A Moment of Zen for the Crotchless Panties

Random Observation: Pantyhose render crotchless panties entirely useless.

I was at my parents' house the other day for my stepdad's birthday. They are odd people and they have odd friends. I'll just leave it at that.

One of their odd friends is a lawyer - good lawyer who makes a very decent living. They just built a house close to my parents house. Tragically, his wife and kids were in a horrific car accident. The kids were ok, but his wife suffered a severe brain injury. The swelling was so bad they had to remove part of her skull. Come to find out, this well-off lawyer had neglected to purchase any health insurance for his family. They were not at the party for obvious reasons, but everyone was talking about them.

Just for reference, people of all religious persuasions, particularly the born-again, tongue-speaking, religious...shall we say, enthusiasts, seem to gravitate towards my folks.

I won't lie. These people are very sweet, but they make me feel incredibly awkward. I don't know how to convey that while we have much in common, I don't care to go around vocalizing it incessantly. There are other things to talk about.

There was one couple there at the party who were of this particular ilk. They are very involved with televangilism, being rather nice looking. The wife sings and he preaches about how the amassing of wealth is a Christian value. Hey, I didn't say we had everything in common. I'll call them the Photogenics. I don't like them much. Can you tell? They are kind of fake. Make that extremely fake. It's as if they feel they must be kind to all the heathen even if it means oozing quarts of fake sincerity. For God's sake, be a little snarky. I'd respect you more for it.

Anyway, they were the last to leave the party, and they asked my parents if they would like to pray for lawyer and his family. Then they asked my sisters and I if we would like to pray also. DOH!

I really didn't want to pray with them, but I couldn't think of any way to get out of it without looking and feeling like a prick. My other sister who was local felt the same way. The other two who live in Austin, were fast enough to grab empty plates and the trashcan thereby looking enterprising. I forced Jethro to go with me. He is a dignified person, and I knew I could count on him not to disgrace us. Another sister joined us and we all went into the media room.

My hand was grabbed by Mrs. Photogenic and she started asking all of these very specific questions about Mrs. Lawyer's condition. Detailed medical analysis. She picked Jethro's brain dry as to what the medical procedures were.

Finally they started. Let me just say that I'm no stranger to the ways of the born-again. My parents tried their best bring us up in the tradition, but all of us, without exception, rejected it out of hand. It just wasn't our thing, even though we were exposed to nothing else until Catholic school. I can't tell you how bad it is when Catholics seem normal. But I digress.

Mrs. Photogenic had my hand and started praying. Mr. Photogenic took up this chorus of groans and chants to Jesus. I'll try to write what I remember.

Mrs. P: Dear Jesus we ask that you would smite the demons swelling Mrs. Lawyer's brain.

(So much for the medical information)

Mr. P and the parents: *Groan, groan* "Thank you Jesus, Amen, Thank you Jesus. You are Lord."

Mrs. P: "We ask that you come down and heal this woman. Speak to the doctors, speak to the nurses, speak to that brain."

Mr. P and the parents: *Longer and longer moans* "Praise you Lord Jesus, Praise you Lord, Amen Lord.

My sisters, Jethro and me: "???!!!"

You can't just say "speak to that brain" to a bunch of born-again novices. I immediately bit my tongue nearly in half to quell the tide of panicked laughter welling up from my gut. I felt my sister pinch my hand urgently. I pinched it back. We pinched each other until the blood came. No good. Down my face went into my lap, my entire body convulsed with silent laughter. And you know the harder you try to stop the harder you laugh. My sister Rochelle, was in the exact same position. Jethro remained stoic throughout. He is a rock.

FINALLY the ghastly prayer was over. I picked my head up from my lap and hoped the tears would look sorrowful.

Family Stuff

Not to brag or anything, but Jethro is going to be a very very good chiropractor. He just gave me and adjustment and I actually feel two inches taller. I have a constant nagging pain in my back because of the Gs (it always comes back to that doesn't it?), so I force Jethro to keep the table up and I make him give me adjustments every week (at least). There is a muscle in my back right along my spine on the left side that always hurts and there is always a huge knot under my left shoulder blade. It's as if all my stress is deposited right there. Jethro did some digging while I groaned in agony, but it actually feels much better. He says he is going to have to use massage oil to really work it out, and it will be excruciatingly painful, but it'll work. I wonder where my stress will go when the knot is gone...

In other news, the girls are cranky and whiny, so I know they're better. It is days like today when I want to leave them on someone's doorstep, but I know they won't stay put. They'll both start bawling and grabbing my arms and legs until I'm covered in snotty crying babies. It's no wonder every vertebrae is out of whack.

Gwennie did something funny though. She is extremely self-confident, but extremely clumsy. Somehow this doesn't in any way dampen her enthusiasm. Today she came to me crying and angry. When I asked her what was wrong, she said bitterly, "I fell off the potty and I hit my head on the waaaaalllllll." She was so annoyed about it I had to laugh.

Emma has been a little shit all day too. She, my angel baby, has been a little monster. She wouldn't let me get any work done, she wouldn't eat anything except waffles and ice cream - this child - who will normally eat everything on her plate no matter what it is and ask for more. I hope this is just because she's sick and she's not developing brat syndrome. I tried to spank her today because she wouldn't put away any of the toys she pulled out. I asked her if she wanted a spanking and she nodded her head. I figured she had misunderstood me, so I put her in spanking position so she would get it. She just lay there over my knee waiting for it. Well I can't spank her if she's not struggling. Either the child is slow, or she's extremely smart. She totally won that one. She half-heartedly threw a few toys around and I let it go. She's a strange kid.

Gwennie, on the other hand, has no real conscience to speak of and has no scruples whatsoever about cracking Emma one if she feels like she needs it. I looked over just in time to see her clock Emma in the head with the broom. Emma started crying and I asked (yelled at) Gwennie what she did that for.

Gwennie's eyebrows knit into a V and said, "Emma is not putting her toys away and you didn't spank her when you said you were going to."

She looked like a tiny little Carrie Nation. She's going to break my heart and convert to Protestantism one day, I just know it.

Food and Babies

I must have some kind of good metabolism because if the gods were fair, I would weigh something like 400 lbs. I like creamy things. Not to be Freudian, but I don't care if it's sweet or tart. If it's creamy and runs to the back of my throat, I'll swallow it. I feel hollow and my mouth waters just thinking about it.

Gwennie and Emma are sick. Emma has had a fever for a few days, and Gwennie just came down with it yesterday after school. I should have known something was amiss when her daily behavior chart had all smiley faces. I guess sick and lethargic makes for a better behaved Gwennie. Her teacher was so happy about it, I don't have the heart to tell her it was because she had a 103 degree temp.

Gwennie pretty much went straight to bed. I heard her crying a few hours later. She had fallen on the floor of her room and she kept saying, "I don't know what I'm doing." I figured she must be delirious since she has never displayed a lack of self-confidence in her life. I held her on the couch for awhile and she told me that her "brains" hurt. She's so sweet when she has no energy.

Sorry for the short post, but I have to go make some chicken soup. Later

Apologies and Housecleaning

First of all, Seven is awesome. Didn't he do a splendid job? I highly recommend his work. He is thoughtful and patient and practically a mind reader.

Apologies

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.

LET ME CLARIFY

I shave it. Yes I do. Let me make that perfectly clear. My last post was a facetious suggestion that we genetically purge pubic hair from mankind so we don't have to deal with the ingrown hairs, and nicks, and general unpleasantness of having it around.

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.

*RRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPP!*

"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.

Something for the Future

I think we, as a civilization, should make a concentrated effort to eliminate pubic hair from the species. As long as it doesn't involve eugenics (sorry Cig), I think that this could be mankind's greatest contribution to itself. The problem is that I don't know how to go about it properly. So I'm open to suggestions.

ARRRGHHH

I can't stand the pathos anymore. Thanks to everyone who commented on the last post. They mean a lot to me.

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.

New Topic

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.

Blogger's been slow and annoying all day. I've had some lively debate today both on blogs and on the phone with a sister who never reads the paper or watches the news or goes online, but who thinks she knows more than I do about current events because her boyfriend spoon feeds her his opinion. For a gal who reads nothing but feminist empowerment novels, she is surprisingly dependant on men for her opinions.

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.

An Extremely Busy Weekend Full Of Blog Potential

I'll start with Friday night. We know this couple. The husband, Nixon, is a classmate of Jethro's. His wife, Sandra, has just finished up treatment for Hodgkins disease. About a week ago, Nixon was diagnosed with colon cancer. This poor couple just can't seem to catch a break.

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.

The Blow Job

If you're under 18, you must gouge out your eyes before you read this. (That'll keep 'em away).

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.

NOT ONE DAMN DIME

Pardon me, but this makes not one damn iota of sense (no pun intended). I received an email about this, and saw it on Celti's site when I was looking for pictures of Inanna's boobs (which are beautiful and would turn me gay if I weren't hopelessly straight)....................................

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.

A Horse With No Name

You know that song by America? When I was little I always used to think it was "A Horse With No Tail" and I still sing it that way in my head.

In Honor of the Day

My father was not a man to profess admiration lightly. He was rigid in his ideals and standards, and never a word did he say that he didn't mean.

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.

Sundries

Two funny searches that landed folks at Sleeping Ugly

#1: use house items as a dildo if you don't have one for anal sex

#2: masturbating while on anti-biotics

I know I talk a lot, but really!

Whoop that 'gator, Ma!

I seem to have caught the hanta virus from Tinyhands, so I'm not really up to scratch (not that I ever am). So I'm sitting here with tissues in both nostrils because I've lost miles of nasal epidermis from wiping it.

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.

FUNNY!!! ...(gasp, gasp)...FUNNY!!!

Quiz

I couldn't think of anything else to write today, so I made JP give me the Quiz.

3 names you go by:

1. Babe
2. Mom
3. Jewel

3 screen names you have:

1. Zelda
2. wandergal
3. wandergalblue

3 things you like about yourself:

1. Musical ability
2. I'm charming
3. I have skills

3 things you hate/dislike about yourself:

1. Laziness/Procrastination
2. A penchant for amorality
3. My hair

3 parts of your heritage:

1. Jewish
2. Scotch-Irish
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:

1. sweatpants
2. panties
3. a sober expression

3 of your favorite bands/artists:

1. Aerosmith
2. Sublime
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
3. Spankings

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:

1. Arms
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:

1. Sleep
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
2. Hawaii
*3. Lappland (or as the natives prefer to call it in this PC day and age, Samiland)

3 kids names:

1. Francesca
2. Lucien
3. Phillip

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)
2. Jeth
3. Tinyhands


* I changed this from New Orleans because I've already been there.

I AM A GRAMMAR GOD/ Happy Birthday Emma

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.

If You Can Believe It...

I just read Michelle Malkin's latest entry and I'm sick.

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.

Back to the ol' Grind

Jethro started back to school again full time. I miss him already. Because I'm an interesting person with many quirks of the mind not to mention two kids to keep me occupied in moments of solitude, it just hadn't really dawned on me how little I see of Jethro when he's in school. Even when his physical presence is there, his mind is somewhere else thinking of bone disease, or spinal cancer, or erectile dysfunction (other people's, mind you). It's only about a week into vacation that I get him back like I used to have him before. When he's in school, I forget how much we both enjoy the same movies and food and humor. And I forget how sex isn't proccupied, with each of us lost in our own separate fantasy.

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.

For Gooch

I was a little snarky in my previous comments and I apologize. I was actually trying to be funny but I'm still in bitch mode from dealing with the identity thief who shall henceforth be known as Ass Slime II (he doesn't even deserve his own moniker).

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.

Thanks For Waiting

I'm back. Couldn't stay away. With a great sense of relief, I can say that Jethro's credit has been spared from irrecoverable damage.

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.

New Topic

Maddox has something funny to say about U2's latest.

Tied Up

...and not in the good way. A few issues of frustration - namely financial - have temporarily rendered my blogging unfeasible. I won't bore anyone with the details, but suffice it to say that I'm too angry to write coherently.

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.

The Soccer Game

The first week, I was trying to recover from jet lag (this takes me awhile). I always ended up taking a nap in the afternoon. One day, one of my classmates, Becky, bursts into my room, rousing me from a sound slumber.

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.

I Think I'm A Little Constipated

I have been trying to blog all day, but for some reason, nothing is coming out. I think I need a mental laxitive, so I'm going to dig into my recent past for one.

Rome.

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.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

I wish everyone the best for the upcoming year.

My special good wishes for Savannah and her family.

Happy New Year

Mohammed the Charitable

Is it any wonder why Muslims are so beloved throughout the world?

This is from Little Green Footballs who has it from Live Fatwa:

Name: Mary

Question: It is permissible for us, as Muslims, to
make du`aa’ for those human beings afflicted there even if those people include
Muslims and non-Muslims?


Answer: In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most
Merciful.
All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be
upon His Messenger.

Thank you.

There is no harm or prohibition to pray for those people who lost their
lives in that natural disaster. However, your beloved Muslim brothers and
sisters deserve more and more of prayers and du’aa’. They deserve your moral and
financial assistances. You should share their sorrow and difficult time and do
invoke Allah to accept them among the Shuhada’ or martyrs on the day of
Judgment.
...


Name: Hakim

Question: Can we give those afflicted people a portion
of our zakah money even if they are non-Muslims? How about giving them
charity?

Answer: In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most
Merciful.
All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be
upon His Messenger.

Thank you.

The receivers of Zakah money are clearly mentioned in the Qur’an. Among
them, the poor and needy people. Looking at the situation of those people who
are afflicted, one can conclude that the Muslims among them fall under the
category of needy people.
In this regard, those Muslims deserve to receive a
portion of Zakah. As for non-Muslims, they might deserve donation or any other
form of assistance but not Zakah.
Thus, Zakah should be given to poor and
needy Muslims. Some non-Muslims may receive a portion of Zakah if there is hope
that by giving them Zakah that might lead to their conversion into Islam. They
would be then considered under the category of mu’allafati qulubuhun or those
whose hearts are inclined to accept Islam.

Are you thirsty? Convert and I'll let you have a sip.

Non-Violence/Other Bits

I am not an overly violent person. Sure I can stand up for myself, but I'd prefer to be reasonable and courteous and I expect the same from other people.

So I have no reasonable explanation for the fact that everytime I see a picture of Justin Timberlake's face anywhere, I want to smash it with a brick.


And from the "Celebrity Idiot of the Week" file, I present: Ms. Anna Nicole Smith. Actually, she presents herself as utterly and completely unwell, as she attempts to present someone else whose name I couldn't make out, but whom I feel extremely sorry for.

And from the "Ordinary Idiot of the Week" files: This one might even make "Idiot of the Month."

Incidentally, one of the only thing worse than having "fag" carved into your forehead, is to have it carved backwards into your forehead. And the only thing worse than that is having to tell people that you did it yourself.


And finally, I think the phrase "people of color" may be on the way out. Is it just me or does it strike anyone else as a wordy way of saying "colored people?" I don't like it. Why, if we are supposed to be "color-blind" (I hate that word, but can't think of a better one), do we have to label non-whites? And every race is guilty of it. In my opinion, race identification should only be used when dealing with suspects in crimes to facilitate their capture, and we should all be properly ashamed of them, but only after they are convicted in a court of law.

(If anyone is offended, please tell me so that I may pour myself a celebratory pint).

Although it's slightly unrelated, I just want to state, for the record, that the day I refer to myself as a "European-American" is the day I will drink a bottle of wine, take a steam bath, and slit my wrists wide open.

The Professor

When I was at the more-intellectual-than-thou college in New Hampshire, I had a professor there named Dr. Arnault. He was awesome and I had a heart-wrenching, weak-kneed, school-girl crush on him despite his gray hair, beautiful wife, and seven children.

He was a tough grader of my papers, but a C with a compliment was worth more than an A from any other professor I have had before or since. And he was so cool. It's hard to explain his coolness, but I'll give it a shot. You know how when you are about 18 or 19, you tend not to have much of an intellectual sense of humor? Sure you can drink and laugh it up, but it was really hard (at least for me) to write anything amusing, and almost impossible to read anything amusing and get the joke. (Aside: I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in this.)

We were doing a class on William Faulkner whom I considered not funny at best, and horribly depressing at worst. It was hard for me as an 18 year old to see any humor at all in Faulkner. But when Dr. Arnault would read exerpts aloud in class he'd start chuckling at something then start laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. And suddenly, instead of depressing, Faulkner became 4 dimensional. So I credit Dr. Arnault pointing out the humor in literature (which I have always taken waaaaaaay too seriously).

One of my proudest moments came at lunch one day. A group of professors plopped themselves down at our table and asked us how we were enjoying The Great Gatsby which we were studying at the time. Everyone else started toadying up and saying how much they liked it and pointing out metaphors and all of the rest of the idiocy that comes when people try to prove their intelligence.

When I got a chance to speak up, I said it was alright, but I thought it was kind of overrated. I told them I hadn't read the book previously and it had always been built up to be this masterpiece, but upon reading it, it seemed a little dull.

I wasn't saying any of this to be different or to stand out. I rarely do things like that. I know it may not seem that way, but you'll just have to take my word for it. Anyway, it was my honest opinion. Dr. Arnault nodded his head and said something along the lines of, "I feel the same way. It's alright, but it's not the masterpiece it's cracked up to be."

For Dr. Arnault to agree with you was, among the students, the undisputed intellectual feather in one's cap - the holy grail, if you will. As long as enough people heard about it, it could cement your reputation as an intellectual contender, at least at that college.

I fully and freely admit that I was not and am not any kind of intellectual powerhouse. If I were to define myself in the intellectual sense, I would say that I was quirky with just enough edge to be mildly interesting. Not the stuff of genius exactly, but it's as much as I have a right to expect.

What I'm long-windedly boiling down to is that I'm not going to finish college. I could, but I won't. It is really depressing to me because I wish I could set a good example for the girls. But I won't go back to school on principle. It is too expensive, and any degree I'd get wouldn't amount to JACK SQUAT.

Wouldn't Have Believed It If I Hadn't Seen It With My Own Eyes

In Houston, TX, we had snow on Christmas, 2004. Mark the day.

To most Northerners, this is not something to get excited over. To most Southerners, it's something major. But to a transplanted Yankee, who hasn't had a white Christmas since childhood, it is something that has the potential to bring tears to your eyes. Not that I would admit to it.

The snow is gone, but it's still in the 30s which is bitterly cold for Houston.

We went to my parents ranchette near Katy, TX and had a lovely time. I cooked, my sister cooked, and my Jewish grandmother, who likes to come down for Christmas just to torture my mom, made chopped liver. We drank lots of wine/Frangelico.

My little sisters decided to play Santa for the girls, and ended up scaring Emma so bad she wouldn't go to sleep. They got Gwen and Em into bed, then crept outside their window and one of them, in her deepest voice, said, "Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas!" Poor Emma. She didn't even cry or speak she was so frightened. She just ran out of the room and clung to me. I couldn't pry her off with a crowbar. I was pretty steamed. It set back my Christmas set-up by about 3 hours.

Jethro and I went to bed at about 3am on an air mattress we had set up in my step-dad's office. We had sex. It kept us sane. Besides, there is something so lovely and forbidden about doing-it in your parents' house (my parents' house at any rate).

This morning, poor Jethro was awakened by an eardrum shattering rendition of Joy to the World. The room we were sleeping in housed the speakers heard all over the house. They were right above his head. My stepdad turned on the stereo while everyone gathered to open presents, forgetting that Jethro was in the room sleeping. Poor man has been a little deaf all day, but that could be selective.

I bought the girls a ridiculous amount of presents, but their favorites seem to be these little barking dogs I bought them. Emma's is a chiuaua she calls "Pinga", and Gwennie's is a pink poodle she calls "Poodle".

Gwennie ripped through her gifts like a dynamo, her eyes bright and squealing with glee. Emma opened hers slowly, hugging each toy tightly before moving on to the next.

Gwennie had asked me for everything she had seen on TV this year. I spend most of my pre-Christmas thinking about what Gwennie would like. Her happiness makes the whole endeavor worthwhile, just because she's such a stinker when she's miserable.

Emma asked me for one thing. She saw a commercial for The Littlest Pet Shop and came up to me and asked in her wee little voice, "Mommy, can I have that puppy?"

I said yes and told her she could have a pony too. That kid can wrap me around her finger like no other.

All in all, it was a good day. Aside from a few tiffs with my ragingly bitchy sisters, it was quite pleasant. I hope everyone else had a wonderful holiday.

Merry Christmas Y'all

I have many relatives of different religions and non-religions. When I was very small, I grew tired of having to say so many different things around the holidays to different people, so I made up a farewell that included it all. I used it all year 'round.

Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, Good Tidings, I love you, Bye-bye!

I think that may just cover it all.

Ahem

We were right in the middle of marital relations when I blurted out, "NAIL IT, BABY!!!"

Does that strike anyone else as uncouth?

Day Two

I hauled a vomiting Jethro out of bed to meet the group Protest Warrior of which I proudly serve as the East Texas Chapter Leader. It is a pro-democracy and freedom advocacy group who fundamentally oppose the left-wing reactionaries. Really cool people. The boys were so hot and there were only a few other girls. If I were single....

Anyway, we all met for brunch and talked politics for about two hours. We were in heaven. Then we all met for paintball, and Jethro ascended to a higher plane. He's really good. Embarrassingly good. All of the others were newbies and Jethro is pretty aggressive. Fortunately it won him respect as opposed to resentment, but he now has 5 massive purple welts all over his body - 2 of which are perilously close to the "facilities."

The field was pretty cool. I would have loved to play, but I don't fancy getting hit anywhere on my precious person by a stinging paintball, so I stayed by the bonfire they had going.The day was beautiful and chilly, but the fire was warm. I sat there and relaxed. Emma fell asleep and Gwennie found a little boy to play with. I just sat there with my eyes closed and waited for Jethro to finish.

Then I said something So Incredibly Stupid.

A man had rolled up to the fire in a wheelchair. He was paralysed from the neck down. Being drowsy and a little hungover, I didn't notice that he couldn't move his hands. I asked him if he was going to play. He looked at me with the sympathy with which you would view a blind person, and politely said his paintball days were over. I contemplated throwing myself on the bonfire.

Night Two

I conned my sisters into staying with the kids again and Jeth and I, once again, headed for 6th. We were supposed to meet the Protest Warriors at a bar called The Gingerman. My sister works at the one in Houston.

It was a great place, and Jeth and I got there first and were able to snag a lounge section. We had just ordered all our beers and were settling in, when someone mentioned that there was an underage member roaming the streets looking for a place that would let him in. Not wanting to leave a fellow member out in the cold, we all left the nice cozy Gingerman for a ghastly dance club that would allow him entrance. I considered calling Trashman to see if he wanted to meet us for a drink, but then I thought how shitty it would be if he left his wife with a sick kid on their honeymoon.

The dance club was amusing. I used to be so intimidated by clubs when I was 18. Now, they bore me to tears. I did get hit on though. That was cool. I had just consumed my 4th or 5th long island iced tea when a guy slid up to me and asked if I was here with anyone. My speech was pretty slurred by this time, so I jerked my thumb towards Jethro and kept drinking. Jethro asked what was up and I said, "He wanted to know if I was here with anyone." The look on the poor guy's face was terrible - a combination of sincerity and fear.

Jethro said, "Were you hitting on my wife?"

The guy said, "No, I wasn't."

Jethro laughed and said, "It's cool."

The guy said, "Thank you."

I chuckled evilly into my long island iced tea.

Yeah. I know. We left the club shortly after.

The last thing I remember is grabbing what I sincerely thought was Jethro's arm. It turned out not to be and I realized that I was fondling the bare arm of Someone Else who, surprisingly didn't pull away. The second I realized it, Jethro grabbed my arm and led me to the bar to pay. I was pretty embarrassed and never got to explain myself to the young man whose arm I'd slobbered over. Nice way for the East Texas Chapter Leader to behave.

We got home, and it was my turn to vomit. We left the next day. I thought I was going to float away on wave after wave of nausea. But I didn't and we're here, and I'm blogging all about the fun we had. I think I want us to move there.

AUSTIN

We left 6 hours later than we had planned, but Jeth and I are easygoing people so we had only reached Bitter Divorce stage as we pulled out of the driveway.

Once on the road, the tension dissippated somewhat. I tried to call my sister in Austin, but I ended up calling Trashman by accident. I'll try to explain the mistake, but I may fail. I don't have my sisters' #s programmed into my phone, but they had been calling me so I hit the list of recent calls so I could get in touch with one of them. I don't have their numbers memorized, so I called the first number with the correct area code. Apparently, Trashman had called and I didn't pick up my phone since I was too busy slamming my head into a shelf in my haste to get out of there. If I had known it was Trash's number, I would have called it sooner. I know I sound like a flake as I write this, so I can only imagine how I sounded to Trashman when I called him asking for my sisters.

I probably sounded even more flaky when I squealed like a gay man at a Justin Timberlake concert after discovering that I was talking to Trashman (after he told me that I had the wrong number and then called me back). I found out his real first name, and he found out Jethro's. I know I'd feel weird calling him 'Trashman' if I ever met him in real life, but I can't possibly think of him as his real name.

Anyway, he told me that he was trying to talk Jack into meeting us too, which, for some reason, instantly made me wish I'd stuck to my diet and lost 10 lbs.

We chatted a bit about how there was a possibility that we knew more about each other than actual live friends did, and then he told me he and Jen had gotten married. I felt so priveleged to hear about it firsthand, and once again offer my congratulations.

We made tentative plans to see the light show, but if you read his blog you'll know that it was not meant to be. Damn flu season.

Austin Night One

If you've never been to Austin and you like to travel, I suggest you put it at the top of your list. It's a small, quaint, bohemian city. Very artsy with a lovable weirdo on every street corner. It's hard to find your way around at first because the streets are referred to as two different names. By the way. Would someone please tell me how one is supposed to infer from a sign that says TX-1 that it is really Mopac? And while you're pondering that, please tell me how one is supposed to know that Research is really 183?

We finally made it to Austin. As prearranged, one of my sisters babysat and Jeth and I hit 6th street. We went to pub called BD Riley's. They had the best Texas Irish band I've ever heard. I know our family is Irish somewhere in the Euro-soup. My sister and I couldn't keep from jigging. Jethro thought we were nuts, but was so hypnotized by the jig my breasts were doing that he didn't say anything.

I ended up pretty well smashed and left, but Jethro stayed out with my sister who hooked him up with free Mojitos all night. I was pretty gone by the time I left, so I can only imagine how drunk Jethro was after drinking free Mojitos all night. When he got home, I was still kind of bombed. Things happened. Jethro will blog about it.

to be continued....

A Post with a Use

I'm writing this post because Jeth, the girls and I are going to Austin this weekend, and I didn't want to leave the post about masturbation up the whole time.

I can't wait for this trip. I have sisters who have agreed to babysit the girls for at least one of the nights we'll be there, so at some point I plan on being scrape-me-off-the-floor-and-pour-me-into-bed drunk. If we're very lucky, Trashman will utilize the cell phone number I courageously emailed him and we'll have the pleasure of a meeting in the flesh.

(Did that sound dirty?)

Jack can come too if he is not out busting the trollops for taking his picture.

Anyway, have a pleasant and safe weekend, and pray as always for little Savannah.

Pretty In Pink: YOU NOT SUPPOTO SEE DAT!!!

When Jethro and I were first dating, he was in his last year of college and living with three roommates. They were all a little strange, but Hung To was definitely the strangest. He was a little fellow, aged 19, but literally looked about 10 or 12. The mere sight of him behind a steering wheel was enough to scare the bejeezus out of you. He was Asian (of course) had lived in France for most of his life, but spoke English with the worst accent you have ever heard. I spent hours with him trying to help him say his L's and R's correctly, just for my own amusement. He could say them correctly, but he always, without fail, mixed them up. To this day, I can't figure out why they are mixed up so easily by Asian folks. He was so dyslexic about it that I finally told him just to reverse the letters in his head. Every time a word was spelled with an r, he was to think l and vice versa. This approach was marginally more successful.

I do digress, however.

Hung was a perverted little shit, but he worshipped Jethro with a devotion that can only be understood by small Asian men who have hero-worshipped taller Asian men with girlfriends who were putting out.

And all his hero worship didn't prevent him from trying to catch Jethro and I in the act. He was devoted to this mission. Jeth and I would close the door to the bedroom and lock it and hear the little "scritch scratches" of him trying to pick the lock. On one particularly disgusting occasion, we heard a zipper unzipping. Actually, that was pretty funny.

One night, Jethro and I were in the room, and we heard Hung outside the door.

"Make some moaning noises," said the intrepid hero.

"Oh God, oh God, right there, OOOOOO, oh Jethro, yes, yes......"

Jethro tiptoed to the door and flung it wide. Hung practically somersaulted into the room, grinning adoringly at Jethro with his little hand in his little pants.

Gross, but really funny especially in the retelling.

I paid him back though.

One afternoon, I was off of work and Hung and I were alone in the apartment. Pretty in Pink was on tv, so Hung and I watched it together.

Now if there is anything I took away from Pretty In Pink, it is that it was a totally innocuous movie. The plot was minimal, the characters shallow, and it was oh-so-dated. The last scene in the movie is a rather chaste kiss between Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy. Nothing to write home about.

The movie ended, and Hung tore out of the room.

"Weird little fucker," I thought.

I headed down the hall to the bedroom, and there I saw. Hung had flung himself on his bed, and covered both himself and what appeared to be a hummingbird, with his blanket.

"What the....?"

The "hummingbird" was moving faster than I had ever seen one move. Hung's eyes were closed and there was a pained expression on his face.

He isn't. He COULDN'T BE. He IS. Oh geez.

"HUNG! What the hell are you doing?"

The hummingbird activity ceased abruptly. Hung sat straight up in bed.

"OH! YOU NOT SUPPOTO SEE DAT!"

"Well then shut the goddam door!"

Grievances

#1. I took my eldest daughter to a birthday party the other day. It was at a pottery studio. All the kids got to pick out a piece of pottery, paint it, and have it glazed. Loads of fun. I stayed there with Gwennie the whole time, and we painted a butterfly box. We had to leave it there for a few days, and I was going to pick it up on Monday. I guess the party girl's parents picked it up for us, because Gwennie comes home Monday with the box. But it isn't the one we painted. This one was ugly. I know it shouldn't be that big a deal, but we had such a good time painting it together, that I'm really disappointed we don't have it. I suppose I could make a big cry baby out of myself and talk to the girl's mom, but I don't want to. I just hope Gwennie doesn't notice.

#2. I had a lady call me last Thursday to schedule an appointment to list her house with my stepdad. Fine. It was set for Friday at 1:00pm. She calls 10 minutes prior, and cancels. Not so fine. She calls me 10 minutes ago, and says that the realtor she had called first had finally gotten back to her and she was going to use them instead. Not fine at all. She took 5 minutes of my life to tell me that she was going to use some loser realtor who didn't even have the common courtesy to return her call promptly. ARRRRGGGHHHH.

#3. Gwennie's school rainy day dismissal is chaos, bordering on panic. I sloshed all over the outside of the school in the pouring rain looking for my daughter. Even with the umbrella, we were soaked. When we finally made it back to the car, we found a little girl crying in the pouring rain. She had walked across the street by herself to look for her mom. I asked her if she was lost and she said, "No, my mom is."

I laughed and told her we'd find her. I walked her and both my kids back across the street in the pouring rain to look for the kid's mother. When I go to cross the driveway of the school, the teacher who monitors traffic screamed through her bullhorn that we had to use the crosswalk. I'm not lying when I tell you that the crosswalk was less than a foot away from where we were crossing. "You've got to be kidding!" I screamed back.

"PLEASE CROSS AT THE CROSSWALK"

No good deed goes unpunished.

I've never come so close to giving a teacher the finger.

We moved over a few inches and crossed at the crosswalk. As we walked inside the school, the girl saw her mother talking to another lady about some nonsensical social function. "Mommy!" yelled the little girl. The mom absently put her hand on the little girl's head and continued with her conversation. No acknowledgement whatsoever. Her first grader was literally wandering the street by herself in the rain, with no protection. A stranger had to help her, and the stupid cow didn't have the common courtesy to even acknowledge the situation. Hanging's too good for some people.

#4. Seven, after reading my blog and not seeing my picture, cast his vision of me as this: Medium brown hair, tallish, medium build. Voice=bold and brassy, almost bossy, but pleasant.

If I were to take the description literally, it means I'm completely nondescript except when I open my mouth to boss people around, possibly in a maternal way. Not exactly flattering.

If I were to take this description figuratively (which I'm very much afraid it is), I'm visualized as a 300 lb, bossy bar wench, screaming obscenities and tossing beer. Pleasant, maybe if a mob has held me down long enough to give me an elephant tranquilizer.

I don't hold any of this against Seven who can't help what my writing conjurs up in his mind, but DAMN! EGO KILL. It's my writing. I swear too much. Maybe I should brag more instead. Or talk about how I get hit on by men of the Latino persuasion on a regular basis. Nah. Jeth would start practicing his Tae Kwon Do and cleaning his gun, and I see him little enough as it is.

3 more days 'til sweet liberation (Jethro's exams will be over).

The Mermaid

OK, I love folk music. Not the hippie tambourine junk, but the folk trios/quartets from the late 50s early sixties. The Limeliters are my favorite. I know. It's probably a gayer genre than the hippie crap. But I like it. It's innocent and comforting. Here's a sample:

Read it through, it's funny. Promise.

When I was a lad in a fishing town
My old man said to me,
"You can live a life, such a jolly life
Sailing on the sea."
You can search the world for pretty girls
'Til your eyes are weak and dim,
But don't go swimming with the Mermaids, Son
If you don't know how to swim.

For their hair is green as seaweed,
And their eyes are pale and blue,
But I'll tell you now before you start,
You may love that girl with all your heart,
You're just gonna love the upper part.
You're not gonna love the tail.

So I signed on to a whaling ship
And my very first day at sea
I seen a mermaid in the waves,
Smiling up at me.
"Come live with me in the sea," said she
"Down on the Ocean floor.
I'll show you a thousand wondrous things
You never seen before."

So in I jumped and she pulled me down
Down to a seaweed bed.
A pillow she made of a tortoise shell
And placed beneath my head.
She served me shrimps and caviar
Upon a silver dish.
She was just my taste right down to the waist
But the rest of her was FISH!

Oh her hair was green as seaweed
And her eyes were pale and blue.
And her face it was a work of art,
But I only gave her half my heart
For though I loved the upper part,
I could not love the TAIL!

So into the tide, I sat and cried
And sang to the clams and whales,
"How I loved her eyes and her seaweed hair,
All but her silvery scales."
Just then her sister swam on by
And set my heart a-whirl!
For her upper part was an ugly fish
But the rest of her was GIRL!

Her toes were round and rosy,
And her knees were thin and pale.
Her legs they were a work of art,
And I loved that girl with all my heart.
I didn't give a damn about the upper part
And that's how I end my tale!

...And So the World Turns

Hooray for Savannah!!! God bless her and may she make a full and speedy recovery. It's funny how blogworld can give you such a giddy high. I can't wait for pictures of her running around, as healthy as a little horse.

I ask also for prayers/good thoughts tonight for my best friend, Kristy's, niece and the granddaughter of my godmother. She's a beautiful 17 years old, and had just started college on a full scholarship this year, when she was diagnosed with spinal cancer. It is inoperable and chemotherapy is her only option.

From a personal perspective, I've known her since she was born. I know her family and this is extremely devastating. The family has suffered tremendous tragedy in the past, losing several friends in car accidents, a father/grandfather to a heart attack, a brother/uncle to an asthma attack at 29, a niece/cousin who died from liver failure last year at 26, and an uncle/brother-in-law who was found dead just a few months ago from what they believe was a heart attack. He was 35. This is just one more terrible thing on their already overflowing plate. Even though she would never say it, I sense from talking to Kristy, that the family is very stressed and worn down by seemingly endless suffering. They are a really special family - as kind and generous and good-hearted as you could ever hope to meet. Please ask God to be with them and give them the strength and courage to see this through.

I was going to write more, but I'm kind of upset right now. My godmother has been through such hell, and I can't stand to think of her having to suffer this pain. I'd give up my right arm if no one in their family would ever die again before the age of 75.

I know this will sound morbid, but Kristy and I used to jokingly compete as to who'd had more deaths in their family. Keep in mind we were dumb teenagers at the time. It was just black humor and a way of coping. But there's no humor when it just doesn't end.

So please keep Rebecca in your thoughts and prayers.

Operation Nekkid and Available

Aside from one quickie, Operation Nekkid and Available has largely been an unnecessary mission. Stress from work and school has rendered it practically undoable. Damn shame. I was looking forward to it.

Note: Operation Nekkid and Available is the name I have coined for the stress reducing mission during the last two weeks of Jethro's schooling sessions. Basically it entails compulsive sex and very little conversation.

If my sex life is the reason why you read this blog, look for satisfaction on December 17th, 2004.

Gentlemen, I give you fair warning:

I've been to many gynecologists in my life. No particular reason, I've just moved around a lot. I have come to the personal conclusion that men are better at it than women.

Now, I've heard arguments from both sides of the equation. Some say women are better because they actually possess a twat, and can empathize. I say that women are worse for precisely the same reason.

For example, when you're scratching someone's back, you instinctively scratch where it itches on your own back.

Lady gynecologists, in my opinion, have their own lady parts in mind when they are probing yours, and with all things being equal but different, it may not be the most comfortable proposition.

When all is said and done though, I like visiting the gynecologist if for no other reason that to know that everything is OK with that most sensitive and tempermental part of my anatomy.

God, those things are high maintenance.

On the Totally Disturbing front:

Someone found my blog by searching for "Black Republican Slut"

I think, perhaps, someone is not a Condi Rice fan.

RED STATE, BLUE STATE, 1...2...3

I've stayed away from politics for awhile, but I've been reading some blogs where commenters have complained that the blue states are subsidizing the red states. I wanted to address this because logically, it is not a well-thought out gripe.

Is it true? In short, yes.

Whose fault is it? Liberals and the residents of the blue states who vote for them. Democrats, empowered largely by the urban populations of the blue states, saw fit to tax them into subsidizing the farmers and the highways and byways of the red states. The red states didn't vote for the Dems, the blue states did. So it's their own fault.

I wonder if Bush repealed the tax cuts of every blue stater, would he start winning them over? As I see it, blue staters aren't happy unless they are being thoroughly, fiscally abused by their government.

If you can believe it, I'm actually bored with politics.

New Topic

NoMarriage.com. I won't give them a link, but they're easy enough to find.

Fucking yikes.

I mostly laugh at it because as far as I'm concerned, mail order brides will only help to seperate the wheat from the chaff, as far as men go. I think it's kind of funny how many mail order brides end up realizing what losers they're married to and get the good old American divorce post haste. Women will always be women, and there is only one thing that ensures our power over men. We can say all the pretty, intelligent things we want, but it isn't our minds (...and Zelda chuckles evilly, maniacally, and at great length).

However, floating in the cesspool of bitterness, resentment and sexual frustration, there were a few turds of truth.

"Traditional marriage balances different privileges and obligations for men and women.

Traditional Western culture balanced special privileges for women with special obligations, and the same for men.

Equality states that no one get special privileges, and that responsibilities and rights should be equally shared.

Either system is balanced and fair.

The problem with modern Western culture is that many women want only the positives from both systems:

They want special privileges from the traditional system (men paying, being "gentlemen" by using special deferential manners and language to women, being the main breadwinner, etc) but not the old-fashioned obligations (being modest and ladylike, being a housewife, etc).

They want the positives of equality (rights, equal access to work and education, etc) without the responsibilities (paying your own way financially a full 50% for life, taking risks with no safety net, and taking your lumps without complaint like men do...not expecting to be protected or sheltered from harsh reality, etc)."

I rearranged some of the paragraphs for the sake of clarity, but the words are all theirs.

This whole article frightened me somewhat. I see my some of my friends behaving in this way, and I get all uppity about it, but then I always start to assess my own marriage just to make sure I'm not being a big fucking hypocrite. I'm kind of a stickler for fairness. I don't want to take advantage of anyone, yet I'm not exactly an equalist when it comes to my marriage. I wouldn't call myself a traditionalist either. I think I'll start off by being totally honest. Good things first:

1. I never deny sex to get my way.

2. Money has never been my first focus, or even a terribly high priority.

3. I don't just love Jethro, I genuinely like him.

4. I'd never want a nanny.

5. I'm reasonably intelligent, a decent conversationalist, and mildly amusing when I'm not being totally inappropriate.

Bad Things:

1. I am a terrible housekeeper.

2. I have no ambition.

3. I have sex sometimes in the hope that it will get me my way. Actually, if I were to be totally accurate, I would have to say that I try to use the sex that I've already had to get my way.

4. I get distracted easily. This accounts for both #s 1 and 5.

5. I am a terrible housekeeper. And I hope Jethro makes enough money someday that we can afford a housekeeper a couple of days a week.

There. My best and worst marital qualities.

I have to say in my own defense, I would rather spend time with Jeth and the kids than do housework. It's never done, and if I were to spend all my time taking care of it, I'd never have another conversation, or play another song, or eat another piece of pizza, which has, incidentally, ruined my diet. I'm going to be mythical if I don't quit eating so much.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Actually, I'm pretty much through. It's been cathartic. Yet somehow, I think it was dangerous to start with the red state, blue state shit and then post bad things about myself. I'm asking for trouble. Oh well. Trouble and I have long been aquaintences. I'm trying to phase him out, but he's quite persistent.

I could ramble on for hours, but I'm going to pack it in. I have to wake up early to give the little 'uns a bath. The youngest has wet the bed and I am faced with the moral and ethical dilemma of either waking them up in the middle of the night to bathe them and change the sheets ensuring a most unpleasant time trying to rouse them on the morrow, or letting them sleep in pee pee and bathe them in the morning. Tough call. I know.

Gwennie and Emma Funnies

That rap music has really filtered too far down the school ladder. Gwennie asked Jethro the other day, "Daddy, what does 'rhyming' mean?"

Jethro said, "It's when two words sound alike."

She said, "Like 'ho' rhymes with 'toe'?"

"Where did you hear those words?"

"And 'yo' rhymes with 'ho'? "

Gulp? I have no idea where she heard that. Jeth and I don't listen to a whole lot of hip hop. And the stuff we do listen to isn't exactly filled with yo's and ho's. I'm not upset about it because she said 'ho,' but I'm kind of concerned that I have no idea where she heard it. Maybe she was just picking random words. I just hope she doesn't figure out what rhymes with 'pink', 'tigger', 'flick', 'speedo', or 'light revel'. She can already swear like a professional.

Now that I've (hopefully) offended everyone at least somewhat equally.....

Emma was changing her clothes yesterday. Right in the middle of the process, she ran up to me and said, IIIIIIIIIIIIIII'M NAKED! I guess you had to be there, but it was really cute. She has been staying home with me lately, and I've enjoyed having her around. The older one is wildly entertaining, but she's very demanding. Emma is way more easy-going.

New Topic

Haiku:

While looking at porn
Jethro caught me and queried,
"Are you having fun?"

If You Missed It.....

...too bad. It means you need to come read my blog more often. I think something is wrong with the cool comments. The comments and audioblogger, apparently in a conspiracy to frustrate me to levels unseen since the presidential election, have decided to thwart my blog and render it incapacitated while both are active.

Refer to comments for a description of what was missed.

The Sound And The Fury

This is why I am up at 3am. Somehow, he never saves the best ones for when I'm trying to record proof of the sound. But I have been known to kick him in my fury.

Most of the time I am left staring off into space like a madwoman with wide, dry, bloodshot eyes, hoping against futile hope that cessation of all sound will not mean the death by asphyxiation of my dearest love.