Halloween costume and a puffy pink party dress (with sneakers).
So I loaded up every piece of clothing I had in the house, including the clean laundry that just needed folding/hanging (I figured I could fold it all while the first loads were washing and drying). Also every single sheet, blanket, pillowcase, and pillow that looked like it could use a bath. Just that took me about 3 hours.
I quickly realized that I was in over my head, but I filled up three washers and started in on my clean laundry. I definitely needed more folding space than was allowed by common washateria etiquette. So I smiled my friendliest smile at the nice lady pulling out her clothes from the dryer next to me.
"Boy I sure do have a lot of laundry," I said a few decibels above my normal tone of voice. "But the school told me I needed to wash everything in the house if I wanted to be rid of the lice."
The nice lady attempted to give me a watery smile back, and inched away as quickly as a psychotic white girl would let her without biting her and giving her rabies.
"Do you think these dryers get hot enough to kill them off? They'd better. I don't want to do this again."
She shrugged her shoulders noncommittally and gave me a wide berth along with the rest of the patrons. It was a necessary evil, but I did get a little lonely. Luckily, Jethro decided that even though he is a Doc-tor, he is not above helping his wife with the laundry in a washateria. Bless his dear proletarian heart. I have doctor relatives who would have their throats slit from ear to ear before they'd set foot in a washateria.
With his help, we got almost all of the laundry done. There are a few more loads, but nothing Ol' Balky in the garage can't handle. I'm relieved.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
***Disclaimer*** I'm obviously not speaking for all Asians, just all the Asians I've ever met.
I mean what other guy could go around knowing that everyone thinks he has an abnormally small penis and just laugh and demand anal?
Rosie O'Donnell, with her usual brand of non-humor, recently mocked the Chinese language on The View. And probably the only people (Asian or otherwise) to give a shit, were the Asian-American Journalists Association. In response to their displeasure, Rosie O'Donnell's rep said, "She's a comedian in addition to being a talk show co-host. I certainly hope that one day they will be able to grasp her humor." (source)
Yes. One glorious day the Chinks will cut off their braids, get penile implants, open their eyes wide, and finally grasp Rosie's subtle, elusive, elegant humor.
It wouldn't be so funny if she hadn't accused Kelly Ripa of being a homophobe because she didn't want Clay Aiken (who hasn't even come out of the closet yet) putting his hand over her mouth when he was co-hosting for Regis on Live with Regis and Kelly. (Aren't New Yorkers fantstic?)
When Aiken put his hand over Ripa's mouth, she said, "Oh, that's a no-no," adding, "I don't know where that hand's been, honey!"
Rosie said on The View, "To me that's a homophobic remark. If that was a straight man, if that was a cute man, if that was a guy that she didn't question his sexuality, she would have said a different thing."
How the fuck does Rosie know that? No wait. I know. She is God. God is not only a woman, He is a Big Fat Grunting Carpet Muncher. No wonder there has been so much gender confusion regarding the Deity.
If Clay Aiken was poking his head out of the closet, I have no doubt he saw his shadow. I mean, I'd pretend to be straight too if Rosie was going to bludgeon people with my sexuality.
And since it seems she will be on the air until her heart gives out, I'm hoping that one day we will all be able to grasp her humor. That is my Christmas wish for the peace and unity of mankind.
H/T: Michelle Malkin and Paxalles
Thursday, December 07, 2006
I know some of you were amused by john's comment (as was I). I just wanted say that John is no random commenter. He's a friend of mine from High-Minded-Liberal-Arts-College in New Hampshire whom I've known for years. He's a really funny writer and could write a fantastic blog which I've been not-so-subtly hinting at him to do. If he continues to refuse, I'll see if I can talk him into letting me post some of his stuff.
That being said, I have to say that it is so weird having someone from that particular time in my life read this blog. He found me on MySpace and I emailed him and let him know where I write regularly. But once I found out he actually read it, I went back through my archives and tried to read it through the eyes of someone who hadn't seen me in a long time, just to see if my personality had remained consistent over time. (I'm frequently bored and given to constant overanalysis and introspection. I can't help it.) Anyway, I think I'd come to the conclusion that I drank a lot and was rather touched in the head - probably not so different from college. I was a wreck in college though. I'm still a wreck, but now I can read William Faulker and laugh instead of pucker. That's a huge improvement.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I want Santa to bring Gwennie and Emma a dollhouse for Christmas. It will be their big present. I can't decide between this one and this one. The first has more rooms, more space in the rooms, and brighter colors. I like that. But the second has an elevator which is totally cool and Gwennie would go bonkers over it. I really can't decide, and I have to or I won't get it in time to put it all together. Help me.
I was going to take a picture of the Brazilian panties, per Jeanette's request, but they don't really look interesting on their own. On me is another story. They definitely look interesting. Fascinating, revolting, and interesting. I need to wax.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I'm watching my child-molester-next-door-neighbor's kids after school. He has been out of a job for awhile and his wife finally got off her fat ass and got a job. They don't have a ton of money, so I watch their two sons at a discount.
It's strange watching the kids of a child molester. You feel like you have to keep an eye on them constantly and every little thing they do that even hints of being sexual in nature makes you notice. It's not fair to them and I have to make a conscious effort not to make a big deal out of things. But it's a terrible thing for those kids, and I wish it were different. I wish I didn't know.
What sucks even more than the whole "my-father-is-a-child-molester" thing is that their mom is such a batshit loony tune. The youngest son has some pretty serious emotional issues (I know, no friggin' duh, right?). But they are all directly related to his home life and shitty things his parents do.
His mom came to me all teary-eyed saying that he said he was going to kill himself and she was going to take him to a psychiatrist right away and start him on anti-depressants. He's seven. I asked her if he'd ever heard anyone else talking about killing themselves. She said that she says it quite frequently and her husband has actually tried it.
Now while I'm not saying he doesn't need the pills.......actually, no. Scratch that. I am saying he doesn't need the pills. What he needs is for his parents to pull themselves together and stop talking about suicide in front of their children. This stupid bitch was actually horrified that her son would say such a thing. I am fucking horrified that they would say such a thing, especially within their kids' hearing. They seem to think they have no parental responsibilities as long as they take him to a healthcare professional. What they can't seem to grasp is that their kids wouldn't need healthcare professionals if they acted with a minimal amount of decency and respectability.
What I have learned from watching her son is that he has a learning disability. He can't read. I don't think he even knows all his letters and he is in first grade. He is very smart at math, though - far ahead of his peers. (He and Gwennie actually traded services with their homework, which made me laugh so hard that it was really difficult to tell them they weren't supposed to be doing that.) But what he doesn't have are the myriad of emotional and behavioral disorders his mother claims. Every single one of his issues is directly related to his home life and his parents.
But no one is going to listen to me. They're going to drug him up like a little zombie, numb him to any emotion, and he will stop giving his parents trouble. Everyone will go ass up to the miracle drugs without giving any thought to the cause of his problems, not to mention his physical health, and we will all prance along on our merry ways. Fuck every single one of us for this. This is to what we've been reduced. Pill popping cowards. And I don't exclude myself. I've been sorely tempted in that direction both for myself and for Gwennie.
I've tried to talk to Batshit Mom about her kids, but ever time I've tried, her lazy eye glazes over and she starts speaking to me the way she thinks a medical professional would speak to a lay person with a very low IQ. The only problem is that she doesn't have the slightest fucking idea what she is saying. But Batshit Mom is a nursing student. No. Actually, she took a couple of pre-nursing school classes at the local community college. Apparently that trumps all empirical evidence. It doesn't matter, though. That woman is on about 17 different meds herself, from anti-depressants, to painkillers, to allergy pills, and weighs as much as a baby elephant. If this is a specimen of the kind of "help" the medical community is giving people, then fuck them with something sharp. Every single one of her meds costs a small fortune per month. It's just money in the pockets of the medical community and the pharmaceutical companies, and this poor woman probably won't even remember her kids being children. Just very bitter, very pathetic, very high adults.
Monday, December 04, 2006
But let me make it up to you. There is one realtor here whom I want to punt like a football. And I could, too. She is about 4 feet tall and very petite. She is always making these trendy, exotic salads in the break room and she carries around a bottle of water that is almost as big as she is. She always condescendingly congratulates me on my healthy eating whenever she sees me with a salad as if we're in some kind of club where she is the Superior Cheerleader/Almighty Ruler of Those Who Are Struggling with Their Weight. "Keep at it, Chubbs and soon you will have a slim (ha! I said 'slim' to her) chance of being half as cute as me. Then I'll let you be seen with me and you can make me look good by comparison." Have I mentioned that I detest her? She reminds me of a little midget rat with tiny little rat paws. All that is missing is the cheese which I'm sure she'll never eat. One bite and she'd probably gain 30 lbs.
Normally (in case you couldn't tell), I'm somewhat jealous of those types of women because I'm rather Amazonian in structure, and yet through the cruel fate that leaves me undefined, 'cute' is about the only complimentary adjective I can pull off. So legitimately cute women kind of piss me off a little. Not this one, however. I will never complain about my stature again because, barring any unfortunate accidents resulting in amputation or paralysis, I could drop kick her if the need overwhelmed me. And it may. I make no guarantees.
Friday, December 01, 2006
My brother-in-law (Jethro's sister's husband) came over this morning in a dress shirt and tie, which is unusual for him since he lays flooring for a living.
"Who died?" I joked.
"Uh, my brother," he answered, looking surprised that I knew.
My face fell and I mentally started banging my head against the wall. Of course someone had died. There is no other reason on earth that he would be dressed up on a weekday morning. The only times I've ever seen him dressed up were for funerals and weddings and who the hell gets married on a Friday morning?
Turns out he wanted me to print up directions to the funeral home for him because he is completely computer illiterate.
I complied with all humility. I felt really bad. Luckily, he isn't the type to be hurt by it or mad at me for it.
I like my BIL. He comes from a huge native Texan family which means he is part Eastern European, part Native American, Mexican and whatever else got thrown into the soup over time. Most of his family is from La Grange, TX and is made up equally of the wildly successful and the ne'er-do-well. He is a good guy though. He is quiet with a dry sense of humor, he works really hard and takes very good care of his mom. He does not like it when my in-laws try to give him money (which is their way of showing affection and letting you know that you are a lazy incompetent who should be sterilized with all due haste). He is also not the type to tell anyone about anything that is troubling him, so I wasn't surprised to see him alone on his way to the funeral home.
The brother who died had been sickly for years with kidney failure. He was diabetic, overweight, in a weelchair and the hospital had accidently pumped Dialysis Machine Cleaner Fluid through his kidneys one time by accident. Apparently it was all downhill from there. But I'm sure it is still sad and I wish I had known. I would have gone.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Now I have been reading in the comments about people throwing up a little in their mouths (as opposed to somewhere else?) from viewing my links. Contrary to what might be popular opinion, I have no intention of causing anyone any kind of gastric upset/blindness/screaming night terrors, so I have a couple of solutions for those who have been so afflicted.
1. Don't look. If it says NOT SAFE FOR WORK, NOT SAFE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THIS WORLD, DON'T LOOK, or any variation thereof, I can guarantee that it won't be pretty.
2. Self-Censor. If your curiosity is such that you are compelled to look against your better judgement, I have a tactic that might spare you upset. This works for me whenever I go to Big Dick's. Close your eyes. Put your hand over them. Click the link. Wait for it to load. Keep your mouse on the back button so you can click it immediately if need be. Then slowly spread your fingers making sure your eyelashes are veiling the computer screen. Slowly open your eyes until you get the gist of what you're seeing and can tell if you want to see it in full color or not.
3. I don't know that there needs to be a third. If you are brazen enough to click on links without taking any precautions; searing those nauseating images into your brain for all eternity, my hat's off to you. But don't come complaining to me about it when you can't eat or have sex anymore.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Three things that scare me:
The possibility of waking up next to a dead person.
tubgirl (***NOT SAFE***)
Paris Hilton's vagina
Three people who make me laugh:
this guy (H/T: Big Dick)
Three things I Love:
hockey players (teeth intact)
Three Things I Hate:
Watered down booze
When I'm going down and choke on a pubic hair
Three Things I Don't Understand:
People who desire either condition
Three Things on my Desk:
an empty yogurt container
a pencil holder made by Gwennie
Three Things I'm Doing Right Now:
Attempting to breathe through both nostrils
Thinking about what I'm going to say to the mom of the two boys I watch after school for not getting them until 8:00 pm
Feeling one nipple (bad habit from childhood)
Three Things I Want to Do Before I Die:
Learn to dance as well as my grandmother
Finish something I start
Jethro in the Honda Pilot
Three Things I Can Do:
(I'm a fucking hippie)
Three Things I Can't Do:
Swallow (in the slutty sense)
Three Things You Should Listen To:
Old Crow Medicine Show
A woman in labor
Things You Should Never Listen To:
"Spandex is so slimming!"
Three Things I'd Like To Learn:
How to dance
How to shoot
How to slap an ass so the sound reverberates
Three Favorite Foods:
Bacon and Mashed potatoes mixed together with some cheese and sour cream
Three Beverages I Drink Regularly:
Three TV shows/Books I Watched/Read as a Kid:
Shakespeare (no lie)
The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show
The Little House on the Prairie series (books, not the tv show)
Three Blogger Friends That I Am Going To Tag:
Tags die with me.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Jethro says that if I'm going to go around saying he has a 3 inch cock, I have to put my money where my mouth is and succumb to the pleasures of sphinctral copulation (there is just no refined way to refer to butt sex, but I did my best). He has a point and since I don't particularly care for the practice, I will state now for the record that Jethro is a normal, healthy male with everything being as it ought, at least for the purposes of giving the ladies breathless, twittering satisfaction.
So anyway, Thanksgiving was nice. No family issues, no fighting, just eating. One of my sisters' boyfriends is a Brit who has taken up fishing with a single-minded devotion. I think he and Jethro might take up residence together in a tent on the banks of my parents' fishing pond. They fished while I made the turkey and my sisters destroyed the rest of the kitchen with various vegetarian concoctions. In the middle of all the preparations, there was a commotion at the back door. Brit was flailing around with fire ants crawling all over him.
"GET INSIDE!!!" My sister screamed.
"Well, I don't want to get them all over the place," said Brit, hopping around with a frantic, pained expression on his face.
Now I've been swarmed by fire ants before. I'm surprised he didn't strip down nekkid and streak into the shower. But those Brits are so proper - stiff upper lips made stiffer by stinging insect bites. Still, he is such a sweetheart. I hope my sister keeps him. There aren't enough nice boys in my family. My sisters have a way of eviscerating them and tossing them on the ever-increasing ashpile - kind of like the lady and the dragon all rolled into one.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I love racial humor, including risque racial humor, but this doesn't qualify because there was no context and it was very, very weird.
Then came the apology on Letterman. Dear God in Heaven. He is all kinds of crazy. He invokes Hurricane Katrina. He talks about the war. He pays homage to a list of pseudo-liberal catch-phrases and then demands that we believe he is not a racist after chastising the audience for giggling at the awkwardness of the entire situation. I was about to faint from the sheer lunacy of it all.
And this condenses everything that embarrasses me about pseudo-liberalism. It isn't that it is racist, but that it isn't NOT racist. I believe that Michael Richards is truly bewildered at how such things ever came out of his mouth. The problem, in my opinion, is that he has been steeped in liberal sanctimony for so long ("I oppose the war," "George Bush doesn't like black people," etc etc), that he instinctively felt he had risen above such niceties as refraining from expressing a longing for the days of lynching. What people like him fail to notice is that one thing has NOTHING to do with the other. They are anti-war, anti-Bush, anti-"conservative" for their own selfish interests as opposed to any true interest whatsoever in minority communities. They have convinced themselves that if they subscribe to the usual mantra of peace, love and social diseases, they are automatically immune to racist thoughts and feelings. "I'm a liberal. I can't possibly be a racist. Look. I'm going to call Condi Rice a house-nigger. See? No racism. I'm a liberal."
But they are racists. They think everyone but white people need a hand up and white people need to keep their superior mouths shut in order to level the playing field.
Nowhere was this more evident to me than NYC. I had a picture of Gwennie and Emma that I would show people. It was embarrassing to the point of squirminess the way people would try to ask me what race their father was without coming right out and saying. I can't tell you how many times I almost said, "He's a gook with a 3 inch cock. Small, I know, but it's better for anal" just to see their faces melt. Even worse was when Jeth and I were together and people would try to tell us how cool they were with us being married and try hard not to sound surprised that we were from TX. Although no one asked, I know they were wondering if we'd ever had a cross burned on our lawn (it was just a little one). The saddest thing is that I think they would have asked except that they didn't want their preconceived notions of the lands outside their myopic 12 mile radius obliterated.
Now it isn't that I have a problem with people being polite. I greatly appreciate courtesy. But there is something so weird and fake about tip-toeing around race issues. For God's sake. I am aware that my husband is Asian. I'm pretty sure he knows I'm white (although I can honestly say I don't know if he's ever looked above my neck). If you have a question, fucking ask it. But this hyper-racial awareness and condescending racial pandering is like a pressure cooker and it's going to blow in scaldingly unfunny ways, just like Mr. Richards.
Anyway, the hat tip for all of this info goes to Blowing Smoke. And if I haven't shilled for it yet, I've been remiss. This is a great blog. You can link it and check every day since they post quite often and their cultural commentary is sharp, merciless, and really funny - a truly beautiful thing. Jim Treacher is a daily contributor and he has the dubious distinction of making me run for the bathroom with trickles of mirth streaming down my legs more than anyone else on the internet. (That was hyperbole.)
Monday, November 20, 2006
So we purchased the turkey and the requisite $20.00 worth of crap to go along with it so we could get it for $0.39 per lb, including the Cajun Injector (which is a needle and syringe with which you stab the turkey and infuse it with whatever jar of goo comes with it) of which I am not a huge fan. I bought it, however, because everyone else seems to like it (Mmmmmm...it's so juicy!) and I can make my own goo.
We arrived back at the house and I grabbed as many bags as I could. As luck would have it, I had to pee really, really badly. In my haste to get the bags to the kitchen and myself to the can, I tripped and dropped the bag containing the Cajun Injector which subsequently broke to smithereens. I crossed my legs, did a little dance and started to clean it up. Jethro came in and said he would put the rest of the stuff away so I could use the restroom. I did. It was heavenly.
Then we went out for the evening to party which we did. It was fun. Some drunk guy told me that I "have great breasts" and high-fived freaking' Jethro. I said, "What am I? A fucking orphan?" And he high-fived me too with his apologies. I mean really. I'm the lucky one. They're the idiots who will do anything you say just to talk about them in front of you.
Fast forward to this morning.
I lost my keys. I looked for them everywhere, even the pantry. There I made The Discovery. In the tumult of cleaning the Cajun Injector goo, peeing, and leaving the premises to have my breasts ogled, the turkey had been stored in the pantry instead of the 'fridge. It was almost like finding a dead pet.
I'm just going to let it go and be grateful I got a somewhat funny story out of it.
Friday, November 17, 2006
And speaking of cold, I forgot to bring a sweater to work. So the whole office is now blessed with the vision of my nipples poking out of my shirt like horns on a Viking helmet. Lucky them. No matter how hard I poke them, I can't get them to stay down. I'm rubbing them real hard trying to warm them up, but to no avail. It's a good thing I work alone. I look like a lunatic.
Anyway, several amusing things happened at work yesterday. Fortunately I started my period, so I can see the humor in them as opposed to cold-bloodedly desiring the torture and death of the perpetrators.
Part of my job entails calling people who have, at one time or another, expressed interest in purchasing home. They email us with their contact phone numbers and we call them and try to convince them they want to buy a home with us. I get a lot of answering machines, and I pride myself on being able to see through a very irritating practical joke where the owner of said machine records a greeting in which they attempt to make you think you are talking to an actual person. It usually goes something like this:
Answering Machine: "HELLO?" (cheerily)
Dupe: "Hi! This is Zelda, from Dearest Stepfather's office. Is Ms. Cocksucker in?
AM: "HEEELLLOOOOOOO?" (in a slightly more irritated voice)
Dupe: YES, This is Zelda from Dearest Stepfather's office. Is....
AM: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! We're not at home right now but I bet you thought we were. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! It's too bad we didn't think about the fact that we aren't home to witness your idiocy and discomfiture, but just knowing that it might possibly happen keeps us amused for hours. Well, back to brain surgery! Have a nice day!"
I've had that joke played on me about 5 times before I could tell. I won't lie when I tell you that every time I have wanted to stab someone in the neck.
But now I know. Except for yesterday.
Dupe: "Hi. This is Zelda with Dearest Stepfather's office. Habla InglÃ©s?
Dupe: "Si. Soy Zelda con la officina de Dearest Stepfather..."
AM: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! La gringa stupida! Viva la Reconquista! Orino encendido tu Alamo, Puta!
I did laugh. I couldn't help it.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
And now for some help that only the blogworld can provide. I need to by some cowboy jeans that aren't too tight in the crotch. I've decided that's what I'm going to give my stepdad for Christmas, since the jeans he has are atrocious (way too short in the legs and waaaaaaay to small in the waist) and he fancies himself a cowboy. But the thought of buying him sexypants is enough to make me regurgitate a small amount in my oral cavity. Any thoughts?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Long story short, I don't have the attention span to give everyone the details of our trip they are so desperately craving.
Let me direct you instead to tCj's video of her and I licking and sucking the shit out of Jack's critter pops. tCj is the cute one on the left. I'm the one with the facial tics on the right. I would recommend stalking her for the eventual details. Jethro too. He also has video but I don't think he'll post it. He's a little self conscious about his legs.
And if anyone has a chance, go pester Trashman for his story about the plane. It will crack you up.
I'm going to go play my guitar and think about anal sex. Giving it.
Monday, November 13, 2006
I'll give you a couple of highlights before Jethro snatches it away from me.
1.) I ate a cricket.
2.) tCj licks a mean sucker. Big Ed (her lovah) is probably a believer in God.
3.) I saw marines. Hot marines. And I managed to get them to look at my tits while they were encased in an inadequate orange bikini.
4.) Fuckingmachines.com. Thanks, Trash.
5.) Jack wore a hat and boots, then cruelly insisted that I not look at his ass. Just try and stop me there, Cowboy.
Friday, November 10, 2006
I was awakened this morning by a plaintive little cry from the central restroom. It has obviously been going on several minutes.
Emma (in a sing-song voice): "Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again!"
Zelda: "Garrrumph!!Hmmmph..chrrrckle...chrrrckle...M'KAY. You can stay home from school."
Emma: "Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again!"
Zelda: "Mommy no wakee. Mommy sleepeee."
Emma: "Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again!"
Zelda (and this is where the poor morning decision skills come into play): "Gwennie, would you take care of that for me, please?"
Gwennie: "Are you kidding? What makes you think I can do that?"
Zelda: "You're a big girl now. You have a loose tooth."
Gwennie: "Just great. Now that's two things I have to do. Get dressed and wipe Emma's butt."
I realized this might not be the most advantageous way to deal with this particular situation, so I hauled myself up and went into the bathroom.
Zelda: "Do you need help wiping your butt?"
Emma: "Yes. But don't look at it."
Zelda: "Why not?"
Emma (ducking her head in shame): "It's green."
Zelda: "That's okay. You probably just ate something that was green. It's no big deal."
Emma: "It's disgusting. I don't like green poop."
Zelda (smiling): "What kind of poop do you like?"
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I am trying to rectify the wagon tumble with pumpkin seeds and lemonparty.org. Don't click on that link.
Other than that, I'm just getting us ready to go to Austin. I am really looking forward to it, but my main focus is seeing that Jethro has a good time. So if I have to leave everyone to go buy him a hooker or something, just deal with it, okay?
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Now on to more pleasant topics. We are going to Austin this weekend for Jethro's birthday. We plan to do a little partying with a few bloggers. We'll let you know how it goes.
Monday, November 06, 2006
It is a wet, dreary day, and I'm kind of at a loss for things to write about. Anything of interest to me would be incredibly boring blog fodder, and anything of interest blogwise requires more mental exertion than I am willing to give at this point.
So in light of this, let me point you in the direction of my very favorite political blog: Blonde Sagacity. Vigorous debate and no censorship. If you have a burning desire to tell a liberal their brains are the equivalent of cannibal monkey feces, with the feces being the slightly better smelling of the two, then go for it. Just expect the same. It's great fun once you get used to it, and the number of military personnel who let their guard down and say what they think is well worth it.
Friday, November 03, 2006
But it is funny.
So the midterm elections are drawing close with the Democrats receiving the ringing endorsements of Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and the al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. In other words, those groups who still have enough living members to make comments. Call me patriotic, but I really don't feel like making these assholes happy. (H/T: Blonde Sagacity.)
In other strange election news, I've come across a very interesting tactic. The Democrat gubernatorial candidate has spent a great deal of money on a mail-out flyer disparaging, not the Republican incumbent who is leading him in the polls, but an obscure write-in candidate. "Hmmm," I thought to myself. "Why would they waste their money to run against a write-in candidate that no one knows?"
Then I read the flyer. It said things like, "Write-In-Candidate would build a fence on the border and halt all illegal immigration," and "Write-In-Candidate would vote to lower all taxes and cut state spending by 1/3."
Now having lived in Texas for awhile, I think I can speak for the majority when I say that these are not exactly the issues that would cause the population to flock en masse to the Democrat Party. So why would the Democrat draw attention to the fact that he wouldn't reduce taxes or curb illegal immigration? It took me an embarrassingly long three minutes to figure out that he was trying to split the vote between the Write-In-Candidate and Rick Perry.
And why not? It's not like anyone in politics ever engages in anything dishonest.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
I asked Emma to do something for me and she huffily assented. I said, "Excuse me, young lady. You say 'yes, ma'am' not 'fine.' "
"Say 'jawohl, Mommy.' "
"Ya whore, Mommy."
Anyway, not much is going on. I completely scrapped my Lifestyle Change for the day yesterday and ate what was likely the equivalent of three Snickers bars. I'm paying for it today in that I feel really sick to my stomach and the mere thought of candy makes me want to vomit copiously.
Gwennie has pneumonia and has been out of school for the week. The poor kid is really sick. I've taken the time off work to clean my kitchen which is now.... well, I won't say clean, but I no longer require a Hazmat suit to cook dinner. Shut up. It's an improvement.
I decided to do Nanowrimo this year. I think I'm just going to have to string together some short stories. I'm not much of a novelist. My ADD kicks in and I can never make anyone do what I want them to for more than a few seconds. I'm much better at anecdotes. O. Henry was my favorite author in the whole wide world and I started reading him when I was about 8 years old. We didn't have television. I think he influenced my writing ideas more than anyone else, and he probably would have made a phenomenal blogger. But we'll see. I don't have terribly high expectations.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
John Kerry really needs to stick to eating-out rich widows.
If I were a Democrat, I'd just go ahead and shoot myself. It's less painful than running in an election, and they can always apply for a purple heart.
Kerry's now trying to say that he was talking about Bush, but I'm not sure how anyone is supposed to believe him seeing as how he didn't mention him in that statement, and Bush is in the White House, not Iraq. But really. Who are you going to believe? Him or your own ears?
I quote Mr Kerry: "If anyone thinks a veteran would criticize the more than 140,000 heroes serving in Iraq and not the president who got us stuck there, they're crazy."
Mr. Kerry, no one is under the illusion that you were not criticizing the president. Believe it or not, we have been made aware over the course of the last two years that you disagree with him.
And I wouldn't have thought it possible, but it would seem that a veteran is not only criticizing 140,000 heroes, but insulting them as well.
Ah well. Benedict Arnold was a veteran too, so it's not entirely without precedent. Then again, neither is hanging.
Monday, October 30, 2006
The kid damn near broke my heart. I had tears in my eyes more than once throughout the evening. He is so very young and had just met the cutest girl, whose picture he showed off quite proudly. It was such a classic movie moment. Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy goes to war. And they're both virgins. I shouldn't know that, and I wasn't the one who asked, but it came out over shots of tequila. The guys were talking about ways he could sneak around the girl's very strict mother, and the other girl was telling him that he should wait until he was married. I reserved judgment. I just want him to come back in one piece.
I would also be remiss if I failed to mention Proud American 9/12. He just finished training for the Air Force and is engaged at the ripe old age of 18. He is a great guy. I've known him for awhile now. He was a big part of Protest Warrior back when the Lefties were doing stuff and he brought a powerful voice to the table. I am so very proud of him. If you have a second, go give him some love.
But in observing both of these individuals, I thought about myself and the people I knew back when I was their age. I will be the first to say that I probably had more responsibility than most kids my age and no safety net. But I wasn't facing a war. We complain about kids today and how soft they are; lazy, spoiled, and parasitic. But they're not. You meet any kid who has joined any branch of the armed forces and you will find one who has chosen adulthood with courage and conviction - far more than the Cobain-mourning, gender-bending morons of Gen X.
I don't know if there is any way to express just how much I admire them, but I do. I wish them the best especially during this holiday season when they will be going without so the rest of us will not have to.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Who here thinks I could convince Jethro that we should go as Dr. Frank-N-Furter and Rocky for Halloween (him being Dr. Frank-n-furter and me being Rocky)?
While I would love to be the Sweet Transvestite, Jethro has the better figure for it. But I could go as Rocky. I could get this muscle shirt and wear some gold shorts. I think that would be hysterical.
What say y'all?
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
|Your Stripper Song Is|
The Bad Touch by the Bloodhound Gang
"Sweat, baby, sweat, baby sex is a Texas drought
Me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about"
When it comes to dancing, you let your freak flag fly!
I think I ended up with that song because I would have dressed like a pirate.
Jethro awoke Saturday morning and he was pissed off. He had a dream some dude made a pass at me and I rather readily acquiesced. Every so often we dream about the other cheating. We're normal.
He was laughing, but he seemed a little annoyed as he relayed the details. "Don't worry, honey," I said groggily. "If anyone came onto me like that, I'd punch them in the face after I complimented them on their good taste in women."
It was only later while speaking to a friend that I realized what I had been dreaming about at the same time.
While he was dreaming about me orgasming on some guy's hand, I was dreaming about me orgasming on a coconut cake covered in raspberry jam. Well, I wasn't exactly orgasming on it, but I was orgasming while I was eating it.
I think there is a high likelihood that I have taken The Diet about as far as it can go.
Anyway, I dreamt I had to make a cake for the Food Network, so I made this light, fluffy coconut/Tres Leches concoction layered with raspberry jam. I luh-hu-huuuv raspberry jam. In the dream, I had to eat a piece before I gave it to the judges. It was so real. I scraped the jam off the cake and let it linger in my mouth before I swallowed it. I let the bite of cake hover on my tongue before it dissolved and slid down my throat. It was so delicious, and the dream was so real that there is a good possibility I was smacking my lips and making noises.
It's a classic case of denial. I am denied anything even resembling a coconut/Tres Leches cake smothered in delicious raspberry jam, so naturally I have the most sensual dream about it.
It reminds me of when I went to High-Minded Liberal Arts College in NH and wasn't getting any. And by any, I mean ANY. Not even of the self-inflicted variety. If you were caught (and that was a near constant possibility as the dorms were very small), you wouldn't be considered an Intellectual. And if that happened, you might as well have slit your own throat. Anyway, long story short, I ended up having a very erotic dream in which my curtain rods played a very prominent role. I think I woke up dry-humping my bedpost or my reading lamp or something.
And those were the best years of my life.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Speaking of headaches, I had a bitch of one last night and all day today. It has been raining in the Houston area for about a week straight, and I'm pretty sure there is a garden growing in my sinus cavities. That would make for a marvelous -ectomy now, wouldn't it? "Doctor, could you please remove these sunflowers, turnips and pomegranates from my head? I'll pay extra if you can reach the corn."
I wrote the above under the influence. I had to tweak the grammar a little, but other than that, I left it intact. I thought it flowed so wittily last night. I was wrong.
Anyway, there isn't much going on right now. I have a sink full of dishes that refuse to get done no matter how hard I stare at them and think positive thoughts. I insisted on getting boned a few times since our last communication. Doggie-style seems to be the soup du jour although I wouldn't say it puts me in the best light. I'm actually quite glad that men are such simple creatures. If you just want to get laid, you can be sure they rarely turn down upturned ass. Cuddling afterwards might require some negotiation.
Anyway, have a wonderful day and keep the ass freshener handy just in case.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
I can't even bring myself to discuss what's going on in Washington DC, so I'll have a go at the Texas Gubernatorial Candidates. I'm not voting for any of them.
I'm not even going to bother running down the Democrat, Chris Bell. No Democrat will get another vote (or link) from me until they decide they wish to fight terrorists instead of worrying about whether said terrorists are getting too fat and having their diapers changed often enough down in GITMO.
So I'll just stick with the candidates who had a chance to win my vote.
Rick Perry, the Republican, is a pretty boy/socialite who thinks he's running for prom queen. He lost my vote years ago because he takes it for granted and Austin just seems like one big frat-party to him.
Carol Keeton Strayboobs, or whatever her crazy name is, is an Independent who wanted to have her name changed on the ballot to "Grandma." In this day of terrorism, war and nuclear proliferation, where in the name of fucking balls does this idiotic woman get the idea that people want to vote for someone named "Grandma?"
I was okay with Kinky Friedman and even considered voting for him despite the ringing endorsements of both Willie Nelson and the Dixie Chicks. I mean, I love Willie, but I find myself compelled to disregard his statements on anything except music and how to roll a fat finger. The Dixie Chicks have seriously degenerated. They're starting to sound like Vanilla Ice's comeback album with all their "I'm not ready to make nice" doodie. Play your nice little fiddles gals, and shut the fuck up already.
But I have gotten off track yet again.
I was considering voting for Kinky Friedman until I saw his campaign ads . Of all the reeking piles of condescending crap. They start off with this corny guitar that sounds like a Taco Cabana commercial. I expected to hear a gravelly voice say, "This old porch is just a steaming greasy plate of enchiladas." (h/t: Robert Earl Keen). There was nothing in them about what he actually wants to accomplish and even less about how he wants to do it.
Cowboy Way is replete with good ol'Texas bullshit including a reference to dogs and, of course, cowboys, with Kinky insisting that he knows how cowboys get things done. (Incidentally, do cowboys let their dogs lick them on the mouth? I'm genuinely curious.) Then he bitches about his opponents' bitching. Ballsy.
The Good Shepherd is even worse. Kinky Friedman is a Jew. Nothing wrong with that unless you try to quote from the book of John (New Testament) and accidentally start running for Jesus instead of governor of Texas. And while I realize there are some Texans who don't know the difference, they are few and far between because if there is anything Texans know - especially the Texans to whom old Kinky is trying to appeal - it's their Bible.
Besides, if Kinky becomes the "Good Shepherd" what the hell would that make us? Sheep? Kinky sheep? I'll pass, thank you.
Monday, October 16, 2006
It was an amusing evening. The Diet says that if I must imbibe, which it does not recommend (fucking Puritans), it should be either red wine or a liquor such as vodka or gin. I'm sure they'd cringe at the thought of five vodka martinis, but I've been a good girl, and I think I deserved it. Plus, you just can't be at a titty bar sober.
I have several observations to make about the evening in question, but I must finally confess to my real reason for going to titty bars at all. I want to observe men. It's not as if they are any mystery, but I like having a look at what they do inside establishments that women like myself don't frequent on a regular basis.
I mean, I think women are beautiful and I would much rather see them dance around naked than a bunch of greasy man-strippers on steroids, but I can't say I have any sexual attraction to them. As far as I'm concerned personally, a titty bar for the purpose of sexual arousal/gratification is simply wasted money. And it fucks with my head when I'm trying to have sex. Instead of flipping through my mental rolodex of perversion, I see strippers. And quite frankly, they are pretty tame compared to my vivid imagination.
But I do digress.
One of the girls was a very energetic young sistah. She worked that pole like I've never seen it worked except by one other girl in New Orleans. But she wasn't getting any tips. Blatant racism. Jethro, being of a non-racist, conservative persuasion, hates to see hard work go unrewarded, so he went up to give her a dollar. How was Young Sistah to know Jethro is a tit-man and slightly terrified of booty? She (on all fours) wrapped her legs around Jethro and slammed her big ol' booty right into his chest after shaking it like a dog in the rain. Jethro claims his ribs were bruised.
But who knew I had a jealous bone in my body? For one infinitesimal moment, I imagined myself triumphantly waving around a bloody scalp full of hair extensions. I'm actually relieved I had those feelings. You can't manufacture jealousy, and I was starting to think I was an arrogant bitch who might, in her overconfidence, launch her husband straight into the arms of temptation. Turns out that I'm not a total moron and for my own security, I have to jerk the leash once in awhile.
Friday, October 13, 2006
1. In using my breasts to get reactions from men, I've discovered that men are so easy that I can tell them exactly what I'm doing and they'll still do what I want. Mostly.
2. If you pinch me with your bare toes, I might kill you.
3. I don't mind Bob Dylan's voice
4. I have a thing for banjos.
5. Given my bad habits, it would be far more logical for me to be a liberal than a conservative.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Anyway, the last post wasn't meant to sound bitter or depressed. I'm not. I was for a long time, but I'm not now. It's life. I'd been dealt some shitty hands for awhile. But now I've been dealt a great one. The most important thing however, is that I don't take it for granted. Biblically speaking, we're to count our blessings.
But I think Shakespeare outdid the Bible on that score. Romeo and Juliet Act 3; Scene III: When Romeo, after killing Tybalt, is crying like a little girl in Friar Lawrence's cell, Friar Lawrence implores him to get a grip:
""What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt. There are thou happy too.
The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend
And turns it to exile. There art thou happy.
A pack of blessings light upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love.
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable."
I just don't feel like dying miserable is all.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
This was the beginning of Karl Malden's sermon in Pollyanna. The "God, Jehovah" part means nothing. I just wanted to prove I could quote it. Oddly enough, that sermon was my favorite part of the whole movie. I was a weird kid.
There are several couples of Jethro's and my acquaintance who are having marital issues as we speak. I would never presume to act as if I know who is right and wrong in any given situation. I have my opinions, no question, but I hope I've learned enough in 30 years to know that my opinions don't mean shit when it comes to someone's personal life.
But this is what I do know.
DEATH COMES UNEXPECTEDLY.
And when it does, we'd give anything for one more day, hour, or even minute with the ones we love. And even then, the only thing we care about is that they know how much we love them.
I remember when my grandmother was dying of lung cancer. She was on oxygen and under pretty heavy sedation. Her eyes would flutter open once every few hours. Every time, whoever was closest would rush over and tell her they loved her. No one would say, "Why didn't you quit smoking?" or "Why didn't you finish that painting?" or "Why did you marry that man who beat the shit out of me?"
Life is brief, and no one is perfect. No one. Everyone makes mistakes. Huge, horrible, ghastly mistakes. But if you had one last minute with anyone you love, would they really make a difference?
If I had one more minute with my dad, I wouldn't be telling him how insane his parenting tactics were and he wouldn't be telling me what a wretchedly difficult child I was. I'd hold him and he'd hold me. I'd tell him of the good things and he'd tell me he was proud of me. He'd know I'd forgiven his heavy-handedness and I'd know he'd forgiven my stubborness and bad temper. I'd be at peace and he'd be at peace. And nothing would matter then but love.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Anyway, I woke up freezing cold, so I wore a sweatshirt to work. It's not professional to wear a sweatshirt to an office, but I have a feeling it's even more unprofessional to wear one that says U.S. Beer Drinking Team on it. It also has a white outline of a hand holding a beer mug against a red and blue background. At least no one can say I'm not patriotic. Except that I don't like beer. I prefer a red wine boasting a deep claret hue, with an earthy undertone and just a whisper of chamomile.
I even paid money for this sweatshirt. It was only about $3.00 or $4.00 (I'm half Jewish and nearly half-Scottish. I don't have a prayer). But it was either the USBDT or a very lame football team. I went with alcohol.
I was talking to Jethro the last night about human intellect, natural selection, and genetics. We were mulling over the idea that perhaps the evolution of the human intellect is our best defense against nature. And genetically engineered food products are the result of our intellect and the excess strength/weight derived from it, may sustain us through whatever nature might have in store for us. I don't know. We have no real answers.
This conversation evolved into a discussion of survival tactics, which led to the inevitable husband/wife discussion of what exactly we wish to do with our lives. Jethro wants to open his own clinic/sports rehab center and I said (if I had the financial ability) I would like to found a college. This is my fondest dream.
It would be a liberal arts college with an emphasis on the classics and a core program of philosophy, political science, and literature. The curriculum would be modeled after the college I went to in New Hampshire. But in addition to the Humanities, I would have an ongoing organic agriculture project and have the college run a store to subsidize some of the costs.
I would love that so very much that it's hard to gauge just how unrealistic it is.
Friday, October 06, 2006
I usually hate it when female characters are pilots, astronauts, or in traditionally male roles. It's not because I don't think they exist or shouldn't have those jobs, but on the screen it's rarely believable (Starship Troopers, the movie, comes shudderingly to mind). On this show though, I totally bought it.
So I like. Or at any rate, I've seen worse.
Random Flashback to a Simpler Time:
Jethro and I used to watch King of the Hill pretty regularly. So much so, that I ended up with a very good Hank Hill impression, and Jethro came away with a killer Luanne.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Jethro: "Of course not!"
Zelda: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Jethro: "Oh. You're not fat."
I take what I can get.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
So just to prove I'm as egotistical as ever, I will now write a tribute to my unlimited arrogance. As I have related in previous posts, I have started the South Beach Diet. It's going swimmingly. I lost a few pounds. Somehow this makes me think I'm entitled to wear an orange courderoy mini-skirt. And while I don't look as repulsive in it as I did 10 lbs ago, I don't think it's ready for prime time. To compound the matter, I forgot temporarily that I'm on Daylight Shaving Time, which means that anything above the knee is not considered necessary for removal. Plus I forgot one knee. So to recap, I am wearing a short skirt that's just a bit too small and I have patchy legs. And I don't care. Because at least I'm wearing underpants. And that means I'm going to heaven. Right Angi?
Monday, October 02, 2006
Sometimes I'm so sick of myself. I almost wish I had an addiction so there would be some excuse. Adult ADD? Probably. What difference does that make? Regardless of the cause, I am an utterly useless person. And that realization is irritating especially to someone like me who has trouble realizing the world does not revolve around them.
In Blow Job news, someone said to me recently that she would never go down on her knees in front of a guy. It was too degrading. I can see her point, but I think it's somewhat empowering to hold someone's entire sense identity and self-worth between one's teeth (not that one should do anything other than what's expected).
But that's why I can never understand men's desire to receive oral affection from someone they don't know. It's one of the mysteries of life, I suppose.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
The other day, I checked my email and it was from a friend of mine in NY that I have known since preschool. She wanted me to add her to my MySpace "List of Friends." I hadn't talked to her in over a year, so I was anxious to see how she was doing. After much trial and error, I pulled up my page and discovered that I had put up this picture as a representation of myself/my view of life:
I had also neglected to fill out any of my information, so to all the world I was unmarried, an alcoholic, and never wanted to have children. I also had 30 messages in my Inbox. Two were from concerned friends. Ten were solicitations of some sort. And the rest were from men who wanted help me drink my beer (from right where it was in the picture) and engage in various deviant acts of sexual congress immediately following.
I was more than a little amused, as were my concerned friends when they discovered that I was not a meth addict, and horrible tragedy had not actually befallen me.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
There isn't much that surprises me in the world of celebrities. I mean someone tries to commit suicide, someone od's, someone crucifies oneself for the seventy-thousandth time (incidentally, how does one hammer in that last nail?)...it's all been done to death and the corpses pummeled, stabbed, and burned for good measure.
But Anna Nicole Smith fascinates, repulses, and surprises me in ways I can't even begin to explain. I thought most people felt the same way. And I felt sure her pansy-assed, sycophantic, yet ethnically understated lawyer did too. In fact, I would have sworn he thought of her as one more Vapid Gentile Bovine for the Jew to suffer through once again for humiliating, degrading sustenance (read television exposure and ungodly sums of money).
So Howard, old boy. Schtuping the meshugeh shiksa? You kiss your mother with the same mouth?
I was driving along at a respectably sedate pace and just about to pass the county tax office, when I noticed a car getting ready to exit said tax office.
In the span of about half a second, I thought, "Surely they won't pull out in front of me," saw the driver was an older woman of Asiatic descent, slammed preemptively on my brakes just as she made her death-defying move in her ancient little Toyota Camry. Now I admit fully that in half a second, I stereotyped that woman and assumed she was going to do something boneheaded because she was 1.) female 2.) Asian and 3.) old. It probably saved her life.
Isn't it Ironic?
Monday, September 25, 2006
So the diet is going well. I haven't been quite as strict as I ought to have been, but except for a nibble here or there, I've stuck to it. And I feel much better.
I was watching Newt Gingrich on Bill O'Reilly tonight and he said something very interesting about what separated the political right from the political left in the prosecution of terrorism. The Right sees terrorism as a declaration of war, and the Left sees it as a crime. Let me know what you think. I promise I won't jump all over you. I'm genuinely curious.
This is really interesting to me because I've been unable to understand the Left's point of view on the issue of terrorism. I do know from my family having been in the Middle East, that if one crazy mullah decides that Muslims must fight against you; his followers (and please notice I do not say all Muslims) will fight you either to the death or until the mullah says to stop. That's the way religious fundamentalists of all stripes are. That's the way many Catholics would be if the Pope said, "KILL." But bear in mind that even the most odious, sanctimonious, distorted Christian has not, in this fight, hung burnt corpses from bridges, or beheaded innocent civilians while chanting "Praise JAYsus!" In fact, the most odious, sanctimonious, distorted Christians would probably be the Phelps family. And they're against the war. And homos.
But I digress. Obviously, from anyone who has read me for more than 5 minutes, you would know that I consider terrorism and the threat of terrorism an act of war, whether it's by pirates, religious fundamentalists, or little green men. The only thing that ought to keep us from aggressively defending ourselves would be assurances backed with indisputable evidence by the leaders of the attacking group that their acts of war are an aberration and they will prosecute the perpetrators themselves in order to protect their good name. Anything less will inevitably lead to war.
Muslim leaders attempt to muddy the waters by saying on one hand, most Muslims aren't terrorists and abhor terrorism and we are racists and Muslim-haters for even thinking such a thing. On the other hand, they insist that investigation of and protective action against suspected terrorists ends up recruiting more terrorists. If they insisted upon the former statement, and left off the latter, I would be marginally more sympathetic. But I'm not buying the idea that action against suspected terrorists leads to Muslims joining the terrorist cause. And you really can't have it both ways.
I read a comment somewhere regarding terrorist recruitment being caused by investigating suspected terrorists and it was so appropriate I have to repeat it. I can't remember who wrote it though, so I won't be able to give them credit. But they stated that if you were falsely accused of a terrible crime, would that make you more likely to commit that crime? Say you were accused of pedophilia and taken to jail and interrogated for hours on end and even held for weeks in custody. Upon your release, would that then make you more likely to rape children? Would it make your family and friends more likely to rape children? So I'm not convinced that fanatical Muslim/Arab nationalist fence-sitters will join hands in peace if we pretend that no Muslim has any ill-intention towards Western society and we turn a blind eye to their murderous schemes. It would be playing right into their hands, and even now they are capitalizing on our reluctance to be referred to as racists, even though it would be the most ludicrous of hypocrisies.
Call me crazy, but I very much doubt that fanatical Muslim terrorist lunatics would like anything better than to plan their jihad for the Caliphate in perfect peace, so they call us racists for even thinking of such a thing while they make bombs to slaughter the infidels.
We're so intolerant of being called intolerant that we are going to tolerate the worst intolerance of all. Against ourselves. Wrap your mind around that while you sleep at night.
In other news, a True Martyr was laid to rest. They buried Sister Leonella Sgorbati who died after being shot in the back (and stomach and chest just to make sure) by the brave Defenders of Allah. She was walking home from her work at a nursing school in Mogadishu, Somalia when she was attacked. She died forgiving her murderers.
(H/T: Michelle Malkin, Catholic Online)
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Were you born before the end of the first Gulf War?
Historical Person you have the biggest crush on?
Favorite type of candy?
Twizzlers and dark chocolate
Favorite foreign country?
Fish or Chicken?
Do you have your own perfume line?
Hell no. I barely wear deodorant.
Have you ever written a children's book?
Yes. It's called Queen of the Pond. I need an illustrator.
Have you ever been in a movie based on a book?
What is this crap? Celebrity Jeopardy?
Ever posed nude for a photo?
Not to my recollection, but define nude and define pose.
I'm actually going to have to go with blogging. Or The Waltons.
Your best non-guilty pleasure then?
What are you allergic to?
Soybeans, something in some cleaning agent but only in the summer, pollen, dust.
Worst pick-up line you've ever heard?
The one directed to me was, "Do you have a little Chinese in you?" "Want one?"
The second, not directed to me was, "How can I take advantage of you if I can't get you drunk?"
Were you bar-mitzvahed?
No. First Communionized
Have you ever cried during a TV interview?
Actually, I have been interviewed. But I've never cried.
If they made a movie of your life, who would play you?
It would really have to be Winona Ryder. She's just loony enough to pull it off.
People who use cliches and screw them up.
High waisted pants on fat people.
Low waisted pants on fat people.
Referring to dogs and cats as one's children
If you weren't doing what you do, what job would you like to have?
Researcher for travel agencies. Or a column writer.
Place you will never be found?
I never say never, but I hope very much that I would never be found in a sewage treatment plant.
Why did you participate in this tagging?
Because no one says no to the ALa