We had a great weekend. Jethro and I went to Crawford, TX home of George W. Bush for a Support the Troops rally. It was cool and I'll post some pics on Payasita as soon as I can find my camera.
I realize how many people didn't get to to read the post I took down, so if you are interested, send me an email and I will send you the post.
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I am in such limbo. Jethro is nearly done with school and then we have nothing but opportunity. Perhaps it is a good thing he is graduating in December. The weather will be cooler and I won't be as tempted to move to Alaska. Because the weather is HOT. I've never seen it this relentless. It has been in the hundreds for days now and it's too hot to swim. I swear when I get my pool, I'm going to put in a cooling pump instead of a heating pump. Either that or I'm going to dump blocks of ice in it.
This is the pool I want. Perhaps a little less Tiki, but this more or less has the features I'm looking for. Notice the slide over the waterfall. I want that. The only other thing I could want would be a diving board, but I would forego it for the pool bar, because what would I rather do, dive or drink? I think we all know the answer to that.
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Jethro called me into the room the other day to look at his laptop. No that isn't sexual innuendo.
A billing page was up and filled out. Gwennie had been trying to purchase something. She had filled out the billing information almost perfectly. If she'd had our credit card numbers, the stuff might have actually gotten here. We went back to see what she was trying to buy. The little stinker had purchased over $250 worth of Dora toys and bedding and accessories. And even worse than that, the child actually discriminated. She had looked at many more items, but only added certain things to her shopping cart. Jethro and I had a belly laugh over it and then decided to have a talk with our little shopaholic.
Jethro: "You know these things cost money, don't you?"
Gwendolyn: "Yes, but..."
Jethro: "How did you think you were going to pay for all that stuff?"
Gwendolyn: "Well..."
Jethro: "Do you have a job?"
Gwendolyn: "No, but..."
Jethro: "Do you have any money at all?"
Gwendolyn: "No, but you do."
I think birthdays spoil her.
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Emma pretends to be a little dog named Ruffie. She'll pant and bark and if you ask her her name, she'll say "Ruffie" in a puppy voice.
The cutest is when you tell her to wag her tail. Her little tushy starts wiggling really fast. But you have to look out because if she gets too close, she'll lick your face.
Sometimes I just love my kids.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Friday, August 26, 2005
Thanks
Thanks for the comments. I had to take the post down. It was getting a little too dangerous to leave up, and I ended up accidentally insulting someone I think of rather highly.
The older I get, the more I realize how much of a compromise life is. There is no perfect. If there were, we'd live in a communist utopia. There is no perfect. But there is good. I guess understanding that and making things better little by little, despite the imperfections is better than whipping yourself into a frenzy and dragging everyone down until they are as miserable as you are.
I am stuck with what I know. There is no changing that and there is no right or wrong thing for me to do because I'm not the one who did the wrong thing. Maybe I should take stock of the situation and become a better daughter, mother, wife, sister, friend. Maybe instead of ranting and getting upset I should look around and see if there is a way to relieve someone else's burden and find little ways to prevent them from making these collossal life-shattering mistakes. I try to be an example. I honestly want everyone to be as happy as I am, but I end up looking smug. And I hate that.
There really isn't a point to this, I'm pretty much just taking inventory. Maybe something funny will happen later.
The older I get, the more I realize how much of a compromise life is. There is no perfect. If there were, we'd live in a communist utopia. There is no perfect. But there is good. I guess understanding that and making things better little by little, despite the imperfections is better than whipping yourself into a frenzy and dragging everyone down until they are as miserable as you are.
I am stuck with what I know. There is no changing that and there is no right or wrong thing for me to do because I'm not the one who did the wrong thing. Maybe I should take stock of the situation and become a better daughter, mother, wife, sister, friend. Maybe instead of ranting and getting upset I should look around and see if there is a way to relieve someone else's burden and find little ways to prevent them from making these collossal life-shattering mistakes. I try to be an example. I honestly want everyone to be as happy as I am, but I end up looking smug. And I hate that.
There really isn't a point to this, I'm pretty much just taking inventory. Maybe something funny will happen later.
The World Tilted
I can only leave this post up for a few hours. I'm afraid my sister reads this blog and I don't want my family to know what I'm about to say. I may repost this over at Brighton's later, if she still says it's ok.
Where to start. I check my stepdad's email for work. We get a lot of leads off the internet, so I have to moniter it closely. Yesterday I came across a strange email that I very nearly deleted as a porn-site solicitation. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was actually addressed to my stepdad and was from a woman with whom he'd quite recently had close physical contact. The world tilted sideways. I called Jethro in to read it, just in case I was totally missing something that made it innocent. Of course I wasn't. I looked at my stepdad's schedule and saw he had blocked out half the day with a client who didn't speak English and was trying to buy a cheap foreclosure in which to live. I know he would never spend that much time with a client such as that, but if I hadn't read the email, I doubt I would have given it much thought.
I called my step-dad and told him we needed to talk and that it was urgent. He said he would call me after his meeting. I said okay. I called him back and said, "Before you do anything you may regret, please talk to me first."
His appointment, which was supposed to take the rest of the day, only took an hour. He came to get me. I brought a copy of the email.
I didn't beat around the bush. He asked me if I wanted an explanation. I said that would be a start.
Without going into too much family history, my stepdad knew her and her husband a long time ago. They also have eight children. They are about to leave for a mission in Honduras (they're "missionaries" if you can believe it). The woman's husband is already down there. Stepdad had been trying to help them find a place to rent while they were here. He said he had a "moment of weakness" the day before, but he realized that it was stupid and foolish and it could not continue. He also insisted he had never had sex with her.
I believe he didn't have sex with her because her email intimated they had not. Yet. I told him that I loved him like a father, but my loyalty was to my mother. If I thought there was a chance he could give her an STD, I would have to tell her immediately, but as it stood, I couldn't bear to bring her world crashing down.
So that is where it stands. I told him that I would be keeping a close eye out. Other than that, I caved like the complete chicken-shit I am. I can't tell my mom. It would devastate her and the thought makes me physically ill. My poor mom has had so much to deal with in her life that to add this is the most nightmarish scenario. But I know she would want to know - or at least I know she'd think she would want to know.
I was awake most of the night debating with myself as to what would be the most honorable thing to do. I still don't know, but I contented myself with sending this email:
(names have been changed to protect the mother-fucking guilty)
Dear Vile Whore,
I am writing you to tell you that I know what went on between you and step-dad the other day. I have no wish to cause anyone pain, particularly step-dad's wife who has had quite enough for one person to deal with in a lifetime. But I don't hesitate to say that should you ever even attempt to communicate with step-dad again, I will take great personal satisfaction in exposing you to her, your husband, your family, your church, and your mission as the foul, unchristian, beastly slut that you are. I have a copy of your emails as well as all of your contact information. DO NOT TEST ME.
I don't usually use unchristian as an insult. It just doesn't seem insulting enough. But in this case it's warranted. Those morons actually had the nerve to talk about "the Lord" and "praying" in their adulterous emails to each other. They make me sick. Wasn't there a little commandment somewhere about not committing adultery? I seem to recall something Jesus said "But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart." I know this because I spent a lot of time squirming in discomfort while priests used it to discuss the evils of masturbation.
And yet stepdad and this whore have the nerve to prance around Jesus' name as if that will justify what they do.
I am a Christian. A Catholic. I believe in Jesus. I believe we will be held accountable for our sins and/or crimes against others. I believe we have His forgiveness if we are truly sorry. But this Cult of Presumption to which my stepdad and this bitch seem to belong just blows my mind.
Perhaps I'm just naive. Perhaps I truly see humanity as being capable of loyalty and fidelity and honor. And maybe that is too high a standard. I admit to being a carnal animal but within a certain set of rules and promises. This is for the protection of our hearts as well as our health. But perhaps this is not enough for some people. Perhaps they will always put hearts at risk for that one blissful, forbidden moment. But is tonguing some whore while her husband is away really worth tearing an innocent person's life to pieces over? Is it?
Where to start. I check my stepdad's email for work. We get a lot of leads off the internet, so I have to moniter it closely. Yesterday I came across a strange email that I very nearly deleted as a porn-site solicitation. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was actually addressed to my stepdad and was from a woman with whom he'd quite recently had close physical contact. The world tilted sideways. I called Jethro in to read it, just in case I was totally missing something that made it innocent. Of course I wasn't. I looked at my stepdad's schedule and saw he had blocked out half the day with a client who didn't speak English and was trying to buy a cheap foreclosure in which to live. I know he would never spend that much time with a client such as that, but if I hadn't read the email, I doubt I would have given it much thought.
I called my step-dad and told him we needed to talk and that it was urgent. He said he would call me after his meeting. I said okay. I called him back and said, "Before you do anything you may regret, please talk to me first."
His appointment, which was supposed to take the rest of the day, only took an hour. He came to get me. I brought a copy of the email.
I didn't beat around the bush. He asked me if I wanted an explanation. I said that would be a start.
Without going into too much family history, my stepdad knew her and her husband a long time ago. They also have eight children. They are about to leave for a mission in Honduras (they're "missionaries" if you can believe it). The woman's husband is already down there. Stepdad had been trying to help them find a place to rent while they were here. He said he had a "moment of weakness" the day before, but he realized that it was stupid and foolish and it could not continue. He also insisted he had never had sex with her.
I believe he didn't have sex with her because her email intimated they had not. Yet. I told him that I loved him like a father, but my loyalty was to my mother. If I thought there was a chance he could give her an STD, I would have to tell her immediately, but as it stood, I couldn't bear to bring her world crashing down.
So that is where it stands. I told him that I would be keeping a close eye out. Other than that, I caved like the complete chicken-shit I am. I can't tell my mom. It would devastate her and the thought makes me physically ill. My poor mom has had so much to deal with in her life that to add this is the most nightmarish scenario. But I know she would want to know - or at least I know she'd think she would want to know.
I was awake most of the night debating with myself as to what would be the most honorable thing to do. I still don't know, but I contented myself with sending this email:
(names have been changed to protect the mother-fucking guilty)
Dear Vile Whore,
I am writing you to tell you that I know what went on between you and step-dad the other day. I have no wish to cause anyone pain, particularly step-dad's wife who has had quite enough for one person to deal with in a lifetime. But I don't hesitate to say that should you ever even attempt to communicate with step-dad again, I will take great personal satisfaction in exposing you to her, your husband, your family, your church, and your mission as the foul, unchristian, beastly slut that you are. I have a copy of your emails as well as all of your contact information. DO NOT TEST ME.
I don't usually use unchristian as an insult. It just doesn't seem insulting enough. But in this case it's warranted. Those morons actually had the nerve to talk about "the Lord" and "praying" in their adulterous emails to each other. They make me sick. Wasn't there a little commandment somewhere about not committing adultery? I seem to recall something Jesus said "But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart." I know this because I spent a lot of time squirming in discomfort while priests used it to discuss the evils of masturbation.
And yet stepdad and this whore have the nerve to prance around Jesus' name as if that will justify what they do.
I am a Christian. A Catholic. I believe in Jesus. I believe we will be held accountable for our sins and/or crimes against others. I believe we have His forgiveness if we are truly sorry. But this Cult of Presumption to which my stepdad and this bitch seem to belong just blows my mind.
Perhaps I'm just naive. Perhaps I truly see humanity as being capable of loyalty and fidelity and honor. And maybe that is too high a standard. I admit to being a carnal animal but within a certain set of rules and promises. This is for the protection of our hearts as well as our health. But perhaps this is not enough for some people. Perhaps they will always put hearts at risk for that one blissful, forbidden moment. But is tonguing some whore while her husband is away really worth tearing an innocent person's life to pieces over? Is it?
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Vive Le Voyeur
I am seriously considering getting breast reduction surgery. They are driving me crazy. I was a very active person until they reached DDs when I was about 15. Then some idiotic male on my church softball team made a lewd comment and I quit all sports right then and there. But I have a competetive nature and would love to play sports again even if it's just frisbee in the park.
And bras are almost impossible to find. I have to go to UK web stores to find any lingerie that isn't the battle-ready-Grandma-Beulah type. For all the business savvy that U.S. companies supposedly posess, it's the Brits who have realized that breast sizes can be larger than a D cup. What really blows my mind is that in U.S. bra sizes, you can find A, B, C, and D cups with bands sizes of 60, 70, 80 inches around.
If this is really indicative of the population at large, and you have to assume that U.S manufacturers know where the money is, we are a country populated by humongous women with small breasts. And that's just disgusting.
If your stomach extends past your bosoms, you have to lose weight. Immediately. Fortunately for me, my boobs are so big that I will be 400lbs before my stomach extends past them, but that's just pure luck.
Back to the reduction. If I get it done, I will post nekkid before and after pics. Angi just has to promise to lock up TJ.
And bras are almost impossible to find. I have to go to UK web stores to find any lingerie that isn't the battle-ready-Grandma-Beulah type. For all the business savvy that U.S. companies supposedly posess, it's the Brits who have realized that breast sizes can be larger than a D cup. What really blows my mind is that in U.S. bra sizes, you can find A, B, C, and D cups with bands sizes of 60, 70, 80 inches around.
If this is really indicative of the population at large, and you have to assume that U.S manufacturers know where the money is, we are a country populated by humongous women with small breasts. And that's just disgusting.
If your stomach extends past your bosoms, you have to lose weight. Immediately. Fortunately for me, my boobs are so big that I will be 400lbs before my stomach extends past them, but that's just pure luck.
Back to the reduction. If I get it done, I will post nekkid before and after pics. Angi just has to promise to lock up TJ.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Defense
I was reading this post and it got me thinking about my true and honest opinions of law enforcement. I won't lie when I say that I went through a phase of being very critical of cops. I thought they were smug, hypocritical, and had way too much confidence in their own authority.
These impressions were never dispelled, at least by any particular incident. Jethro ran into some really nasty, racist constables who made our lives a nightmare for quite a while before they were proven to be liars.
Another time, some loser, flying on what I imagine was PCP or some other drug that would allow you to kick your leg through leaded glass and run away unscathed, smashed in my parents door when Jeth and I were babysitting my sisters while my parents were in Hawaii. I was eight months pregnant with Gwennie at the time. The cops actually pulled over the friends who had picked the guy up. My sister said she saw him get into the car. The cops let them go and the guy was never caught.
I've gotten two tickets that they seemed to be only too proficient at writing.
They haven't gotten the two cocksuckers who robbed Carrie and me.
So I would think that I have reason to not think highly of cops, at least in our area. But I do. They unequivocally have my support.
One of the reasons is that they really had our backs at the Protest Warrior events. We were outnumbered by some very riled up pacifists who were not happy to know that there were people out there whose opinions diverged from theirs'. The cops took great care to make sure we weren't injured and to inform the "pacifists" that they did not hold the patent on free speech. And even though they disagreed strongly with the "pacifists" politically, the cops took every effort and precaution to keep them safe as well - rerouting traffic so the little bicycling anarchists and the arthritic hippies didn't get hit by those big, bad environment killers known as SUVs.
Even at the time when I held my worst opinions of cops, I've always been willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. I've always been willing to say that their job is more difficult than most and certainly not one that I would want to do. I've cut them slack in that regard. I've even been willing to say that you can't judge a whole profession based on the actions of a few.
But what sealed the deal for me - when I knew where the chips fell (when they were down) - was when I called my stolen cell phone and the gutter-sludge, who had robbed a pregnant woman to get it, answered and asked, "You callin' the PO-leese?"
And I thought, "Yes, you cocksucking swine, I am."
These impressions were never dispelled, at least by any particular incident. Jethro ran into some really nasty, racist constables who made our lives a nightmare for quite a while before they were proven to be liars.
Another time, some loser, flying on what I imagine was PCP or some other drug that would allow you to kick your leg through leaded glass and run away unscathed, smashed in my parents door when Jeth and I were babysitting my sisters while my parents were in Hawaii. I was eight months pregnant with Gwennie at the time. The cops actually pulled over the friends who had picked the guy up. My sister said she saw him get into the car. The cops let them go and the guy was never caught.
I've gotten two tickets that they seemed to be only too proficient at writing.
They haven't gotten the two cocksuckers who robbed Carrie and me.
So I would think that I have reason to not think highly of cops, at least in our area. But I do. They unequivocally have my support.
One of the reasons is that they really had our backs at the Protest Warrior events. We were outnumbered by some very riled up pacifists who were not happy to know that there were people out there whose opinions diverged from theirs'. The cops took great care to make sure we weren't injured and to inform the "pacifists" that they did not hold the patent on free speech. And even though they disagreed strongly with the "pacifists" politically, the cops took every effort and precaution to keep them safe as well - rerouting traffic so the little bicycling anarchists and the arthritic hippies didn't get hit by those big, bad environment killers known as SUVs.
Even at the time when I held my worst opinions of cops, I've always been willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. I've always been willing to say that their job is more difficult than most and certainly not one that I would want to do. I've cut them slack in that regard. I've even been willing to say that you can't judge a whole profession based on the actions of a few.
But what sealed the deal for me - when I knew where the chips fell (when they were down) - was when I called my stolen cell phone and the gutter-sludge, who had robbed a pregnant woman to get it, answered and asked, "You callin' the PO-leese?"
And I thought, "Yes, you cocksucking swine, I am."
Monday, August 22, 2005
The Asian Market
It is hotter than fuck outside. Yesterday was as bad as I've ever seen it. It had to have been 105 and it was humid and there was no breeze at all.
Our friends asked us if we wanted to go eat dim sum with them and I can't ever turn it down, so we did. We went to Ocean Palace which is a huge restaurant at one end of an Asian mall. It used to be great, but I don't think I'll ever go back there again. The service was terrible - even for an Asian restaurant. It was overpriced and the dim sum was mediocre. I'll stick to Kim Son (where we took Inanna) from now on. It's a little pricier, but it's closer to home and their dim sum is way better.
The up side was that we got to wander around the mall. Jethro is completely unimpressed with it because he has been there since he was a kid. I, on the other hand, am always fascinated because there are things there for which I have absolutely no explanation. Each shop is packed to overflow with almost nothing but crap. There is no order to it. They get their shipments in from Asia and just dump them directly onto the floor. This is pure heaven for kids who glory in the digging and scraping, and the unorganized mind which is grateful for the liberation. I admit to taking a certain relish in it, myself. Jethro, being a meticulous sort, prefers to wait patiently while the girls and I start digging.
I said the girls could buy one Hello Kitty item each. After much destruction that was unnoticeable when we left, Gwennie had picked out Hello Kitty gardening tools, and Emma had a Hello Kitty night light that lit up when it was turned on, and glowed in the dark when it was turned off.
I wasn't going to get them anything else, but I saw these three good little girls walk past us with the most adorable parasols. One was blue, the other pink and the other purple. They looked so sweet and dainty that I had instant images of Gwennie and Emma looking similarly picturesque. We found the shop where they sold the parasols. They were pretty cheap - $4 each. Gwennie demanded the pink one, and told Emma she was going to take the purple one. Emma tried to take the pink one and Gwennie stabbed her a little. So much for the chrubs with parasols.
Then we meandered around the grocery store. It smells like ass. They were playing Country Roads over the intercom. I couldn't tell at first if was the regular old-school version or if the Asians had adapted it to their own particular audial frequency. I asked Jethro who said they hadn't and if they had, he wouldn't be the one to admit it.
We didn't do much else. Any major effort on our parts would have resulted in massive ammounts of sweat oozing from our pores, soaking us from hair to soles of feet. Then we would have slipped in the sweat puddles and broken our skulls. But I did get my balls. And they were good.
Our friends asked us if we wanted to go eat dim sum with them and I can't ever turn it down, so we did. We went to Ocean Palace which is a huge restaurant at one end of an Asian mall. It used to be great, but I don't think I'll ever go back there again. The service was terrible - even for an Asian restaurant. It was overpriced and the dim sum was mediocre. I'll stick to Kim Son (where we took Inanna) from now on. It's a little pricier, but it's closer to home and their dim sum is way better.
The up side was that we got to wander around the mall. Jethro is completely unimpressed with it because he has been there since he was a kid. I, on the other hand, am always fascinated because there are things there for which I have absolutely no explanation. Each shop is packed to overflow with almost nothing but crap. There is no order to it. They get their shipments in from Asia and just dump them directly onto the floor. This is pure heaven for kids who glory in the digging and scraping, and the unorganized mind which is grateful for the liberation. I admit to taking a certain relish in it, myself. Jethro, being a meticulous sort, prefers to wait patiently while the girls and I start digging.
I said the girls could buy one Hello Kitty item each. After much destruction that was unnoticeable when we left, Gwennie had picked out Hello Kitty gardening tools, and Emma had a Hello Kitty night light that lit up when it was turned on, and glowed in the dark when it was turned off.
I wasn't going to get them anything else, but I saw these three good little girls walk past us with the most adorable parasols. One was blue, the other pink and the other purple. They looked so sweet and dainty that I had instant images of Gwennie and Emma looking similarly picturesque. We found the shop where they sold the parasols. They were pretty cheap - $4 each. Gwennie demanded the pink one, and told Emma she was going to take the purple one. Emma tried to take the pink one and Gwennie stabbed her a little. So much for the chrubs with parasols.
Then we meandered around the grocery store. It smells like ass. They were playing Country Roads over the intercom. I couldn't tell at first if was the regular old-school version or if the Asians had adapted it to their own particular audial frequency. I asked Jethro who said they hadn't and if they had, he wouldn't be the one to admit it.
We didn't do much else. Any major effort on our parts would have resulted in massive ammounts of sweat oozing from our pores, soaking us from hair to soles of feet. Then we would have slipped in the sweat puddles and broken our skulls. But I did get my balls. And they were good.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Funny Client
We have a client who sounds exactly like Milton Waddams from Office Space. He is a meek little white man and he is married to screaming shrew of a Saudi-bitch-princess-wife. She is such an imperious cunt that I find myself grasping the whole burqa concept. This couple is in financial trouble and must downsize immediately. Although the MeekMan will never say it, his wife spent him into the poorhouse.
He's been calling me 2-3 times a day with increasing desperation to ask about various homes they might want to buy.
His criteria is less than 200K.
Her criteria is a brand-new, 3000 square foot home as close to Bellaire (a very high priced neighborhood) as possible, with a deck, pool, open floor plan, designated rooms, and with as few neighbors as possible.
Guess who isn't going to get his way?
He called this afternoon. His bitch-wife was screaming in the background. The poor man was so flustered he couldn't even tell me who it was (although I already knew)>
Zelda: "Dearest step-father's office, may I help you?"
Bitch-Wife( in background with a shrill Saudi accent): AND I DON'T WANT ANY NI**ERS NEAR MY HOME!!! YOU CAN LIVE WITH THEM SINCE YOU LOVE THEM SO MUCH BUT I WILL CUT OFF YOUR TESTICLES AND FEED THEM TO THE CAMEL IF YOU THINK I AM GOING TO SET FOOT IN A PLACE LIKE THAT!!!! I NEVER SHOULD HAVE MARRIED YOU, YOU FAILURE!!! YOU ARE A WORTHLESS ASS WHO CAN'T AFFORD SHOES!!!
MeekMan: "Oh dear...ahem...why won't she stop...oh dear...I can't think...um...this is...um...I need some information on...oh dear..ahem...why won't she just be...ahem...quiet..."
(At this point, I'm just trying not to let him hear me laugh. But my jocularity must not be confused with insensitivity. It's just that I was waiting for him to say..."and there were these squirrels...and they were married...and I said I would burn down the bulding...)
Meekman (FINALLY): "This is...ahem...Meekman...I was...ahem...looking for some...information...on this home...and she just won't let me be..."
It takes the man longer and longer each time he calls to ask for the information he needs. I'm actually afraid that he is going to off himself. The bitch has totally sapped his will to live. The sad thing is that he used to be quite successful. He was a corporate attorney for an oil company. His wife was the daughter of one of his company's clients. They met at a company party. It was the beginning of his demise.
Marry carefully, Friends.
He's been calling me 2-3 times a day with increasing desperation to ask about various homes they might want to buy.
His criteria is less than 200K.
Her criteria is a brand-new, 3000 square foot home as close to Bellaire (a very high priced neighborhood) as possible, with a deck, pool, open floor plan, designated rooms, and with as few neighbors as possible.
Guess who isn't going to get his way?
He called this afternoon. His bitch-wife was screaming in the background. The poor man was so flustered he couldn't even tell me who it was (although I already knew)>
Zelda: "Dearest step-father's office, may I help you?"
Bitch-Wife( in background with a shrill Saudi accent): AND I DON'T WANT ANY NI**ERS NEAR MY HOME!!! YOU CAN LIVE WITH THEM SINCE YOU LOVE THEM SO MUCH BUT I WILL CUT OFF YOUR TESTICLES AND FEED THEM TO THE CAMEL IF YOU THINK I AM GOING TO SET FOOT IN A PLACE LIKE THAT!!!! I NEVER SHOULD HAVE MARRIED YOU, YOU FAILURE!!! YOU ARE A WORTHLESS ASS WHO CAN'T AFFORD SHOES!!!
MeekMan: "Oh dear...ahem...why won't she stop...oh dear...I can't think...um...this is...um...I need some information on...oh dear..ahem...why won't she just be...ahem...quiet..."
(At this point, I'm just trying not to let him hear me laugh. But my jocularity must not be confused with insensitivity. It's just that I was waiting for him to say..."and there were these squirrels...and they were married...and I said I would burn down the bulding...)
Meekman (FINALLY): "This is...ahem...Meekman...I was...ahem...looking for some...information...on this home...and she just won't let me be..."
It takes the man longer and longer each time he calls to ask for the information he needs. I'm actually afraid that he is going to off himself. The bitch has totally sapped his will to live. The sad thing is that he used to be quite successful. He was a corporate attorney for an oil company. His wife was the daughter of one of his company's clients. They met at a company party. It was the beginning of his demise.
Marry carefully, Friends.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
A Fast Ride
I had been feeling antsy all morning. Nervous, wired, and nauseous. I told Jethro that afternoon that he was going to take me to the mall to buy a toe ring. I told him if I was going to be spending hours in a bed staring at nothing but my toes, I needed a toe ring. Jethro, having pretty much lost the will to live by that point, meekly agreed.
I was tired of being pregnant. Even though I was 5 days from my due date, I was sick of it already. I had thrown up to the point where I had gone from a healthy 160 lbs down to 130 when I was 9 mos pregnant. I thought a trip to the mall was in order, if for no other reason than to get things moving.
I bought my toe ring and some stuff from Bath and Body Works, leaving Jethro wondering where on earth his tomboy of a wife had gone and what fiendish girly-demon had replaced her. I then proceeded to march around the mall twice. I say march, but it was more like sway from side to side. I was carrying too high to waddle, so my walk looked more like that of someone who was trying to balance a stack of cups on their forehead.
Nothing happened at the mall. Disappointed, we drove home. Jethro said, "Let's get the hospital bag ready just in case."
"Why?" I asked. "It's not like anything is going to happen. I'm going to be the first pregnant woman to remain so indefinitely." I wasn't exactly at my most rational.
"Even so," said Jethro, who was an expert at humoring me after 9 months of making his life a living hell. "I'm going to leave my keys right here on the TV just in case."
We laid down in bed and got busy. We were still newlyweds, but it was more for business than pleasure at that point.
I passed out around 11:00pm. Exactly two hours later, I was awakend from a restless sleep by a pop and a swish. A rush of adrenaline propelled my elbow deep into Jethro's back.
"Jethro! My water broke!"
I do not exaggerate when I tell you this. Jethro sat straight up on his hands and thrust himself off the foot of the bed, landing with his feet on the floor with the car keys in his hand. It was as if he had planned it. He was waiting by the door while I got dressed as quickly as I could. I had one big contraction just after my water broke, but the next few weren't too bad.
We got in the car. I told Jethro to hurry. Jethro turned on his hazard lights and started speeding. For the first and only time in my life, I didn't tell him to slow down. The highway was deserted, but the hospital was about 40 minutes away. We made it in closer to 15.
We pulled up to the hospital doors, and the security guard held the door for us. "Good luck, folks," he called after us.
The ladies in the admitting room gave me lots of paperwork to fill out. This was the third time I had had to do this, and I was about to cry in frustration. The last time I filled it out, I made them promise me that I would't have to do it when I came in to have the baby. They lied.
I told them my water had broken and this probably wasn't the best time to fill out paperwork as their chair was now all soggy. They told me not to worry about it and I immediately began to worry about it.
I was lying on a bed when a nurse came in and began asking me questions. The cheapo maternity plan I was on allowed me to have an epidural if I wanted one. I wanted one. The nurse said, "Yeah, you definitely want one. It really really hurts if you don't." I was doubly sold.
After a bit, the doctor came in. He was a nice man. He asked the standard questions, then snapped on his rubber glove and said he's see how far I was dialated. In went a speculum, fingers and a flashlight. Then, SWEET MOTHER OF FUCKING PAIN!!!
I yelled, the doctor yelled, and then everything went crazy. I heard the doctor shouting for the nurses, "SHE'S COMPLETE! ALL I CAN SEE IS THE BABY'S HAIR! GET HER TO THE OR NOW!"
"Oh sweet Jesus," I thought. "I'm so so fucked. I'm not ready. I thought I'd have a few hours to get psyched. This is like a dry-fuck only way fucking worse." Then a worse thought struck.
"Ma'am?" I said to one of the nurses wheeling me into the OR. "I'm not gonna get my epidural, am I?"
She didn't break it to me gently either.
They were wheeling me at a breakneck pace down the hall. "I need my husband! Jeth! Jeth!"
We paused by the waiting room to collect a clueless Jethro. "What's going on?"
"She's complete."
"How many centimeters is she?"
"10. It's time to go."
I began to panic at that point. I told them I wasn't ready and that I didn't want to do it. They told me I really didn't have a say in the matter.
They handed one of my legs to Jethro and someone else had another. I heard my voice reach higher and higher decibals. I think it eroded my tonsils. I was pretty sure this was the end. No one else seemed to think so, and I cursed them unintelligably, but thoroughly. I think I got my point across. I'll spare the goriest details, but in exchange for cheapo maternity care, 25 medical students ended up witnessing them. I'm still irritated by that.
After 17 minutes, each one distinct in its own exquisite agony, Gwennie was born. I will never forget the second I saw her. It's one of those moments made perfect by the absense of fire. Her eyes were opened wide. Her arms were flailing wildly. She was more real than anything I had ever seen. I never counted her fingers or her toes. I knew they were all there.
"Oh my God!!! She's so cute!!! Is she OK? What's her Apgar score? Are you sure she's ok? She's blue!!! She's so cute!!! What's her Apgar score?" I was babbling like a crazy woman. They said her Apgar score was 7, then 9, which was just fine.
The baby nurses wrapped her up and handed her to Jethro since I was being sewn back to virginity by a retarded intern.
Jethro brought her over to me. I held her and looked at her. Her ears were huge and they stuck straight out and she was fussing. She looked like a pissed off elf and I loved her so much.
I didn't cry that night. Too much had happened and my brain kind of shut down for awhile. That could also have been due to the Vicodin, which I demanded with regularity since I hadn't gotten my precious epidural.
By the following day, I was ready to leave. I had just been visited by the lactation consultant, who was one crazy voodoo mama. All she was missing was the bone through her nose. After watching Gwennie make a little piggy out of herself, she declared me ready to proceed in her Jamaican accent.
I dressed Gwennie in her little nightgown and suddenly I was crying. I hugged her, pressing my cheek on her tiny hands and kissing her dear little face.
I sat with her the whole ride home. Jethro drove us back to the apartment as if the car were brand new, and so began our life together.
--------------------------
To Gwennie: I don't know whether you will ever read this blog. Maybe you will when I am dead (if the internet is still around then). But I want you to know that I love you so much. I don't think you will ever know how much. I love your stubborness, your ingenuity, your short-temper, your sweet nature, and your sense of humor. I won't let you get away with all of it, but I love it all. I want to keep your sweet little face pressed to mine forever, but I know you won't allow that.
I will always love you, little girl. Remember that when our opinions diverge. Two people as stubborn as we will butt heads pretty regularly. Just remember how much I love you when they're crashing together.
Happy Birthday, Kid.
Love,
Your Mom
I was tired of being pregnant. Even though I was 5 days from my due date, I was sick of it already. I had thrown up to the point where I had gone from a healthy 160 lbs down to 130 when I was 9 mos pregnant. I thought a trip to the mall was in order, if for no other reason than to get things moving.
I bought my toe ring and some stuff from Bath and Body Works, leaving Jethro wondering where on earth his tomboy of a wife had gone and what fiendish girly-demon had replaced her. I then proceeded to march around the mall twice. I say march, but it was more like sway from side to side. I was carrying too high to waddle, so my walk looked more like that of someone who was trying to balance a stack of cups on their forehead.
Nothing happened at the mall. Disappointed, we drove home. Jethro said, "Let's get the hospital bag ready just in case."
"Why?" I asked. "It's not like anything is going to happen. I'm going to be the first pregnant woman to remain so indefinitely." I wasn't exactly at my most rational.
"Even so," said Jethro, who was an expert at humoring me after 9 months of making his life a living hell. "I'm going to leave my keys right here on the TV just in case."
We laid down in bed and got busy. We were still newlyweds, but it was more for business than pleasure at that point.
I passed out around 11:00pm. Exactly two hours later, I was awakend from a restless sleep by a pop and a swish. A rush of adrenaline propelled my elbow deep into Jethro's back.
"Jethro! My water broke!"
I do not exaggerate when I tell you this. Jethro sat straight up on his hands and thrust himself off the foot of the bed, landing with his feet on the floor with the car keys in his hand. It was as if he had planned it. He was waiting by the door while I got dressed as quickly as I could. I had one big contraction just after my water broke, but the next few weren't too bad.
We got in the car. I told Jethro to hurry. Jethro turned on his hazard lights and started speeding. For the first and only time in my life, I didn't tell him to slow down. The highway was deserted, but the hospital was about 40 minutes away. We made it in closer to 15.
We pulled up to the hospital doors, and the security guard held the door for us. "Good luck, folks," he called after us.
The ladies in the admitting room gave me lots of paperwork to fill out. This was the third time I had had to do this, and I was about to cry in frustration. The last time I filled it out, I made them promise me that I would't have to do it when I came in to have the baby. They lied.
I told them my water had broken and this probably wasn't the best time to fill out paperwork as their chair was now all soggy. They told me not to worry about it and I immediately began to worry about it.
I was lying on a bed when a nurse came in and began asking me questions. The cheapo maternity plan I was on allowed me to have an epidural if I wanted one. I wanted one. The nurse said, "Yeah, you definitely want one. It really really hurts if you don't." I was doubly sold.
After a bit, the doctor came in. He was a nice man. He asked the standard questions, then snapped on his rubber glove and said he's see how far I was dialated. In went a speculum, fingers and a flashlight. Then, SWEET MOTHER OF FUCKING PAIN!!!
I yelled, the doctor yelled, and then everything went crazy. I heard the doctor shouting for the nurses, "SHE'S COMPLETE! ALL I CAN SEE IS THE BABY'S HAIR! GET HER TO THE OR NOW!"
"Oh sweet Jesus," I thought. "I'm so so fucked. I'm not ready. I thought I'd have a few hours to get psyched. This is like a dry-fuck only way fucking worse." Then a worse thought struck.
"Ma'am?" I said to one of the nurses wheeling me into the OR. "I'm not gonna get my epidural, am I?"
She didn't break it to me gently either.
They were wheeling me at a breakneck pace down the hall. "I need my husband! Jeth! Jeth!"
We paused by the waiting room to collect a clueless Jethro. "What's going on?"
"She's complete."
"How many centimeters is she?"
"10. It's time to go."
I began to panic at that point. I told them I wasn't ready and that I didn't want to do it. They told me I really didn't have a say in the matter.
They handed one of my legs to Jethro and someone else had another. I heard my voice reach higher and higher decibals. I think it eroded my tonsils. I was pretty sure this was the end. No one else seemed to think so, and I cursed them unintelligably, but thoroughly. I think I got my point across. I'll spare the goriest details, but in exchange for cheapo maternity care, 25 medical students ended up witnessing them. I'm still irritated by that.
After 17 minutes, each one distinct in its own exquisite agony, Gwennie was born. I will never forget the second I saw her. It's one of those moments made perfect by the absense of fire. Her eyes were opened wide. Her arms were flailing wildly. She was more real than anything I had ever seen. I never counted her fingers or her toes. I knew they were all there.
"Oh my God!!! She's so cute!!! Is she OK? What's her Apgar score? Are you sure she's ok? She's blue!!! She's so cute!!! What's her Apgar score?" I was babbling like a crazy woman. They said her Apgar score was 7, then 9, which was just fine.
The baby nurses wrapped her up and handed her to Jethro since I was being sewn back to virginity by a retarded intern.
Jethro brought her over to me. I held her and looked at her. Her ears were huge and they stuck straight out and she was fussing. She looked like a pissed off elf and I loved her so much.
I didn't cry that night. Too much had happened and my brain kind of shut down for awhile. That could also have been due to the Vicodin, which I demanded with regularity since I hadn't gotten my precious epidural.
By the following day, I was ready to leave. I had just been visited by the lactation consultant, who was one crazy voodoo mama. All she was missing was the bone through her nose. After watching Gwennie make a little piggy out of herself, she declared me ready to proceed in her Jamaican accent.
I dressed Gwennie in her little nightgown and suddenly I was crying. I hugged her, pressing my cheek on her tiny hands and kissing her dear little face.
I sat with her the whole ride home. Jethro drove us back to the apartment as if the car were brand new, and so began our life together.
--------------------------
To Gwennie: I don't know whether you will ever read this blog. Maybe you will when I am dead (if the internet is still around then). But I want you to know that I love you so much. I don't think you will ever know how much. I love your stubborness, your ingenuity, your short-temper, your sweet nature, and your sense of humor. I won't let you get away with all of it, but I love it all. I want to keep your sweet little face pressed to mine forever, but I know you won't allow that.
I will always love you, little girl. Remember that when our opinions diverge. Two people as stubborn as we will butt heads pretty regularly. Just remember how much I love you when they're crashing together.
Happy Birthday, Kid.
Love,
Your Mom
Monday, August 15, 2005
She Tied Him Up
Gwendolyn ties things up. That kid is better at knots than a boy scout troop leader. I find her toys tied to everything - the towel rack, my lamps, her bed, you name it. And she ties them with the strangest things, Jethro's tie being the least of them. I innocently walked into her bedroom to be confronted by Teddy Bear death row. Her bunk bed is a gallows with the corpses of her toys dangling over the side. And then to make it even stranger, she tied the American flag to the bedpost.
Here's the thing. I don't think she is killing them. I think she is saving them for later. I know that doesn't make sense, but I understand what she's doing because I used to do similar things. I just don't know how to translate the bootstrap logic of a 6 year old brain into adult language. It would sound dull and incoherent instead of vibrant and precise.
But she did the funniest thing. She made her own homeade talking teddy bear. I will try to describe it and you'll probably have to read the description a couple of times, but it will be worth it because at the end, someone ends up with a great big black hose up their ass.
She took her brown teddy bear, who for some reason wears underpants, and stuck a rubber hose belonging to an air pump up the back of the teddy bear's britches. She lashed the end that poked out to the teddy bear's neck with a piece of yellow string. She took hold of the other end of the hose, and thrust the teddy bear part into my hands.
"Squeeze it's tummy," she commanded.
She put her mouth to the free end, I squeezed the teddy bear's stomach, and an echoey sounding "Mama!" came out of the teddy bear's ass.
You do think she's smart, right? Borderline evil genius, maybe?
Here's the thing. I don't think she is killing them. I think she is saving them for later. I know that doesn't make sense, but I understand what she's doing because I used to do similar things. I just don't know how to translate the bootstrap logic of a 6 year old brain into adult language. It would sound dull and incoherent instead of vibrant and precise.
But she did the funniest thing. She made her own homeade talking teddy bear. I will try to describe it and you'll probably have to read the description a couple of times, but it will be worth it because at the end, someone ends up with a great big black hose up their ass.
She took her brown teddy bear, who for some reason wears underpants, and stuck a rubber hose belonging to an air pump up the back of the teddy bear's britches. She lashed the end that poked out to the teddy bear's neck with a piece of yellow string. She took hold of the other end of the hose, and thrust the teddy bear part into my hands.
"Squeeze it's tummy," she commanded.
She put her mouth to the free end, I squeezed the teddy bear's stomach, and an echoey sounding "Mama!" came out of the teddy bear's ass.
You do think she's smart, right? Borderline evil genius, maybe?
Friday, August 12, 2005
Hi and Stuff.
Payasita Updatate
----------------------------
So I'm feeling better. Whatever is itching in my face hasn't gone completely, but I think I've finished feeling like I want to tear it off, scratch the inside, then put it back on.
Perversely, the second I decide to take an official break from blogging, is when my fingers are somehow magnetically drawn to the keyboard and I just can't stay away. Simply pathetic.
----------------
I had to spank Gwennie today. Actually, I didn't spank her. I kicked her. She started it.
For justifications that only make sense in the head of Gwendolyn, she kicked her sister in the leg. So I kicked her in the leg. I felt badly, but she deserved it. I told her that whatever she did to Emma to make her cry, I was going to do to her. I told her to keep that thought in her head from now on. I even told her the ball was in her court and that "sorry," in this case, wasn't good enough. I sounded exactly like my dad which didn't send me into spasms of self-loathing. I was actually kind of proud. My dad had a way of getting results.
That's all I have. Everyone have a great weekend.
----------------------------
So I'm feeling better. Whatever is itching in my face hasn't gone completely, but I think I've finished feeling like I want to tear it off, scratch the inside, then put it back on.
Perversely, the second I decide to take an official break from blogging, is when my fingers are somehow magnetically drawn to the keyboard and I just can't stay away. Simply pathetic.
----------------
I had to spank Gwennie today. Actually, I didn't spank her. I kicked her. She started it.
For justifications that only make sense in the head of Gwendolyn, she kicked her sister in the leg. So I kicked her in the leg. I felt badly, but she deserved it. I told her that whatever she did to Emma to make her cry, I was going to do to her. I told her to keep that thought in her head from now on. I even told her the ball was in her court and that "sorry," in this case, wasn't good enough. I sounded exactly like my dad which didn't send me into spasms of self-loathing. I was actually kind of proud. My dad had a way of getting results.
That's all I have. Everyone have a great weekend.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Funny Blog
I haven't read a new blog in awhile, but I clicked on this guy last night and I'm still snickering in a very immature way. What? Do-do is funny. Masturbation is funny.
Not For the Faint of Heart or Prude of Mind.
*Update - He just got a Dear John email from a cheating fiancee. I can't be positive, but he may enjoy some internet pity-fucking if you're a single female and can convince him you're hot or at least willing.
Not For the Faint of Heart or Prude of Mind.
*Update - He just got a Dear John email from a cheating fiancee. I can't be positive, but he may enjoy some internet pity-fucking if you're a single female and can convince him you're hot or at least willing.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
WHAT GOES THROUGH JETHRO'S MIND AT 5:00am
Jethro (to himself): God, my penis is so huge. It's so huge it woke me up. How did it get so big? I can't keep this phenomenon to myself. It wouldn't be moral. But who is going to bear witness? I should probably awake my sick wife who so desperately needs sleep. She'd never forgive me if I were to deprive her of the massiveness. But how best to wake her? It's big enough to slap her around with it a little, but I don't want her to freak out and bite it. Also, getting some could be an option if this is done correctly. Getting some would not be an option if there is a chunk missing. I have an idea! What does she like? This may take a minute......Oh yeah, NIPPLES. Let's just get this t-shirt up here. Ahhhh - there we are."
*Suck, suck* *pinch, pinch*
"SCORE!!!!!!"
sexy interlude - insert porno music
"We are the champions, my frie..............*Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*"
Yes, my friends. I knocked him out without ever really waking up. I'm that fucking good.
*Suck, suck* *pinch, pinch*
"SCORE!!!!!!"
sexy interlude - insert porno music
"We are the champions, my frie..............*Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*"
Yes, my friends. I knocked him out without ever really waking up. I'm that fucking good.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Blog Break
I'm have some sort of weird allergy/ear infection - the docs can't figure out which. It feels like an earache that has travelled into my jaw and up into my scalp, but it's only on one side of my face. I've broken out in hives or some other kind of rash on that side of my face as well, and I'm taking antihistimines and antibiotics, neither of which seem to be doing anything. I'm in quite a bit of pain and 7 Motrin didn't make a dent in it. The only thing that seemed to give me any relief was acupuncture, but that only lasted for a few hours.
Since I can't seem to concentrate on anything but pain, I'm going to take a break until I feel better. I'll be visiting everyone 10 times a day simply to distract myself, so write about something cool. Tinyhands this means you.
Since I can't seem to concentrate on anything but pain, I'm going to take a break until I feel better. I'll be visiting everyone 10 times a day simply to distract myself, so write about something cool. Tinyhands this means you.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Brain Drippings
Jethro has a good post up about the Confederate flag which might make for an interesting discussion.
Absolutely nothing interesting is going on. I haven't even had sex. I keep trying to come up with something funny or fascinating, but I'm stuck. And speaking of feces, I was taking a dump the moment the Michael Jackson verdict was read. I realize it's old news now, but I had wanted to mention it and I forgot.
I took Gwennie and Emma to the store today and they were bad. Emma cried over everything and forgot her underwear. I'm still not sure how I missed that one. Gwennie was just plain bad, asking for every little thing and dragging her feet and her arms, knocking things off the shelves, hanging off the cart and slowing it down, and whining constantly. I wish we didn't live in a world where it is so wrong to swat your kid HARD across the bare tush in public. She knows I won't do it when there are people around, and she takes full advantage - even though she knows she's going to get it at home.
What else. My diet is not going well. Carmen Electra is still a stupid cunt. I think I may go back to school when Jethro is done. I know I swore to almighty Whatever that I wouldn't, but I can't resist the urge to get an expensive useless degree and talk down to the people I think need a talking down to.
I think if I'm actually going to get a useless degree, I should probably go whole hog and get the most pretentious, uppity, snot-filled degree there is. I've narrowed it down to some type of Literature or Art History, with the scales tipping to the latter. It's a subject I find fascinating ever since Rome, but it is an undeniable fact that if you speak about art, you are going to sound like a pseudo-intellectual who parade their snobbish, homosexual art friends as an apology for being white and straight.
Like wine drinkers. And it isn't fair. I like wine, but I deliberately remain ignorant of its intricacies because once you start becoming familiar with it, you end up sounding like a jerkoff whose only pleasure in life is telling people how smart he is, instead of someone who just wants to get laid, which is stupid too, but honest, at least, because it's pretty much the whole point of alcohol on all intellectual levels.
Like poets (and my apologies in advance to the poets among us - this is just personal bitching and if poetry gives you pleasure, I am truly happy for you). I find poetry to be the most useless genre to vent one's feelings. So much of the poetry I read is about feelings, or *shudder* one-dimensional social commentary. This isn't good poetry. Read Yates, or Auden, or Dylan Thomas, or even Robert Frost. I don't care for poetry, but they were good poets.
---------------------------------------
I just conducted a little experiment with Gwennie. When we were at the store yesterday, a young black man sold us some ice cream that he promised was really good. I was giving some to Gwennie just a few minutes ago and she said, "This is great. I guess that guy was right."
For no important reason, I wondered if his race would figure into her memory of him, so I said, "What guy?"
She said, "You know, the guy at the store!"
"What did he look like?"
She said, "Remember? He had a red hat and he had black curly hair, and brown skin, and he was wearing a red shirt with a white tie."
Somehow, I feel satisfied with Gwennie's answer.
Absolutely nothing interesting is going on. I haven't even had sex. I keep trying to come up with something funny or fascinating, but I'm stuck. And speaking of feces, I was taking a dump the moment the Michael Jackson verdict was read. I realize it's old news now, but I had wanted to mention it and I forgot.
I took Gwennie and Emma to the store today and they were bad. Emma cried over everything and forgot her underwear. I'm still not sure how I missed that one. Gwennie was just plain bad, asking for every little thing and dragging her feet and her arms, knocking things off the shelves, hanging off the cart and slowing it down, and whining constantly. I wish we didn't live in a world where it is so wrong to swat your kid HARD across the bare tush in public. She knows I won't do it when there are people around, and she takes full advantage - even though she knows she's going to get it at home.
What else. My diet is not going well. Carmen Electra is still a stupid cunt. I think I may go back to school when Jethro is done. I know I swore to almighty Whatever that I wouldn't, but I can't resist the urge to get an expensive useless degree and talk down to the people I think need a talking down to.
I think if I'm actually going to get a useless degree, I should probably go whole hog and get the most pretentious, uppity, snot-filled degree there is. I've narrowed it down to some type of Literature or Art History, with the scales tipping to the latter. It's a subject I find fascinating ever since Rome, but it is an undeniable fact that if you speak about art, you are going to sound like a pseudo-intellectual who parade their snobbish, homosexual art friends as an apology for being white and straight.
Like wine drinkers. And it isn't fair. I like wine, but I deliberately remain ignorant of its intricacies because once you start becoming familiar with it, you end up sounding like a jerkoff whose only pleasure in life is telling people how smart he is, instead of someone who just wants to get laid, which is stupid too, but honest, at least, because it's pretty much the whole point of alcohol on all intellectual levels.
Like poets (and my apologies in advance to the poets among us - this is just personal bitching and if poetry gives you pleasure, I am truly happy for you). I find poetry to be the most useless genre to vent one's feelings. So much of the poetry I read is about feelings, or *shudder* one-dimensional social commentary. This isn't good poetry. Read Yates, or Auden, or Dylan Thomas, or even Robert Frost. I don't care for poetry, but they were good poets.
---------------------------------------
I just conducted a little experiment with Gwennie. When we were at the store yesterday, a young black man sold us some ice cream that he promised was really good. I was giving some to Gwennie just a few minutes ago and she said, "This is great. I guess that guy was right."
For no important reason, I wondered if his race would figure into her memory of him, so I said, "What guy?"
She said, "You know, the guy at the store!"
"What did he look like?"
She said, "Remember? He had a red hat and he had black curly hair, and brown skin, and he was wearing a red shirt with a white tie."
Somehow, I feel satisfied with Gwennie's answer.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Hidden Message
This was our friend who spewed all ovah himself. There is another picture floating around depicting his head in a trashcan and the waitress he loves posing with him. I arranged that little set up, and I proudly consider it one of my better pranks. Almost as good as the time I pierced some guy's gay ear while he was passed out. I'm a mean little fucker on occasion.
I'm taking a page out of Tinyhand's book and making a hidden message. Let me know if you see it, but be subtle for Pete's sake. You can use mine and Jethro's S&M safe word, which is legitimate. No really. It is actually 'legitimate.'
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
Loan Officers
In the real estate business, we are in constant need of loan officers. You may think they are a dime a dozen, but good ones are few and far between. So far, in fact, that I haven't actually met one yet. You can make a lot of money at it with virtually no overhead, but the job is so tedious that most loan officers are driven to other lines of work within 6 months. The ones that stick with it are driven to self-destructive insanity.
Case in point: Not long ago, I referred my friend Jen to a loan officer whom I will call Crazy M. This lady had been begging me for leads for quite some time. My boss/stepdad had stopped using her, but I just figured he'd worked out a deal with someone else. So I referred her to Jen, my own personal friend.
They spoke and I thought everything was golden until I got a call from Jen a few weeks later. She had been asking Crazy M for a pre-qualification letter, which is simply a letter stating how much you might potentially be approved for. It is pretty much a useless piece of paper, but when you go out looking for homes, people want to see it. Jen, being the type of person who likes all her dicks in a row, wanted the letter on hand. It takes about 1.5 minutes to write up, but Crazy M kept putting her off. I told her I would give her a call.
Crazy M: Hello
Zelda: Hi there Crazy M. It's Zelda. Hey, I was wondering if you could get a pre-qual letter to Jen, I think she's going to start going to open houses.
Crazy M: I already told her what she was qualified for and that she doesn't need a letter.
Zelda: But she would like a letter and she's been asking you for one and you've been putting her off.
Crazy M: I told her what she was qualified for. She doesn't need a letter. She needs to have a contract on a house before I can write her a letter.
Side note here: This is not true. I receive these letters from other loan officers for other clients almost every day.
Zelda: No she doesn't.
Crazy M: YOU are not a licensed loan officer. You wouldn't know.
Zelda: I get them every day.
Crazy M: No you don't.
Zelda: I don't know what your problem is. I refer a personal friend of mine to you and this is the service they get?
Crazy M: Why are you giving me an attitude? I'm going to tell your dad. You aren't a licensed loan officer. You don't know what you're talking about.
Zelda: That's good. Keep being insulting. I am never going to refer another client to you again.
And I hung up.
I called my stepdad just to make sure I wasn't in some twilight zone where loan officers didn't write pre-quals. He said she was a psycho and actually laughed when I told him what I had said to her.
Crazy M called Jen and bitched at her. I don't know the exact details of the conversation, but it was weird, apparently.
Crazy M called me back about 5 minutes after that as sweet a pie, saying she wasn't sure about how this misunderstanding occurred and she values my stepdad's and my business relationship and how she had always given great service in the past. I set the phone down and blogged for a bit while she talked.
She finally sent the pre-qual letter which looked just like every other pre-qual letter. But what a crazy bitch! It was like birthing cacti to get it.
This behavior isn't actually uncommon. Male loan officers are actually much worse. I knew one once who sabotaged his client's loan and subsequently his real estate transaction so that he could purchase the property himself. I wanted to break his teeth just on principle. Perhaps I have an overdeveloped sense of justice.
But the personal lives of loan officers are what is really fascinating. For the married gentlemen, the job tedium and easy money manifests itself in spectacular mid-life crises complete with swinging and/or extremely gaudy and public adulterous affairs, then custody battles. For the single gentlemen loan officers, it is manifested in complete debauchery and the purchase of Hummers, flat-screen TVs and drunk women.
Lady loan officers are tamer, but go no less crazy as evidenced above.
And you'd think you'd feel sorry for the spouses of these loons. But chances are they are just as greedy and debauched, but too lazy to do anything more than leech off their partners.
I have pondered the question of why they are the way they are, and I've decided that this is the unfortunate consequence of teaching crackers mathematics.
Case in point: Not long ago, I referred my friend Jen to a loan officer whom I will call Crazy M. This lady had been begging me for leads for quite some time. My boss/stepdad had stopped using her, but I just figured he'd worked out a deal with someone else. So I referred her to Jen, my own personal friend.
They spoke and I thought everything was golden until I got a call from Jen a few weeks later. She had been asking Crazy M for a pre-qualification letter, which is simply a letter stating how much you might potentially be approved for. It is pretty much a useless piece of paper, but when you go out looking for homes, people want to see it. Jen, being the type of person who likes all her dicks in a row, wanted the letter on hand. It takes about 1.5 minutes to write up, but Crazy M kept putting her off. I told her I would give her a call.
Crazy M: Hello
Zelda: Hi there Crazy M. It's Zelda. Hey, I was wondering if you could get a pre-qual letter to Jen, I think she's going to start going to open houses.
Crazy M: I already told her what she was qualified for and that she doesn't need a letter.
Zelda: But she would like a letter and she's been asking you for one and you've been putting her off.
Crazy M: I told her what she was qualified for. She doesn't need a letter. She needs to have a contract on a house before I can write her a letter.
Side note here: This is not true. I receive these letters from other loan officers for other clients almost every day.
Zelda: No she doesn't.
Crazy M: YOU are not a licensed loan officer. You wouldn't know.
Zelda: I get them every day.
Crazy M: No you don't.
Zelda: I don't know what your problem is. I refer a personal friend of mine to you and this is the service they get?
Crazy M: Why are you giving me an attitude? I'm going to tell your dad. You aren't a licensed loan officer. You don't know what you're talking about.
Zelda: That's good. Keep being insulting. I am never going to refer another client to you again.
And I hung up.
I called my stepdad just to make sure I wasn't in some twilight zone where loan officers didn't write pre-quals. He said she was a psycho and actually laughed when I told him what I had said to her.
Crazy M called Jen and bitched at her. I don't know the exact details of the conversation, but it was weird, apparently.
Crazy M called me back about 5 minutes after that as sweet a pie, saying she wasn't sure about how this misunderstanding occurred and she values my stepdad's and my business relationship and how she had always given great service in the past. I set the phone down and blogged for a bit while she talked.
She finally sent the pre-qual letter which looked just like every other pre-qual letter. But what a crazy bitch! It was like birthing cacti to get it.
This behavior isn't actually uncommon. Male loan officers are actually much worse. I knew one once who sabotaged his client's loan and subsequently his real estate transaction so that he could purchase the property himself. I wanted to break his teeth just on principle. Perhaps I have an overdeveloped sense of justice.
But the personal lives of loan officers are what is really fascinating. For the married gentlemen, the job tedium and easy money manifests itself in spectacular mid-life crises complete with swinging and/or extremely gaudy and public adulterous affairs, then custody battles. For the single gentlemen loan officers, it is manifested in complete debauchery and the purchase of Hummers, flat-screen TVs and drunk women.
Lady loan officers are tamer, but go no less crazy as evidenced above.
And you'd think you'd feel sorry for the spouses of these loons. But chances are they are just as greedy and debauched, but too lazy to do anything more than leech off their partners.
I have pondered the question of why they are the way they are, and I've decided that this is the unfortunate consequence of teaching crackers mathematics.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Coochie Coochie Coo!
Is it bad form to insist that your husband impregnate you while you're in the middle of intercourse? I don't know what came over me. One minute it's really hot and I'm saying things like, "You like to grab my tits while you fuck me, don't you?" Then the next, it's still hot, but I'm giving him reasons why he should ditch the fucking raincoat and knock me the fuck up - complete with a schedule including his graduation date and possibly renting out the house.
Jethro, ever the trooper when faced with the unforeseen, panted out the reasons why we shouldn't be considering this right now, and valiantly completed his sworn duty.
He's right, of course. But I want another baby. Really bad. So does Gwennie. She insists to everyone that she is going to have a baby brother and we will call him Jack. I hope she won't be disappointed when I call him Lucien. She and Emma take their baby dolls with them everywhere. They don't have bottles for them, but Gwennie, the Macgyver, improvised using the mixers to a hand blender. I feel poor, but I think that is always the best time to have another baby.
-----------------------------------
Speaking of poor, we are broke. Flat-busted broke. We have no money at all. I was thinking of setting up a paypal account to see if anyone wanted to donate to my vibrator fund and then secretly use it to pay bills, but that would be dishonest, and somehow I don't think anyone would contribute to anyone who is about to be a doctor's wife. Such is life.
Before I was aware of how poor we were, Jethro and I (on my recommendation) took the family out to Steak Kountry Buffet. This place was filled to overflow with senior citizens and the working poor, yet the cost was $9.00 per person. Jethro seemed skeptical, but I reasoned that if the poor were paying $9.00 per person, it was probably pretty fucking good. And it was. When I can whore enough money together (and by that I mean working for the Man), we'll go back.
Jethro, ever the trooper when faced with the unforeseen, panted out the reasons why we shouldn't be considering this right now, and valiantly completed his sworn duty.
He's right, of course. But I want another baby. Really bad. So does Gwennie. She insists to everyone that she is going to have a baby brother and we will call him Jack. I hope she won't be disappointed when I call him Lucien. She and Emma take their baby dolls with them everywhere. They don't have bottles for them, but Gwennie, the Macgyver, improvised using the mixers to a hand blender. I feel poor, but I think that is always the best time to have another baby.
-----------------------------------
Speaking of poor, we are broke. Flat-busted broke. We have no money at all. I was thinking of setting up a paypal account to see if anyone wanted to donate to my vibrator fund and then secretly use it to pay bills, but that would be dishonest, and somehow I don't think anyone would contribute to anyone who is about to be a doctor's wife. Such is life.
Before I was aware of how poor we were, Jethro and I (on my recommendation) took the family out to Steak Kountry Buffet. This place was filled to overflow with senior citizens and the working poor, yet the cost was $9.00 per person. Jethro seemed skeptical, but I reasoned that if the poor were paying $9.00 per person, it was probably pretty fucking good. And it was. When I can whore enough money together (and by that I mean working for the Man), we'll go back.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Does Wayne Brady Hafta Choke A Bitch?
I received an email today from a woman looking for property whose email address contained the word "bitch." I almost deleted it. Yes, I very nearly discriminated. And I'll tell you why. If you refer to yourself as that in any capacity, I am going to assume that either a) you are unprofessional or b) you really are a bitch. In either case, I don't want to work with you.
Not being independently wealthy however, I can't afford to go around deleting leads no matter how odious they seem. But it isn't a good way to begin a business relationship.
I'm going to be brutally honest. I hate it when women embrace their inner bitch.
What in hell gives anyone the right to inflict their inner beast on the rest of the world? We hate it when men call women bitches, so why should women prove the fucking point?
I have a theory. I think Feminism is passe. I think we've won. I think we've gotten everything the law will allow, and now it's time to pack up the charred remains of our supportive undergarments and go home.
If a man treats you badly, move the fuck on. If men treat you badly, you better quit dating and take a hard look at yourself and the type of man to which you gravitate. But don't act like the entire male gender is to blame for your shortcomings and don't think for a second that if you call yourself a bitch you will be viewed as a tough, empowered woman instead being taken directly at your word.
Not being independently wealthy however, I can't afford to go around deleting leads no matter how odious they seem. But it isn't a good way to begin a business relationship.
I'm going to be brutally honest. I hate it when women embrace their inner bitch.
What in hell gives anyone the right to inflict their inner beast on the rest of the world? We hate it when men call women bitches, so why should women prove the fucking point?
I have a theory. I think Feminism is passe. I think we've won. I think we've gotten everything the law will allow, and now it's time to pack up the charred remains of our supportive undergarments and go home.
If a man treats you badly, move the fuck on. If men treat you badly, you better quit dating and take a hard look at yourself and the type of man to which you gravitate. But don't act like the entire male gender is to blame for your shortcomings and don't think for a second that if you call yourself a bitch you will be viewed as a tough, empowered woman instead being taken directly at your word.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
I think there is something wrong with my vibrator. It's starting to make noises like an airplane. Nothing to interrupt a good O like a jet landing on your clit.
Not that that deterred Jethro. An actual jet landing on the bed couldn't deter Jethro.
-----------------------
I'm just skulking around blogworld today waiting to see if Steve the Sex Addict (and one fastidious bastard) will decide to lick a woman's pussy. My bet is that he will if it means he'll get laid. For all his pretentions, he'd sleep in garbage for a week if he was assured of getting laid by a fairly hot woman every night. If you are a woman on the make, he's the man for you. Just don't fall in love with him. He is my one guilt in blogworld - the source of my biggest hypocrisy. I flamed him once. I'm no pussy, I left my name and blogsite, but I told him what a jerk I thought he was. And now I can't stop reading him. I don't care if he is a jerk. I don't care if he fucks every stupid woman on the planet. I must face facts. I am addicted to the addict.
-------------------------
UPDATE: Payasita Update: Argument with Chip Pitts of Amnesty International
Not that that deterred Jethro. An actual jet landing on the bed couldn't deter Jethro.
-----------------------
I'm just skulking around blogworld today waiting to see if Steve the Sex Addict (and one fastidious bastard) will decide to lick a woman's pussy. My bet is that he will if it means he'll get laid. For all his pretentions, he'd sleep in garbage for a week if he was assured of getting laid by a fairly hot woman every night. If you are a woman on the make, he's the man for you. Just don't fall in love with him. He is my one guilt in blogworld - the source of my biggest hypocrisy. I flamed him once. I'm no pussy, I left my name and blogsite, but I told him what a jerk I thought he was. And now I can't stop reading him. I don't care if he is a jerk. I don't care if he fucks every stupid woman on the planet. I must face facts. I am addicted to the addict.
-------------------------
UPDATE: Payasita Update: Argument with Chip Pitts of Amnesty International
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
I Hate Real Estate
I detest real estate. More specifically, I detest the people involved in real estate.
When your agent tells you to take an offer, it is probably wise to listen to him. Case in point, our clients are selling their house and asking $255,000, net. It is worth $248,000. Someone offered $250,000. They refused to sell. By the time they realized that they had made a little mistake, the offer was off the table. Now they are having trouble selling the house because new construction just started in the area and no one wants to buy their shitty old house when they could buy a brand new house. Instead of humbly apologizing for not taking the offer after it was most strenuously recommended by us, these money-grubbing morons call me every day to ask if there is another one. Believe me. If there was they'd be the first to know. They want to do an open house now and I detest, loathe and despise open houses and the people who want them. Instead of pricing your house correctly for a quick, easy sale, it's much better to open it up for any asshole to come in and case it correctly for a quick, easy robbery.
We have another client named Schlomo. That's right. His name is a cross between schlong and homo. And it suits him. He has 2 homes for lease with us which he has priced $300 a month to high. After a prolonged period of calling every day to see if his beloved houses have leased yet, a miracle occurs and someone actually wants one of his shitboxes. After checking their credit, which was not perfect but still decent and their monthly income which was 6 times the amount of rent, Schlomo decides they're too high a risk and won't lease to them unless they pay $200 more in rent, and double the security deposit. The applicants are offended as you can imagine and quite predictably tell us to stick it. Schlomo, despite having been effectively told that they wouldn't rent his home if it meant the difference between a long life and a painful death, sees fit to call twice a day to ask if they have "made a decision." I am running out of ways to tell him that he has a better chance of finding a sperm at a NOW rally.
And my last beef is with my boss, i.e. stepfather. I love the man dearly, but he is the biggest chicken-shit. He always leaves the dirty work to me.
"Zelda, would you call the Smiths and tell them that the offer fell through?"
"Zelda, would you call the Joneses and tell them that their loan fell through?"
"Zelda, would you call the Jacksons and tell them their house caught fire and that their insurance was not up to date and their collection of Picasso's was still inside?"
I suppose this is what I get paid for, but I don't want to do it anymore. I'm burnt out and tired and annoyed. I want to quit working and just take care of the house and feed the kids on time and go work-out and get hot like the Stepford wife I was born to imitate.
When your agent tells you to take an offer, it is probably wise to listen to him. Case in point, our clients are selling their house and asking $255,000, net. It is worth $248,000. Someone offered $250,000. They refused to sell. By the time they realized that they had made a little mistake, the offer was off the table. Now they are having trouble selling the house because new construction just started in the area and no one wants to buy their shitty old house when they could buy a brand new house. Instead of humbly apologizing for not taking the offer after it was most strenuously recommended by us, these money-grubbing morons call me every day to ask if there is another one. Believe me. If there was they'd be the first to know. They want to do an open house now and I detest, loathe and despise open houses and the people who want them. Instead of pricing your house correctly for a quick, easy sale, it's much better to open it up for any asshole to come in and case it correctly for a quick, easy robbery.
We have another client named Schlomo. That's right. His name is a cross between schlong and homo. And it suits him. He has 2 homes for lease with us which he has priced $300 a month to high. After a prolonged period of calling every day to see if his beloved houses have leased yet, a miracle occurs and someone actually wants one of his shitboxes. After checking their credit, which was not perfect but still decent and their monthly income which was 6 times the amount of rent, Schlomo decides they're too high a risk and won't lease to them unless they pay $200 more in rent, and double the security deposit. The applicants are offended as you can imagine and quite predictably tell us to stick it. Schlomo, despite having been effectively told that they wouldn't rent his home if it meant the difference between a long life and a painful death, sees fit to call twice a day to ask if they have "made a decision." I am running out of ways to tell him that he has a better chance of finding a sperm at a NOW rally.
And my last beef is with my boss, i.e. stepfather. I love the man dearly, but he is the biggest chicken-shit. He always leaves the dirty work to me.
"Zelda, would you call the Smiths and tell them that the offer fell through?"
"Zelda, would you call the Joneses and tell them that their loan fell through?"
"Zelda, would you call the Jacksons and tell them their house caught fire and that their insurance was not up to date and their collection of Picasso's was still inside?"
I suppose this is what I get paid for, but I don't want to do it anymore. I'm burnt out and tired and annoyed. I want to quit working and just take care of the house and feed the kids on time and go work-out and get hot like the Stepford wife I was born to imitate.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Nut Cleavage
Not safe for work or kids.
This is how I feel right about now. There is so much about which I am unable to write at this time that I'm going a little nuts, no pun intended. (Okay, pun intended). I didn't realize how much I relied on blogging to relieve stress. It isn't that I always write about what is giving me grief, but I always know that I can if I want. Now that I can't it has rendered me a bit sluggish. Still, I hope to be back to posting regularly in the next day or so.
This post strikes me as having way to much constipation innuendo.
This is how I feel right about now. There is so much about which I am unable to write at this time that I'm going a little nuts, no pun intended. (Okay, pun intended). I didn't realize how much I relied on blogging to relieve stress. It isn't that I always write about what is giving me grief, but I always know that I can if I want. Now that I can't it has rendered me a bit sluggish. Still, I hope to be back to posting regularly in the next day or so.
This post strikes me as having way to much constipation innuendo.
Monday, July 04, 2005
HAPPY 4th OF JULY!!!
Payasita Update - Moonbat sightings and trouncings.
We are going to be gone this weekend. My parents have decided to spend their hard-earned money pretending they're rich down in Galveston. July is birthday month in my family with 3 sisters and my mother all sharing it. In a rare fit of generosity, they have booked Jeth, the girls, and me a room at the San Luis Resort and Spa - arguably the most opulent hotel on the island - to celebrate the 4th and all the birthdays. I intend to completely relax and drink until I liquefy. Hopefully my sisters will be down and no one will be on their period.
I'm trying to think if anything funny has happened lately. Or a good ball joke. Nothing is coming to mind. Only to mouth it seems.
"Jethro, quit it."
(He's wiggling).
--------------------------------------------
I was taking out the trash the other day, when I noticed one of Jethro's neckties cut in half.
Zelda: "What the hell is this?"
Gwennie: "Actually, that was my fault, and I'm very sorry about that, but Daddy already spanked me because I lied about it."
Zelda (tears forming in an effort not to laugh): "Oh. Okay then."
I seriously don't know what to do with that kid. She is such a smart-ass. She is so extremely hyperactive. And I'm not just saying that. I'll grab her as she flies past, hellbent on some new destruction. I'll hold her little face in my hands and look her in the eyes, begging her to calm down. She says, "Okay, Mommy," and I see her try so hard, but she is so charged I can feel her buzzing as she waits for me to release her. I really think this is beyond her control, and I don't know what to do. I can't keep my eye on her all day because I have work to do, but she destroys the house if left alone. I don't want to medicate her. There are aspects of her personality that I just can't live without. But I don't want her to suffer through school either.
Emma, on the other hand, had a rare "little shit" moment soon after the tie incident. I walked into the bathroom to discover it covered in baby powder. It coated the mirror, the sink, the bathtub, the toilet and was laid out an inch thick all over the bathroom floor. Emma had white hair, a white skirt that had formerly been dark blue denim, and a white nose that looked a little coked (if you know what I mean).
"What is going ON?" I screamed.
Emma looked at me, the picture of innocence, with powder falling from her eyelashes as she blinked them in sincerety.
"Gwennie did it."
We are going to be gone this weekend. My parents have decided to spend their hard-earned money pretending they're rich down in Galveston. July is birthday month in my family with 3 sisters and my mother all sharing it. In a rare fit of generosity, they have booked Jeth, the girls, and me a room at the San Luis Resort and Spa - arguably the most opulent hotel on the island - to celebrate the 4th and all the birthdays. I intend to completely relax and drink until I liquefy. Hopefully my sisters will be down and no one will be on their period.
I'm trying to think if anything funny has happened lately. Or a good ball joke. Nothing is coming to mind. Only to mouth it seems.
"Jethro, quit it."
(He's wiggling).
--------------------------------------------
I was taking out the trash the other day, when I noticed one of Jethro's neckties cut in half.
Zelda: "What the hell is this?"
Gwennie: "Actually, that was my fault, and I'm very sorry about that, but Daddy already spanked me because I lied about it."
Zelda (tears forming in an effort not to laugh): "Oh. Okay then."
I seriously don't know what to do with that kid. She is such a smart-ass. She is so extremely hyperactive. And I'm not just saying that. I'll grab her as she flies past, hellbent on some new destruction. I'll hold her little face in my hands and look her in the eyes, begging her to calm down. She says, "Okay, Mommy," and I see her try so hard, but she is so charged I can feel her buzzing as she waits for me to release her. I really think this is beyond her control, and I don't know what to do. I can't keep my eye on her all day because I have work to do, but she destroys the house if left alone. I don't want to medicate her. There are aspects of her personality that I just can't live without. But I don't want her to suffer through school either.
Emma, on the other hand, had a rare "little shit" moment soon after the tie incident. I walked into the bathroom to discover it covered in baby powder. It coated the mirror, the sink, the bathtub, the toilet and was laid out an inch thick all over the bathroom floor. Emma had white hair, a white skirt that had formerly been dark blue denim, and a white nose that looked a little coked (if you know what I mean).
"What is going ON?" I screamed.
Emma looked at me, the picture of innocence, with powder falling from her eyelashes as she blinked them in sincerety.
"Gwennie did it."
Sunday, June 26, 2005
The Tea Snob
The Sparkling Glitter Rainbow Pony has good things to say regarding guns, carrying guns, and shooting fleeing suspects in the back with guns. His opinions are mine when I'm not frothing mad at a society which won't acknowledge the community in which these cocksuckers exist, much less do anything useful to quell the tide of violence within said community for reasons either blindly ignorant or politically correct.
That being said, I'm bored with the subject.
Jethro and I went to the Houston Galleria today. I haven't been there in years. I used to go in high school quite regularly, but then I decided that only rich, snobby brats went there and that I was much happier in plaid shirts.
I've taken Gwennie and Emma there once, and I think I went there for something wedding related, but I was pregnant and too sick to care at all. But the Galleria is beautiful and it's one of the few places I don't people-watch simply because of the aesthetics.
Since we have our friend visiting, we decided that the Galleria would be a worthwhile trip since she likes malls. After buying makeup at Sephora, we wandered into a tea shop. It is morbidly hot in Houston, and I thought something cold and tea like might relieve me of the ever-present threat of heat stroke. I asked the languid young man behind the counter for one of the specialty drinks they had advertised in a big above the bar.
Zelda: May I have the Minty Icy Green Tea Drink which you display so prominently on your sign?
Tea Snob (with utmost contempt and without hint of an apology): No. I can't make the Minty Icy Green Tea Drink, The Fruity Frozen Drink, the Cotton Candy Tea Surprise, the.....
Zelda: Fine. What do you recommend that one can drink over ice and that doesn't have or need a lot of sugar?
Tea Snob: Try the white tea with honeydew. All those other drinks are crap anyway.
Zelda: Wrap it up, Tea Boy.
As the Tea Snob was brewing up my tea, a gentleman came in and ordered the Bubble Tea which contained tapioca balls.
Tea Snob (with a roll of his eyes): I can't make Bubble Tea. We have no tapioca.
Zelda (unable, as always, to resist a ball joke): What? You have no balls?
Tea Snob: Thank you for pointing that out. No, I do not have any balls.
Zelda: Too bad. I generally like balls.
I paid for my drink and walked out, utterly content with my white tea with honeydew and double entendre.
That being said, I'm bored with the subject.
Jethro and I went to the Houston Galleria today. I haven't been there in years. I used to go in high school quite regularly, but then I decided that only rich, snobby brats went there and that I was much happier in plaid shirts.
I've taken Gwennie and Emma there once, and I think I went there for something wedding related, but I was pregnant and too sick to care at all. But the Galleria is beautiful and it's one of the few places I don't people-watch simply because of the aesthetics.
Since we have our friend visiting, we decided that the Galleria would be a worthwhile trip since she likes malls. After buying makeup at Sephora, we wandered into a tea shop. It is morbidly hot in Houston, and I thought something cold and tea like might relieve me of the ever-present threat of heat stroke. I asked the languid young man behind the counter for one of the specialty drinks they had advertised in a big above the bar.
Zelda: May I have the Minty Icy Green Tea Drink which you display so prominently on your sign?
Tea Snob (with utmost contempt and without hint of an apology): No. I can't make the Minty Icy Green Tea Drink, The Fruity Frozen Drink, the Cotton Candy Tea Surprise, the.....
Zelda: Fine. What do you recommend that one can drink over ice and that doesn't have or need a lot of sugar?
Tea Snob: Try the white tea with honeydew. All those other drinks are crap anyway.
Zelda: Wrap it up, Tea Boy.
As the Tea Snob was brewing up my tea, a gentleman came in and ordered the Bubble Tea which contained tapioca balls.
Tea Snob (with a roll of his eyes): I can't make Bubble Tea. We have no tapioca.
Zelda (unable, as always, to resist a ball joke): What? You have no balls?
Tea Snob: Thank you for pointing that out. No, I do not have any balls.
Zelda: Too bad. I generally like balls.
I paid for my drink and walked out, utterly content with my white tea with honeydew and double entendre.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Everything is Fine
Thank you all so much for the kind thoughts and the castration wishes. They were appreciated more than I know how to say, and they really livened up what was a terrible day.
The PO-leese haven't caught them, and I doubt they will. I'm not afraid of them, though. Jethro has a great big gun, and I saw how fast he whipped it out - of a combination safe. They don't have a prayer if they enter this house, and of that I am absolutely confident.
Which brings me to where I believe the comments were heading.
The police officer informed Carrie and I that, had we possessed a weapon, we could have shot them in the back as they were escaping with our property.
Now I know the standard commie/liberal/government dependent/ball-less argument that a skanky purse and a cell phone are not worth taking someone's life over. I used to agree. But now I don't.
I heard those cocksuckers laughing on the phone at their big bad heist of a PREGNANT WOMAN. They will know no remorse and probably no justice for their actions. And they will do it again. For the thrill. And when the thrill of scaring people lessens, they will kill someone.
Anyone who is able to rob a PREGNANT WOMAN for a few dollars and a couple of pantyliners is capable of anything. And their escaping justice only emboldens them and others who might not have been so willing. The PO-leese, while helpful and reassuring, cannot be everywhere at once. They are not the only ones responsible for your protection. You, and you alone are responsible for your own safety, and yes, even the safety of others.
And I believe this means having the courage to shoot someone in the back for taking your purse.
The PO-leese haven't caught them, and I doubt they will. I'm not afraid of them, though. Jethro has a great big gun, and I saw how fast he whipped it out - of a combination safe. They don't have a prayer if they enter this house, and of that I am absolutely confident.
Which brings me to where I believe the comments were heading.
The police officer informed Carrie and I that, had we possessed a weapon, we could have shot them in the back as they were escaping with our property.
Now I know the standard commie/liberal/government dependent/ball-less argument that a skanky purse and a cell phone are not worth taking someone's life over. I used to agree. But now I don't.
I heard those cocksuckers laughing on the phone at their big bad heist of a PREGNANT WOMAN. They will know no remorse and probably no justice for their actions. And they will do it again. For the thrill. And when the thrill of scaring people lessens, they will kill someone.
Anyone who is able to rob a PREGNANT WOMAN for a few dollars and a couple of pantyliners is capable of anything. And their escaping justice only emboldens them and others who might not have been so willing. The PO-leese, while helpful and reassuring, cannot be everywhere at once. They are not the only ones responsible for your protection. You, and you alone are responsible for your own safety, and yes, even the safety of others.
And I believe this means having the courage to shoot someone in the back for taking your purse.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
I don't really know how to title this post. My friend Carrie, who is 6 months pregnant, and I were robbed by two men with guns in my driveway. It happened just over an hour ago.
I like to shop at Walmart late at night. It's quiet, and the white-trash, fat-trucks are at a minimum. It is, however, a very stupid idea as three young black men can follow you home in their stolen shit-mobile, and drop off two of them who will come running up with bandanas and guns demanding your purses.
I wasn't even scared. *Update: One was wearing a blue bandana over his face, and the other was wearing a red one. I thought briefly (and insanely) that the Crips and the Bloods must have merged.* But I just wanted them to leave Carrie alone. If she hadn't been pregnant, the self-preservation fear instinct might have kicked in harder, but I just calmly reached into my car and got my purse and handed it over. I said, "Take it, take it, it's cool, just take it."
Then they ran away.
They made off with about $20 in cash, our cell phones, a few Advil Sinuses, some make-up, our i.d.'s, bank cards (which they never got to use), and a jar of rubber cement (don't ask).
All in all, I don't think it was worth losing your manhood over. I mean really. Robbing a pregnant girl? These animals have real balls.
After they ran off, I ran into the house screaming for Jethro, who was asleep. Poor guy thought they were in the house and grabbed that gun faster than I have ever seen. If they'd actually been in the house, they'd have gotten it right between the eyes.
I called 911 and the police showed up pretty quickly. They took our descriptions of the armed robbers, took inventory of what was in our purses, and put out a call for everyone to be on the lookout. The officer stayed with us awhile and he was very nice and friendly. He said to try calling my cellphone - that sometimes they were stupid and would answer it. I said I would and then I asked him what to say if they answered.
He said, "Just tell them you need your phone back and you'll pay them for it and try to arrange a meeting place."
It sounded like a plan, so I called.
The dumbass answered.
Zelda: "You have my phone and I need it back."
SN: "Oh heeeeell no."
Zelda: "I'll pay you. It has a lot of numbers on there that I need."
SN: "How much?"
Zelda (pulling a number out of her ass): "$500."
SN: "You callin' the PO-leese?
Zelda: "The cops can't do shit and I need my goddam phone."
(Police officer cracks up)
Zelda: "Meet me at the McDonald's on H______
SN: "Oh heeeeeell no. You gonna bring the PO-leese."
Zelda: "Fine. Where do you want to meet?"
SN (shuffling noises, discussion, and idiot giggling in the background): S________ and R_______. Don't bring no PO-leese. We know where you live and we got guns."
Zelda: "I know you do." (Fuckers) "When?"
SN: "Right now. Don't you bring no gun. We'll kill you."
Zelda: "Fine."
I relayed all the information to the PO who relayed it to the others in the area. Maybe they'll find them and maybe they won't. The good thing is that we are all safe and nothing of any real value was taken. Except for some used pantyliners Carrie was carrying in her purse (don't ask). Bet that was a surprise. I hope they're Muslim.
I like to shop at Walmart late at night. It's quiet, and the white-trash, fat-trucks are at a minimum. It is, however, a very stupid idea as three young black men can follow you home in their stolen shit-mobile, and drop off two of them who will come running up with bandanas and guns demanding your purses.
I wasn't even scared. *Update: One was wearing a blue bandana over his face, and the other was wearing a red one. I thought briefly (and insanely) that the Crips and the Bloods must have merged.* But I just wanted them to leave Carrie alone. If she hadn't been pregnant, the self-preservation fear instinct might have kicked in harder, but I just calmly reached into my car and got my purse and handed it over. I said, "Take it, take it, it's cool, just take it."
Then they ran away.
They made off with about $20 in cash, our cell phones, a few Advil Sinuses, some make-up, our i.d.'s, bank cards (which they never got to use), and a jar of rubber cement (don't ask).
All in all, I don't think it was worth losing your manhood over. I mean really. Robbing a pregnant girl? These animals have real balls.
After they ran off, I ran into the house screaming for Jethro, who was asleep. Poor guy thought they were in the house and grabbed that gun faster than I have ever seen. If they'd actually been in the house, they'd have gotten it right between the eyes.
I called 911 and the police showed up pretty quickly. They took our descriptions of the armed robbers, took inventory of what was in our purses, and put out a call for everyone to be on the lookout. The officer stayed with us awhile and he was very nice and friendly. He said to try calling my cellphone - that sometimes they were stupid and would answer it. I said I would and then I asked him what to say if they answered.
He said, "Just tell them you need your phone back and you'll pay them for it and try to arrange a meeting place."
It sounded like a plan, so I called.
The dumbass answered.
Zelda: "You have my phone and I need it back."
SN: "Oh heeeeell no."
Zelda: "I'll pay you. It has a lot of numbers on there that I need."
SN: "How much?"
Zelda (pulling a number out of her ass): "$500."
SN: "You callin' the PO-leese?
Zelda: "The cops can't do shit and I need my goddam phone."
(Police officer cracks up)
Zelda: "Meet me at the McDonald's on H______
SN: "Oh heeeeeell no. You gonna bring the PO-leese."
Zelda: "Fine. Where do you want to meet?"
SN (shuffling noises, discussion, and idiot giggling in the background): S________ and R_______. Don't bring no PO-leese. We know where you live and we got guns."
Zelda: "I know you do." (Fuckers) "When?"
SN: "Right now. Don't you bring no gun. We'll kill you."
Zelda: "Fine."
I relayed all the information to the PO who relayed it to the others in the area. Maybe they'll find them and maybe they won't. The good thing is that we are all safe and nothing of any real value was taken. Except for some used pantyliners Carrie was carrying in her purse (don't ask). Bet that was a surprise. I hope they're Muslim.
Friday, June 17, 2005
To Whip It Out, Or Not Whip It Out
Payasita Update - Sorry for lapse.
-------------------------------------
There is quite a lot about breastfeeding in the news lately. Rosie O'Donnell, in a fit of psychotic lesbian, dry-titted jealosy, forced her "life-partner" to stop breastfeeding her newborn because Papa Rosie decided she wanted to be a mother (despite the facial hair and testicles) and that there was too much maternal bonding upon which she was missing. I hope someone can grow bigger balls than her and tell her that her hormones are turning her into a domineering, male chauvenist pig.
Then there is the little spat between Bahbwa Waltews and the Lactating Americans because of remarks she made regarding a woman who plopped her ass down next to her and started nursing her infant. Bahbwa, having had her delicate sensibilities assaulted so ruthlessly, made mention of it with her group of cluckers on The View.
Jimmy Kimmel calls her out so hard and Michelle Malkin makes a very good point comparing it to Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction (except more nutritional).
But in response to all of this, the saggy-titted Lactators have bared their bosoms and forced their children to nurse in public. Like that would make people more receptive.
Now for some personal perspective, having breastfed both my girls. Breasfeeding is good. Medically, ethically and especially audially in close spaces, it is more than good. It has been done for centuries - even in the Victorian era. Rich women either had the luxury of discretion or hired someone else to do it. But poor women worked in the fields, nursed their babies and went back to work. The men, like gentlemen instead of prudish whining nancies, turned their heads.
We have truly gone soft if we are repulsed by nursing babies. But the militant Lactators who force their leaking boobs in people's faces don't exactly help the cause.
How about this: Everyone grow the fuck up and turn your heads ever so slightly if you see somoene nursing and it upsets you. Ladies, be as discreet as possible without tying yourself into knots. That should make everyone happy. It won't. But it should.
-------------------------------------
There is quite a lot about breastfeeding in the news lately. Rosie O'Donnell, in a fit of psychotic lesbian, dry-titted jealosy, forced her "life-partner" to stop breastfeeding her newborn because Papa Rosie decided she wanted to be a mother (despite the facial hair and testicles) and that there was too much maternal bonding upon which she was missing. I hope someone can grow bigger balls than her and tell her that her hormones are turning her into a domineering, male chauvenist pig.
Then there is the little spat between Bahbwa Waltews and the Lactating Americans because of remarks she made regarding a woman who plopped her ass down next to her and started nursing her infant. Bahbwa, having had her delicate sensibilities assaulted so ruthlessly, made mention of it with her group of cluckers on The View.
Jimmy Kimmel calls her out so hard and Michelle Malkin makes a very good point comparing it to Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction (except more nutritional).
But in response to all of this, the saggy-titted Lactators have bared their bosoms and forced their children to nurse in public. Like that would make people more receptive.
Now for some personal perspective, having breastfed both my girls. Breasfeeding is good. Medically, ethically and especially audially in close spaces, it is more than good. It has been done for centuries - even in the Victorian era. Rich women either had the luxury of discretion or hired someone else to do it. But poor women worked in the fields, nursed their babies and went back to work. The men, like gentlemen instead of prudish whining nancies, turned their heads.
We have truly gone soft if we are repulsed by nursing babies. But the militant Lactators who force their leaking boobs in people's faces don't exactly help the cause.
How about this: Everyone grow the fuck up and turn your heads ever so slightly if you see somoene nursing and it upsets you. Ladies, be as discreet as possible without tying yourself into knots. That should make everyone happy. It won't. But it should.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Miscellaneous
Back to the regularly scheduled program.
The A/C is back and better than ever. It was cold in the house last night, but I wouldn't turn the A/C down. It felt too damn good. Besides, the cold makes my nipples hard. And that's always cool.
Things that have happened since I've been away:
We saw the Lord of the Rings exhibit at the Houston Museum of Natural Science. For anyone who is unaware, they decided to put many of the movie props on display and exhibit them at museums around the country. For a huge LOTR nerd like me, it was fabulous. They had the miniature of the Shire mill as it appeared in Galadriel's mirror showing the Hobbits enslaved by orcs and the mill turned into a factory. We saw the costumes worn by Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Arwen, Galadriel, Frodo and some others. Aragorn's was in tatters. They had the whole suit of armor worn by the Dark Lord Sauron in the very beginning of the Fellowship when Isildor slices the One Ring off his finger with the shards of Narsil. We also saw the shards of Narsil. There were all kind of armor - Orc armor, Uruk Hai armor, goblin armor, Elvish armor, Dwarf armor, and the vest of mithrail that Bilbo gave to Frodo. We saw Sting (Frodo's sword), Anduril (Aragorn's sword), Glamdring (Gandalf's sword), other swords, Gandalf's staff, Nenya (Galadriel's ring), Galadriel's crown, Arwen's necklace that she gave to aragorn, Lord Elrond's crown and ring, Vilya. They also had rings and armor of the 9 kings of men when they were kings and then when they were the Nazgul.
They had created the boat with a wax figure of the dead Boromir. I've seen actual corpses that looked more fake. And you only see him from far away in the movie, so you have no idea how much detail went into that prop. I couldn't find a single mistake.
The One Ring had a room all of it's own. It was suspended in a glass tube and it was very large. It didn't have the letters on it, so I'm assuming they were computer generated in the movie.
They wouldn't let you take photos, and I was mostly ok with that. But there was one thing I wanted a picture of, and that was the genitals of a lifelike statue of the cave troll. In the movie he has a loin cloth. But I was amazed that someone had taken the time to imagine and create realistic but imaginary genitals for an imaginary creature. Jethro pointed it out to me and we stood there chuckling like Beavis and Butthead for about 10 minutes. They even made the balls.
I'm sure other things have happened since I've been gone, but I'm now throughly distracted by the balls.
The A/C is back and better than ever. It was cold in the house last night, but I wouldn't turn the A/C down. It felt too damn good. Besides, the cold makes my nipples hard. And that's always cool.
Things that have happened since I've been away:
We saw the Lord of the Rings exhibit at the Houston Museum of Natural Science. For anyone who is unaware, they decided to put many of the movie props on display and exhibit them at museums around the country. For a huge LOTR nerd like me, it was fabulous. They had the miniature of the Shire mill as it appeared in Galadriel's mirror showing the Hobbits enslaved by orcs and the mill turned into a factory. We saw the costumes worn by Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Arwen, Galadriel, Frodo and some others. Aragorn's was in tatters. They had the whole suit of armor worn by the Dark Lord Sauron in the very beginning of the Fellowship when Isildor slices the One Ring off his finger with the shards of Narsil. We also saw the shards of Narsil. There were all kind of armor - Orc armor, Uruk Hai armor, goblin armor, Elvish armor, Dwarf armor, and the vest of mithrail that Bilbo gave to Frodo. We saw Sting (Frodo's sword), Anduril (Aragorn's sword), Glamdring (Gandalf's sword), other swords, Gandalf's staff, Nenya (Galadriel's ring), Galadriel's crown, Arwen's necklace that she gave to aragorn, Lord Elrond's crown and ring, Vilya. They also had rings and armor of the 9 kings of men when they were kings and then when they were the Nazgul.
They had created the boat with a wax figure of the dead Boromir. I've seen actual corpses that looked more fake. And you only see him from far away in the movie, so you have no idea how much detail went into that prop. I couldn't find a single mistake.
The One Ring had a room all of it's own. It was suspended in a glass tube and it was very large. It didn't have the letters on it, so I'm assuming they were computer generated in the movie.
They wouldn't let you take photos, and I was mostly ok with that. But there was one thing I wanted a picture of, and that was the genitals of a lifelike statue of the cave troll. In the movie he has a loin cloth. But I was amazed that someone had taken the time to imagine and create realistic but imaginary genitals for an imaginary creature. Jethro pointed it out to me and we stood there chuckling like Beavis and Butthead for about 10 minutes. They even made the balls.
I'm sure other things have happened since I've been gone, but I'm now throughly distracted by the balls.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Sorry Folks
As Jethro has stated, our A/C died on us and I am working from my step-dad's house which leaves precious little time for blogging as he actually expects me to work, plus his computer is achingly slow. I hope to get blogging again by tomorrow, but since Jethro and I have spent several chaste nights now with each set of in-laws, there is one thing higher on my list of priorities.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
You Want A Piece Of Me?
Thanks Ala. It's my first unsolicited tag. I'm honored.
1. First name: Juliette
2. Were you named after anyone? Yes.
3. Do you wish on stars? Are you kidding?
4. When did you last cry? Last night for a few seconds.
5. Do you like your handwriting? Yes, when I've gotten enough sleep.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Corned Beef or Pastrami
7. What is your birth date? Cinco de Mayo
8. What is your most embarrassing moment? Probably the time I wore a long wrap-around skirt with a trick button. I was walking to class on a very windy day in the middle of the winter in NH. A gust blew my skirt clean off and, like keys in a lava flow, it was gone. I turned around and walked bare-legged back to my dorm room while some nice young men attempted to retrieve it for me. They never did but it was probably because they were laughing too hard to run fast.
9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with yourself? Yes, but we'd probably bitch at each other a lot.
11. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell? Yes. Deliberately too so I'll probably go to hell.
12. Do looks matter? If you're a vegas showgirl, they probably do.
13. How do you release anger? Blogging and getting adjustments.
14. Where is your second home? NY Catskill Mountains
15. Do you trust others too easily? Sometimes
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? Matches
17. What class in high school do you think was totally useless? High School
18. Do you have a journal? You’re reading it
19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Read my blog.
20. What is your favorite movie? The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Gone with the Wind, Some Like It Hot, O Brother Where Art Thou?
21. What are your nicknames? Babe (after someone hot, not the pig).
22. Would you bungee jump? Never unless my life were otherwise at stake.
23. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not ususlly.
24. Do you think that you are strong? Fair to middlin' but I'd never get into it with a short woman.
25. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? sweet cream and strawberries
26. Shoe size? 9 ½
27. What are your favorite colors? Blue and green
28. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? My hair
29. What do you miss most? The Catskills
30. Do you want everyone you sent this to, to send it back? Don't care
31. What color pants are you wearing? light cammo green short pants
32. What are you listening to right now? Memory Motel-Stones
34. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Blue/Green
35. What is the weather like right now? Hotter than hell and muggy
36. Last person you talked to on the phone? My boss.
38. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yup. Very much.
39. How are you today? Please.
40. Favorite Drink? Margaritas.
41. Favorite Sport: On TV, basketball. Live, baseball.
42. Hair Color? reddish brown
43. Eye Color? dark brown
44. Do you wear contacts? no
45. Favorite Food? Bacon
46. Last Movie You Watched? Phantom of the Opera
47. Favorite Day of the Year? When the first cold front moves through, but only if it doesn't blow the winds from Pasadena.
48. Scary Movies or Happy Endings? Happy endings while receiving a happy ending.
49. Summer or winter? Winter in Houston, early summer in NY.
50. Hugs or kisses? Kisses, French
51. What is Your Favorite Dessert? Homemade Angel Food Cake with vanilla ice cream with cinnamon on top.
52. Who is Most Likely to Respond? No idea
53. Who is Least Likely to Respond? No idea
54. Where Would You Want to Go on your Next Vacation? I think we'll go to DC for the next family trip, but Jethro and I are going to get to Hawaii when he finishes school.
I don't want to pass it on because I don't know who reads me regularly anymore. Even my own husband. But don't weep for me.
1. First name: Juliette
2. Were you named after anyone? Yes.
3. Do you wish on stars? Are you kidding?
4. When did you last cry? Last night for a few seconds.
5. Do you like your handwriting? Yes, when I've gotten enough sleep.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Corned Beef or Pastrami
7. What is your birth date? Cinco de Mayo
8. What is your most embarrassing moment? Probably the time I wore a long wrap-around skirt with a trick button. I was walking to class on a very windy day in the middle of the winter in NH. A gust blew my skirt clean off and, like keys in a lava flow, it was gone. I turned around and walked bare-legged back to my dorm room while some nice young men attempted to retrieve it for me. They never did but it was probably because they were laughing too hard to run fast.
9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with yourself? Yes, but we'd probably bitch at each other a lot.
11. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell? Yes. Deliberately too so I'll probably go to hell.
12. Do looks matter? If you're a vegas showgirl, they probably do.
13. How do you release anger? Blogging and getting adjustments.
14. Where is your second home? NY Catskill Mountains
15. Do you trust others too easily? Sometimes
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? Matches
17. What class in high school do you think was totally useless? High School
18. Do you have a journal? You’re reading it
19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Read my blog.
20. What is your favorite movie? The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Gone with the Wind, Some Like It Hot, O Brother Where Art Thou?
21. What are your nicknames? Babe (after someone hot, not the pig).
22. Would you bungee jump? Never unless my life were otherwise at stake.
23. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not ususlly.
24. Do you think that you are strong? Fair to middlin' but I'd never get into it with a short woman.
25. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? sweet cream and strawberries
26. Shoe size? 9 ½
27. What are your favorite colors? Blue and green
28. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? My hair
29. What do you miss most? The Catskills
30. Do you want everyone you sent this to, to send it back? Don't care
31. What color pants are you wearing? light cammo green short pants
32. What are you listening to right now? Memory Motel-Stones
34. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Blue/Green
35. What is the weather like right now? Hotter than hell and muggy
36. Last person you talked to on the phone? My boss.
38. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yup. Very much.
39. How are you today? Please.
40. Favorite Drink? Margaritas.
41. Favorite Sport: On TV, basketball. Live, baseball.
42. Hair Color? reddish brown
43. Eye Color? dark brown
44. Do you wear contacts? no
45. Favorite Food? Bacon
46. Last Movie You Watched? Phantom of the Opera
47. Favorite Day of the Year? When the first cold front moves through, but only if it doesn't blow the winds from Pasadena.
48. Scary Movies or Happy Endings? Happy endings while receiving a happy ending.
49. Summer or winter? Winter in Houston, early summer in NY.
50. Hugs or kisses? Kisses, French
51. What is Your Favorite Dessert? Homemade Angel Food Cake with vanilla ice cream with cinnamon on top.
52. Who is Most Likely to Respond? No idea
53. Who is Least Likely to Respond? No idea
54. Where Would You Want to Go on your Next Vacation? I think we'll go to DC for the next family trip, but Jethro and I are going to get to Hawaii when he finishes school.
I don't want to pass it on because I don't know who reads me regularly anymore. Even my own husband. But don't weep for me.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Sex Ed
JP's post about the British leeches (entitled: No Need For Personal Responsibility) got me thinking. My girls are NEVER going to take sex education in school. It is a decision I've made that is final.
I'll tell you my reasons. The biggest one is that I don't want some public school moron teaching my kids about sex. How do I know if they are a pedophile or some other kind of pervert? How do I know that they don't have a feminist/pro-abortion agenda or some other opinion that I don't agree with? I would have no idea, and I will not take the chance someone is going to teach my kids something I don't want, especially about sex. It's too important.
I've heard all of the arguments in favor of sex ed, and I'm not buying them - at least for my kids.
1. But kids need to learn about sex and not be afraid to talk about it.
First of all, I don't know anyone who is afraid to talk about sex anymore, least of all me. Any questions they have will be answered honestly depending on their level of understanding. We aren't going to have "the talk." We are going to have an ongoing discussion.
2. But they need to know about birth control and condoms.
My kids will learn about birth control and condoms. But they will never be allowed to take birth control as long as I have anything to say about it. The pill is not good for women to take. I mistrust anything that disrupts an entire biological system, and I am not alone. My experience with it was cut short by pregnancy, because I forgot that they were rendered ineffective by antibiotics, and I took it for a short time after Emma was born for regulatory purposes. They always made me feel sick and that is never, EVER a healthy sign.
Condoms on the other hand, are not failsafe. I am pretty sure Emma is proof of that. But to be honest, I don't recall having the sex to get her, so she may be immaculate. Shut up. It can happen.
3. There are many children whose parents won't discuss any of this with them.
But there are plenty of parents who are, and they shouldn't be looked down upon because they prefer to handle it themselves.
If you want to hand over the most personal and important job you will ever have in your life as a parent to some potentially agenda driven pervert who doesn't know your kid from Adam, be my guest. But I won't.
I think sex ed should be purely elective. Have the kids' parents sign a permission slip and have the classes after school when they are most likely to get in trouble anyway. I don't think valuable class hours should be wasted putting condoms on fruit when most kids don't know all 50 states.
I'll tell you my reasons. The biggest one is that I don't want some public school moron teaching my kids about sex. How do I know if they are a pedophile or some other kind of pervert? How do I know that they don't have a feminist/pro-abortion agenda or some other opinion that I don't agree with? I would have no idea, and I will not take the chance someone is going to teach my kids something I don't want, especially about sex. It's too important.
I've heard all of the arguments in favor of sex ed, and I'm not buying them - at least for my kids.
1. But kids need to learn about sex and not be afraid to talk about it.
First of all, I don't know anyone who is afraid to talk about sex anymore, least of all me. Any questions they have will be answered honestly depending on their level of understanding. We aren't going to have "the talk." We are going to have an ongoing discussion.
2. But they need to know about birth control and condoms.
My kids will learn about birth control and condoms. But they will never be allowed to take birth control as long as I have anything to say about it. The pill is not good for women to take. I mistrust anything that disrupts an entire biological system, and I am not alone. My experience with it was cut short by pregnancy, because I forgot that they were rendered ineffective by antibiotics, and I took it for a short time after Emma was born for regulatory purposes. They always made me feel sick and that is never, EVER a healthy sign.
Condoms on the other hand, are not failsafe. I am pretty sure Emma is proof of that. But to be honest, I don't recall having the sex to get her, so she may be immaculate. Shut up. It can happen.
3. There are many children whose parents won't discuss any of this with them.
But there are plenty of parents who are, and they shouldn't be looked down upon because they prefer to handle it themselves.
If you want to hand over the most personal and important job you will ever have in your life as a parent to some potentially agenda driven pervert who doesn't know your kid from Adam, be my guest. But I won't.
I think sex ed should be purely elective. Have the kids' parents sign a permission slip and have the classes after school when they are most likely to get in trouble anyway. I don't think valuable class hours should be wasted putting condoms on fruit when most kids don't know all 50 states.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Obsession
The great thing about the internet is that you can have any deep, dark, in-the-closet-hide-your-face-in-shame obsession and not only with you find others similarly afflicted, but afflicted to a degree that it can allow you to hold your head up just a little higher knowing that not only are you NOT the only one, but that there are people out there who make your obsession seem as merely casual interest.
The downside to this is that the more you read the information gathered by the similarly obsessed, the more complacent you become about your own obsession and the less you try to hide it. You can easily delude yourself into thinking that you are perfectly normal just because there is someone else crazier. The result (if you should be so misguided as to share your useless information with others) is at best blank stares, and at worst open contempt.
The wonderful thing about blogging is that I don't have to give a shit about either. So in that spirit, I present to you MY OBSESSION.
Bet you all thought it was going to be dirty. Sickos.
Disclaimer: I must emphasize that I had no idea this much information existed on The Waltons. I was humbled. But I must offer the fact that I searched for it as proof of my obsession.
The downside to this is that the more you read the information gathered by the similarly obsessed, the more complacent you become about your own obsession and the less you try to hide it. You can easily delude yourself into thinking that you are perfectly normal just because there is someone else crazier. The result (if you should be so misguided as to share your useless information with others) is at best blank stares, and at worst open contempt.
The wonderful thing about blogging is that I don't have to give a shit about either. So in that spirit, I present to you MY OBSESSION.
Bet you all thought it was going to be dirty. Sickos.
Disclaimer: I must emphasize that I had no idea this much information existed on The Waltons. I was humbled. But I must offer the fact that I searched for it as proof of my obsession.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Untitled
It always happens that the post I think I'm going to bury ends up front and center for days. Masturbation, pubic hair, and now a tranvestite post have ended up defining this blog for probably more than one innocent passerby. Not that it matters. I apologize for nothing.
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I saved all my Comment This comments because every word is gold. GOLD, Dammit!!! So should you want to stroll down memory lane and revisit some of our old conversations, they are now available. I recommend these courtesy of Jack and Gooch, and of course, myself.
And since I am probably the only one who cares or who has the collossal nerve to actually link to myself, I will move on to something more intellectual like Tom Cruise proving his heterosexuality once and for all with a bizarre combination of genuflection and physical assault in that great slurping/belching Vagina known as the Oprah Winfrey Show. No, he's not gay. I know gays. They could give it to Katie Holmes better. Faster. Longer. Harder. And with a Real Penis.
Tommy never did it for me.
----------------------------
I saved all my Comment This comments because every word is gold. GOLD, Dammit!!! So should you want to stroll down memory lane and revisit some of our old conversations, they are now available. I recommend these courtesy of Jack and Gooch, and of course, myself.
And since I am probably the only one who cares or who has the collossal nerve to actually link to myself, I will move on to something more intellectual like Tom Cruise proving his heterosexuality once and for all with a bizarre combination of genuflection and physical assault in that great slurping/belching Vagina known as the Oprah Winfrey Show. No, he's not gay. I know gays. They could give it to Katie Holmes better. Faster. Longer. Harder. And with a Real Penis.
Tommy never did it for me.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Don't Give Me No Lines And Keep Your Hands To Yourself
Jethro's post must be read first.
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Jethro: Sorry babe, I had a dream you were one of those people. What do you call them, you know the crossdressers?
Zelda: Jay and Jack?
Jethro: No, but close.
Zelda: A transvestite?
Jethro: That's it.
Zelda: You are dead to me. Consider the line crossed. You stay on your side, I'll stay on mine. We'll make it work for the kids, but after they're in college, we're through.
Jethro: Oh, come on.
Zelda: You wanna fuck?
Jethro: I can't. I'm still weirded out by the dream.
Zelda: Stick your finger in my pussy and see if that helps.
Jethro (panting eagerly): Okay!!!
Zelda: Just look out for the penis.
-----------------------------------
Jethro: Sorry babe, I had a dream you were one of those people. What do you call them, you know the crossdressers?
Zelda: Jay and Jack?
Jethro: No, but close.
Zelda: A transvestite?
Jethro: That's it.
Zelda: You are dead to me. Consider the line crossed. You stay on your side, I'll stay on mine. We'll make it work for the kids, but after they're in college, we're through.
Jethro: Oh, come on.
Zelda: You wanna fuck?
Jethro: I can't. I'm still weirded out by the dream.
Zelda: Stick your finger in my pussy and see if that helps.
Jethro (panting eagerly): Okay!!!
Zelda: Just look out for the penis.
Friday, May 27, 2005
People I Don't Feel Sorry For
I got an email from someone in the office asking for money for their daughter who was severely injured in a skydiving accident.
This reminded me of a story about Yosemite national park who had banned base jumping off the cliffs. A group of base jumpers decided to do a jump in protest. They would be arrested and have their gear confiscated upon landing, but they wanted to make a "statement."
One of the women decided not to use her best gear because it would end up confiscated by the police. This resulted in equipment failure and, to the horror of the police, onlookers, and her husband who was filming the jump, her Very Gruesome Death.
I guess that showed them.
I have no patience with these things. There is a reason why the police didn't want people base jumping as this woman so idiotically proved. However, I don't think these things should be illegal. If your own safety and the welfare of your kids is less of a priority than some useless thrill, then fine. Remove yourself from the gene pool and see if I care. Just don't ask me to feel sorry for you when you have broken every bone in your body and are paralyzed from the neck down. Or dead.
This is leading to a whole lot of other people I don't have a whole lot of sympathy for.
1. Anyone with an STD (caught through their own carelessness).
2.NASCAR racers (sorry Angi)/Extreme sport participators.
3. Illegal Drug Addicts
4.Parents whose underage children are or were illegal drug addicts.
1. STDs are the most preventable illnesses in the entire world. If you are an adult and you didn't catch it from a cheating partner, then don't ask me to feel sorry for you.
2. Dangerous sports. Everyone knows this. I can't feel sorry for you.
3. You have everyone from the government to churches telling you they are bad. Don't whine to me when you are addicted.
4. I saw a news program about a 16 year old boy who died of a drug overdose. Heroin I think. His parents had found out about his addiction when he was 14, so God only knows how long he'd been doing it. The parents put him in rehab and he proclaimed himself clean. He came back to much the same life he'd had before.
They interviewed his parents who tearfully said he told them he was going out with his friends, then he never came home and they finally got a call from the police or the hospital, I can't remember which.
I usually only pay half-attention to shows featuring weeping parents. I'm usually preoccupied with something else, so I hear the weeping and wailing and feel vague stabs of pity for the afflicted. In this case, I watched the whole thing, and then I was furious. If I had been that interviewer, I would have bitch-slapped both of them. Instead, the voice over marveled at how the children of nice parents with money were becoming addicted to street drugs.
I'll tell you how, bitches. Johnny and Suzy Parent had no balls. God forbid they punish the little darling for breaking curfew. God forbid they give the little darling a curfew at all. He might get mad at them. And God forbid the little darling gets mad them. That can't be healthy. There must be peace at all costs. Well, he's at peace now.
But I have to wonder at parents whose children become drug addicts. How do they not know? I seem to recall many many excuses, but very little acknowledgment of responsibility. Not that I'm claiming to be the world's greatest parent, but I notice when my kids are silent and go running. It usually means an heirloom has been destroyed. I notice when the neighbor brats scream three doors down and I go running to make sure it's not them. I think about my children and knives and I go running to make sure they're out of reach. I hear a story about children strangling themselves in window blinds and I take mine out and burn them in effigy. Well, I don't go that far, but you get the point.
One beating with a belt, and the kid might be alive today. One "No-son-we're-all-going-to-a-movie-tonight" and the kid might be alive today. But in lieu of actual discipline, or actual involvement, those parents let their underage, drug addicted son tell them where he was going and when he'd be back. I want to feel sorry for them, but I just can't.
All the time, I hear things like, "I did drugs and nothing bad happened to me" and "I did drugs, so I can't tell them not to or I'll be a hypocrite."
BULL. SHIT. This has to be the most pathetic excuse I've ever heard and if you believe it, your children should never have children. I smoked pot. I drove drunk ONCE. I also ran around with a butcher knife trying to stab one of our chickens when I was about 6 (don't ask). This doesn't mean I'm going to let my children do any of those things because now that I am an adult, I realize the dangers of those actions. And I don't want anything bad to happen to my kids.
This reminded me of a story about Yosemite national park who had banned base jumping off the cliffs. A group of base jumpers decided to do a jump in protest. They would be arrested and have their gear confiscated upon landing, but they wanted to make a "statement."
One of the women decided not to use her best gear because it would end up confiscated by the police. This resulted in equipment failure and, to the horror of the police, onlookers, and her husband who was filming the jump, her Very Gruesome Death.
I guess that showed them.
I have no patience with these things. There is a reason why the police didn't want people base jumping as this woman so idiotically proved. However, I don't think these things should be illegal. If your own safety and the welfare of your kids is less of a priority than some useless thrill, then fine. Remove yourself from the gene pool and see if I care. Just don't ask me to feel sorry for you when you have broken every bone in your body and are paralyzed from the neck down. Or dead.
This is leading to a whole lot of other people I don't have a whole lot of sympathy for.
1. Anyone with an STD (caught through their own carelessness).
2.NASCAR racers (sorry Angi)/Extreme sport participators.
3. Illegal Drug Addicts
4.Parents whose underage children are or were illegal drug addicts.
1. STDs are the most preventable illnesses in the entire world. If you are an adult and you didn't catch it from a cheating partner, then don't ask me to feel sorry for you.
2. Dangerous sports. Everyone knows this. I can't feel sorry for you.
3. You have everyone from the government to churches telling you they are bad. Don't whine to me when you are addicted.
4. I saw a news program about a 16 year old boy who died of a drug overdose. Heroin I think. His parents had found out about his addiction when he was 14, so God only knows how long he'd been doing it. The parents put him in rehab and he proclaimed himself clean. He came back to much the same life he'd had before.
They interviewed his parents who tearfully said he told them he was going out with his friends, then he never came home and they finally got a call from the police or the hospital, I can't remember which.
I usually only pay half-attention to shows featuring weeping parents. I'm usually preoccupied with something else, so I hear the weeping and wailing and feel vague stabs of pity for the afflicted. In this case, I watched the whole thing, and then I was furious. If I had been that interviewer, I would have bitch-slapped both of them. Instead, the voice over marveled at how the children of nice parents with money were becoming addicted to street drugs.
I'll tell you how, bitches. Johnny and Suzy Parent had no balls. God forbid they punish the little darling for breaking curfew. God forbid they give the little darling a curfew at all. He might get mad at them. And God forbid the little darling gets mad them. That can't be healthy. There must be peace at all costs. Well, he's at peace now.
But I have to wonder at parents whose children become drug addicts. How do they not know? I seem to recall many many excuses, but very little acknowledgment of responsibility. Not that I'm claiming to be the world's greatest parent, but I notice when my kids are silent and go running. It usually means an heirloom has been destroyed. I notice when the neighbor brats scream three doors down and I go running to make sure it's not them. I think about my children and knives and I go running to make sure they're out of reach. I hear a story about children strangling themselves in window blinds and I take mine out and burn them in effigy. Well, I don't go that far, but you get the point.
One beating with a belt, and the kid might be alive today. One "No-son-we're-all-going-to-a-movie-tonight" and the kid might be alive today. But in lieu of actual discipline, or actual involvement, those parents let their underage, drug addicted son tell them where he was going and when he'd be back. I want to feel sorry for them, but I just can't.
All the time, I hear things like, "I did drugs and nothing bad happened to me" and "I did drugs, so I can't tell them not to or I'll be a hypocrite."
BULL. SHIT. This has to be the most pathetic excuse I've ever heard and if you believe it, your children should never have children. I smoked pot. I drove drunk ONCE. I also ran around with a butcher knife trying to stab one of our chickens when I was about 6 (don't ask). This doesn't mean I'm going to let my children do any of those things because now that I am an adult, I realize the dangers of those actions. And I don't want anything bad to happen to my kids.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
I Like Balls
Every so often I need to lick them and swirl my tongue around them, taking them gently into my mouth, sucking gently and rolling them between my tongue and my soft palate.
I savor the succulent tenderness of those sweet little brown balls four or five at a time as cream fills my mouth, soaking them, drowning them as I slice them neatly in half with my incisors. I swallow all of the tender creaminess and for one pure moment, I know ecstasy.
I'm a sucker for tapioca.
I savor the succulent tenderness of those sweet little brown balls four or five at a time as cream fills my mouth, soaking them, drowning them as I slice them neatly in half with my incisors. I swallow all of the tender creaminess and for one pure moment, I know ecstasy.
I'm a sucker for tapioca.
They are, however, exactly what I would imagine unencased balls to feel like. They are most definitely an Asian concoction. There is a shop right by my house that makes sweet iced coffee and tea drinks and will fill them with tapioca should you so desire. They are served up by sweet pretty little Asian girls and I totally get why guys are so hot for them (Asian girls, not the balls).
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Comment This has officially gone belly-up. It was fun while it lasted, so thanks for all the fish.
Haloscan here I come.
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Comment This has officially gone belly-up. It was fun while it lasted, so thanks for all the fish.
Haloscan here I come.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Emma In The Spotlight
I have a window right in front of my desk, where I can see out into the backyard while I work. I was minding my own business the other day, when I see a naked child go flying past my window on a skyshooter. We have a swingset in the backyard and Emma had decided to strip herself nude and swing free. It was so cute. She was completely oblivious to anything but swinging happily and nakedly in the sun with her hair streaming behind her.
I would have let her do it longer, but a child molester lives next door and I don't see a reason to lead him unto temptation.
But Emma is my naked one. Gwennie likes to moon, but Emma likes to strip. I found her (naked) with one leg up on her plastic ballet bar, inspecting herself with a flashlight.
Gwennie is actually pretty good about staying clothed. She changes her outfits about 12 times a day, but at least she is wearing something. The other day she came to me and told me she had a rash. I went to inspect it and took the opportunity to tell her about who is allowed to look at her there, namely Jethro, her doctor, and myself. No one else, even other kids, are allowed. She nodded her head obediently and said, "Yes ma'am."
Now if I can just get Emma to stop shining a spotlight on hers, everything will be fine.
------------------------------------------
UPDATE: Ala asked about Micky's monkey. I forgot to post a link back, but have now done so.
UPDATE: Comment This is back, so there is no need to use bloggers' comments anymore unless you find them to more efficient. Personally, I've missed the demon emoticon more than I know how to say.
I would have let her do it longer, but a child molester lives next door and I don't see a reason to lead him unto temptation.
But Emma is my naked one. Gwennie likes to moon, but Emma likes to strip. I found her (naked) with one leg up on her plastic ballet bar, inspecting herself with a flashlight.
Gwennie is actually pretty good about staying clothed. She changes her outfits about 12 times a day, but at least she is wearing something. The other day she came to me and told me she had a rash. I went to inspect it and took the opportunity to tell her about who is allowed to look at her there, namely Jethro, her doctor, and myself. No one else, even other kids, are allowed. She nodded her head obediently and said, "Yes ma'am."
Now if I can just get Emma to stop shining a spotlight on hers, everything will be fine.
------------------------------------------
UPDATE: Ala asked about Micky's monkey. I forgot to post a link back, but have now done so.
UPDATE: Comment This is back, so there is no need to use bloggers' comments anymore unless you find them to more efficient. Personally, I've missed the demon emoticon more than I know how to say.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Vette
Back in college, I knew a girl named Yvette. I didn't like her all that much. She was pretty in an unkempt kind of way, with long, windblown hair. But she always seemed to be in her own world. She was always pouncing on guys and giving them hickeys. It was funny the first hundred times, but it got old. It just made everyone feel awkward. One time someone got carried away and grabbed her tit and she got upset. I didn't feel very sorry for her.
But another time a group of us had gone out for a smoke break while studying for a test. Somehow, there was only one book of matches amongst the lot of us. One of the guys was trying to light the match, but kept fumbling. After trying several times to light it on the matchbook, Yvette plucked it from his hand and in one rapid, fluid motion, struck the match firmly on the sidewalk and lit her cigarette. She handed the lit match back to the guy, who stared at her in silent admiration, and walked off.
That was cool.
But another time a group of us had gone out for a smoke break while studying for a test. Somehow, there was only one book of matches amongst the lot of us. One of the guys was trying to light the match, but kept fumbling. After trying several times to light it on the matchbook, Yvette plucked it from his hand and in one rapid, fluid motion, struck the match firmly on the sidewalk and lit her cigarette. She handed the lit match back to the guy, who stared at her in silent admiration, and walked off.
That was cool.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
I Started My Period Which Doesn't Even Begin To Explain My Bad Mood
I updated Payasita. I spent a bit of time on it finding the damn links, but I said pretty much everything I've wanted to.
I started having a shitty week beginning Sunday. Besides receiving The Curse, the space bar on my keyboard up and quit on me. I had to steal the keyboard to Gwennie's and Emma's computer, but it is extremely shitty. Then I had an annoying day with people who speak shitty English. And the crowning irritation was one of Jethro's psychotic relatives insulting Gwennie and Emma to our faces at a graduation party on Sunday. So I'm in a foul mood. And if anyone tells me to go get laid, I'll hunt them down and force them to show me what they mean.
I'll start with the irritating phone caller.
Zelda: Dearest step-father's office, may I help you?
Illiterate Hispanic Woman: Do you speak a Spanish?
Zelda: No, I'm sorry.
IHW: Do you know the price for a the house?
Zelda: Which one?
IHW: I no have a the address
Zelda: I don't have the price. I need an address.
IHW: I could no read the sign.
Zelda: Well, I need the address to tell you how much it is.
IHW: You no help me. I find someone who help me.
Next Grievance:
We were at a graduation party for Jethro's cousin. Jethro and I were minding our own fucking business when his Imbecile Aunt comes up without so much as a hi-howarya and says, "My niece puts your daughters to shame."
I think I resented the lack of subtlety more than the insult.
I turned and looked at her as if she were a urine sample and said, "Interesting." Jethro looked at her quizzically and said, "How do you figure that?" Then both of us looked at each other and started laughing. It was so weird.
Then I turned to my sister-in-law and said, "Did I actually hear what I just heard?" just in case I'd missed some kind of ill-bred, fresh-off-the-boat humor.
My SIL just rolled her eyes and said, "No, she's been doing that all day." Her husband, who has quite the southern drawl shook his head, saying, "Rude, just plain rude." But he was grinning too.
Imbecile Aunt, unable to endure the ridicule, waddled off to offend someone else, and we had a good laugh at her expense, but can you belive it?
I started having a shitty week beginning Sunday. Besides receiving The Curse, the space bar on my keyboard up and quit on me. I had to steal the keyboard to Gwennie's and Emma's computer, but it is extremely shitty. Then I had an annoying day with people who speak shitty English. And the crowning irritation was one of Jethro's psychotic relatives insulting Gwennie and Emma to our faces at a graduation party on Sunday. So I'm in a foul mood. And if anyone tells me to go get laid, I'll hunt them down and force them to show me what they mean.
I'll start with the irritating phone caller.
Zelda: Dearest step-father's office, may I help you?
Illiterate Hispanic Woman: Do you speak a Spanish?
Zelda: No, I'm sorry.
IHW: Do you know the price for a the house?
Zelda: Which one?
IHW: I no have a the address
Zelda: I don't have the price. I need an address.
IHW: I could no read the sign.
Zelda: Well, I need the address to tell you how much it is.
IHW: You no help me. I find someone who help me.
Next Grievance:
We were at a graduation party for Jethro's cousin. Jethro and I were minding our own fucking business when his Imbecile Aunt comes up without so much as a hi-howarya and says, "My niece puts your daughters to shame."
I think I resented the lack of subtlety more than the insult.
I turned and looked at her as if she were a urine sample and said, "Interesting." Jethro looked at her quizzically and said, "How do you figure that?" Then both of us looked at each other and started laughing. It was so weird.
Then I turned to my sister-in-law and said, "Did I actually hear what I just heard?" just in case I'd missed some kind of ill-bred, fresh-off-the-boat humor.
My SIL just rolled her eyes and said, "No, she's been doing that all day." Her husband, who has quite the southern drawl shook his head, saying, "Rude, just plain rude." But he was grinning too.
Imbecile Aunt, unable to endure the ridicule, waddled off to offend someone else, and we had a good laugh at her expense, but can you belive it?
Friday, May 13, 2005
Scent of a Feta Cheese Container
Somehow a container of Feta cheese ended up on my bookcase beside the door. The great thing about having a housekeeper come and clear up all the clutter is that I realized right away that there was a container of Feta cheese on the bookcase and got it back to the fridge before I walked in one hot summer day saying, "What's with all the flying cockroaches?"
When I was looking for The Housekeeper, I scoured ads for one that would help organize as well as just clean. This took a lot of sifting. You have no idea how many maids advertise their level of attractiveness, but then qualify the whole thing by saying, "no sex please."
I even found one ad of someone searching for a young, nude housekeeper - race unimportant. Glad to know there are equal opportunity sexist, exploitive employers out there. But can there be a more unappealing thought than a nude person scrubbing a toilet? Don't anyone answer that.
Okay, I'm done posting about The Housekeeper. I'm sure everyone is sick of her already.
I have decided to try an exercising experiment. I'm only going to work out my ass. I just want to see what happens and it should be relatively easy to sit here at my desk and clench my buttocks. I'm doing it right now. I have this thing about proportion. I think my butt is small in relation to my thighs. The only thing I can see improving the situation is building ass muscle. So I sit here clenching. It will be interesting. I'll let you know how it goes.
When I was looking for The Housekeeper, I scoured ads for one that would help organize as well as just clean. This took a lot of sifting. You have no idea how many maids advertise their level of attractiveness, but then qualify the whole thing by saying, "no sex please."
I even found one ad of someone searching for a young, nude housekeeper - race unimportant. Glad to know there are equal opportunity sexist, exploitive employers out there. But can there be a more unappealing thought than a nude person scrubbing a toilet? Don't anyone answer that.
Okay, I'm done posting about The Housekeeper. I'm sure everyone is sick of her already.
I have decided to try an exercising experiment. I'm only going to work out my ass. I just want to see what happens and it should be relatively easy to sit here at my desk and clench my buttocks. I'm doing it right now. I have this thing about proportion. I think my butt is small in relation to my thighs. The only thing I can see improving the situation is building ass muscle. So I sit here clenching. It will be interesting. I'll let you know how it goes.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Fixing Social Security/Lust For The Nice Venezuelan Girl Who Cleaned My House
If we want to reduce the number of old people sucking up social security, we should buy them all computers. They are guaranteed to shave years off their lives.
I just had an old man call me to complain about our website. He was screaming in frustration.
Our website has a feature where you can type in your home search criteria and search the homes for sale in the area you want. This is a pretty cool thing. But not for the elderly. It isn't that complicated, but the print is small, and it sometimes requires knowing where the back button is.
The problem was simple. All he'd done was search for homes with acreage instead of regular single family homes. Poor dumb guy never thought to go back and look at his options. I did my best to help him, but he was too enraged and unsophisticated in his computer skills to listen properly. At least he screamed "THANK YOU" at me before he hung up.
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The Housekeeper finished all I can afford to pay her today. It looks fabulous. But I can't help feeling that it isn't quite honest clean. I had to pay someone to make my house look like it should. All in all though, 0it rests lightly on my conscience because I really feel inspired to keep it nice. Maybe now we can finally live like nice humans instead of heathen pigs.
I just had an old man call me to complain about our website. He was screaming in frustration.
Our website has a feature where you can type in your home search criteria and search the homes for sale in the area you want. This is a pretty cool thing. But not for the elderly. It isn't that complicated, but the print is small, and it sometimes requires knowing where the back button is.
The problem was simple. All he'd done was search for homes with acreage instead of regular single family homes. Poor dumb guy never thought to go back and look at his options. I did my best to help him, but he was too enraged and unsophisticated in his computer skills to listen properly. At least he screamed "THANK YOU" at me before he hung up.
----------------------------------------
The Housekeeper finished all I can afford to pay her today. It looks fabulous. But I can't help feeling that it isn't quite honest clean. I had to pay someone to make my house look like it should. All in all though, 0it rests lightly on my conscience because I really feel inspired to keep it nice. Maybe now we can finally live like nice humans instead of heathen pigs.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
On Squalor
The housekeeper is cleaning my pantry. I haven't cleaned that thing in years. I don't know why really - I guess I never thought to do it. I'm about to cry from joy.
I have a standing job offer for Jack. Jack + thong + mop = $20.00 an hour.
But Jack wouldn't want to come near this job. It's like a meth house without the fancy electronics.
I am tempted to post pictures of the immaculateness, but I don't want anyone looking at what they consider to be average cleanliness and wondering just what in hell it looked like before. My honesty is refreshing, isn't it?
I am just sorry I didn't do this before it got this bad. But once it's all done and we are used to living in order instead of squalor, I think I will make more of an effort. But I'm still keeping the housekeeper.
I have a standing job offer for Jack. Jack + thong + mop = $20.00 an hour.
But Jack wouldn't want to come near this job. It's like a meth house without the fancy electronics.
I am tempted to post pictures of the immaculateness, but I don't want anyone looking at what they consider to be average cleanliness and wondering just what in hell it looked like before. My honesty is refreshing, isn't it?
I am just sorry I didn't do this before it got this bad. But once it's all done and we are used to living in order instead of squalor, I think I will make more of an effort. But I'm still keeping the housekeeper.
No Pants for You
I hate not having time to blog. Blog entries run through my head over the most mundane things and it's hard to concentrate. So I have decided that it is functionally necessary for me to blog and I will continue.
Last Friday, I had to go to Jethro's school so another man could get all intimate with me. Interns aren't allowed to work on their own spouses and have it count for anything, so Jeth and his friend, Nelson, swapped wives.
All I have to say is that those interns had better work on their bedside manner. Firstly, they're all standing around and they stare at you particularly if you are in a hospital gown. I don't think they even realize they're doing it.
I had to have a series of x-rays, so I had to take of my bra and top. Well fucking excuse me for not wanting to parade (sober) around a bunch of leering interns without support. I wanted to tell them to turn the fuck around and go adjust their dicks, but I was sufficiently intimidated by my topless state into keeping my mouth shut.
As if that wasn't bad enough, Jethro and Nelson decided to discuss with the radiologist, in front of people whether or not I should remove my pants. Fuck those idiots with their own model skeletons. The pants I was wearing were thinner than the hospital gown and had no metal in them, which I pointed out to their complete disregard.
They finally decided that I did indeed need to remove my pants and told me so, loudly, slowly and in front of another patient and the ghastly leering interns, as if I were deaf, retarded, and I hadn't been standing 5 inches away from the entire conversation.
Then I had to go give blood and a urine sample. The blood was taken without incident. Unfortunately, I dropped my urine sample in the toilet. I came out empty handed and decided that since everyone was pretty much aware of all my business anyway, I would announce the fact. "No pee for you."
So that was pretty much it. The adjustments and the therapy made up for that entire process and my shoulder feels better than it has in years.
Last Friday, I had to go to Jethro's school so another man could get all intimate with me. Interns aren't allowed to work on their own spouses and have it count for anything, so Jeth and his friend, Nelson, swapped wives.
All I have to say is that those interns had better work on their bedside manner. Firstly, they're all standing around and they stare at you particularly if you are in a hospital gown. I don't think they even realize they're doing it.
I had to have a series of x-rays, so I had to take of my bra and top. Well fucking excuse me for not wanting to parade (sober) around a bunch of leering interns without support. I wanted to tell them to turn the fuck around and go adjust their dicks, but I was sufficiently intimidated by my topless state into keeping my mouth shut.
As if that wasn't bad enough, Jethro and Nelson decided to discuss with the radiologist, in front of people whether or not I should remove my pants. Fuck those idiots with their own model skeletons. The pants I was wearing were thinner than the hospital gown and had no metal in them, which I pointed out to their complete disregard.
They finally decided that I did indeed need to remove my pants and told me so, loudly, slowly and in front of another patient and the ghastly leering interns, as if I were deaf, retarded, and I hadn't been standing 5 inches away from the entire conversation.
Then I had to go give blood and a urine sample. The blood was taken without incident. Unfortunately, I dropped my urine sample in the toilet. I came out empty handed and decided that since everyone was pretty much aware of all my business anyway, I would announce the fact. "No pee for you."
So that was pretty much it. The adjustments and the therapy made up for that entire process and my shoulder feels better than it has in years.
Monday, May 09, 2005
No Time to Say Hello, Good-bye
Thank you all for the kind birthday/Mother's Day wishes. They were so thoughtful.
I'm on a really tight schedule this week, but a few funny things happened. I don't have time to write about them yet, so I'll just give you a few hints.
1. A nice lady has seen my house and agreed to clean it for $10.00 an hour. I'm going to pay her $20.00.
2. I had a funny experience at Jethro's clinic resulting in the complete dissolution of my medical fetish.
3. I had sex.
I'm on a really tight schedule this week, but a few funny things happened. I don't have time to write about them yet, so I'll just give you a few hints.
1. A nice lady has seen my house and agreed to clean it for $10.00 an hour. I'm going to pay her $20.00.
2. I had a funny experience at Jethro's clinic resulting in the complete dissolution of my medical fetish.
3. I had sex.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Reflections on the Day
PAYASITA UPDATE: Heavy stuff.
I say this with as much humility as I can muster. Today is my birthday. I'm 29. I don't want to talk about it.
So Jethro got another job proposition. A friend's brother is an MD who is also a DC. He wants to open a chiropractic practice somewhere towards Galveston (Brighton country). It would mean we would get to stay near our families and not have to move across the state or the country. This is definitely a good thing.
But it's a long-term commitment. I know most would consider me crazy for worrying about the stability factor of a long-term, somewhat lucrative job prospect, but for some reason, I do.
I had this crazy thought in the back of my mind that Jethro could take advantage of the oil drilling in ANWR and we could move to Alaska for a few years. Blue collar workers hurting their backs as far as the eye can see. Plus I'm sick of the heat. And Gwennie and Emma would make the most adorable little snowbunnies.
I know. I'm insane. While Jethro's been in school, the possibilities seemed limitless, so the thought of starting our new life exactly where we are now almost seems like a bit of a letdown.
I feel guilty for even thinking these things. We are lucky and I know that. But sometimes you just can't help wondering what it would be like to just pull up anchor and float.
I say this with as much humility as I can muster. Today is my birthday. I'm 29. I don't want to talk about it.
So Jethro got another job proposition. A friend's brother is an MD who is also a DC. He wants to open a chiropractic practice somewhere towards Galveston (Brighton country). It would mean we would get to stay near our families and not have to move across the state or the country. This is definitely a good thing.
But it's a long-term commitment. I know most would consider me crazy for worrying about the stability factor of a long-term, somewhat lucrative job prospect, but for some reason, I do.
I had this crazy thought in the back of my mind that Jethro could take advantage of the oil drilling in ANWR and we could move to Alaska for a few years. Blue collar workers hurting their backs as far as the eye can see. Plus I'm sick of the heat. And Gwennie and Emma would make the most adorable little snowbunnies.
I know. I'm insane. While Jethro's been in school, the possibilities seemed limitless, so the thought of starting our new life exactly where we are now almost seems like a bit of a letdown.
I feel guilty for even thinking these things. We are lucky and I know that. But sometimes you just can't help wondering what it would be like to just pull up anchor and float.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Rape
I realize it's a stark title, but it's a stark question.
Is it rape if someone consents to one sexual act, but then has another preformed upon them? What if no specifics are given?
Is it rape if someone consents to be handcuffed or bound, but then decides that the situation has become too rough and asks that it not continue?
The answers seem simple enough to me. If someone says stop, you stop. If they wish to continue, they can tell you so. There are no "misunderstandings."
Is it snarky of a girl to start something she can't finish? Sure. But take that into account regarding your future relationship, and go jack-off. There is no excuse whatsoever for harming someone during sex.
Just so I'm clear, I have a friend who is in a really bad relationship with a truly evil man. I'm hoping evidence of others' disapproval of this man's sexual tactics might help her to see that this is unacceptable, not to mention criminal. So any comments recommending his immediate castration would be welcome.
I don't recommend watching Discovery Health, while you are making your lunch. I went to go get my frozen dinner out of the microwave and was visually assaulted by a 36 inch placenta.
Is it rape if someone consents to one sexual act, but then has another preformed upon them? What if no specifics are given?
Is it rape if someone consents to be handcuffed or bound, but then decides that the situation has become too rough and asks that it not continue?
The answers seem simple enough to me. If someone says stop, you stop. If they wish to continue, they can tell you so. There are no "misunderstandings."
Is it snarky of a girl to start something she can't finish? Sure. But take that into account regarding your future relationship, and go jack-off. There is no excuse whatsoever for harming someone during sex.
Just so I'm clear, I have a friend who is in a really bad relationship with a truly evil man. I'm hoping evidence of others' disapproval of this man's sexual tactics might help her to see that this is unacceptable, not to mention criminal. So any comments recommending his immediate castration would be welcome.
---------------------------------
I don't recommend watching Discovery Health, while you are making your lunch. I went to go get my frozen dinner out of the microwave and was visually assaulted by a 36 inch placenta.
----------------------------------
JETHRO'S COLLARD GREENS
1 bag frozen collard greens
2 cans chicken broth
4 pieces of bacon cut up into smallish chunks (can be achieved by tearing them up with your hands)
Tony Chachere's Original Creole Seasoning to taste
Bring broth and greens to a boil
Add bacon
Boil until bacon is done (about 10-15 minutes)
Season with Tony Chachere's
You can't ask for better collard greens and Jethro came up with it all on his own. I'm so proud.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Trains, Planes, and Tibetan Monks
I saw the weirdest bumper sticker the other day. It wasn't even on the bumper, but on the side passenger window. It said, "I brake for trains." The lady driving the car didn't look like she had a sense of humor either.
I'm about to break down and get haloscan comments. But I hate like anything to lose the other ones. We've had some nice conversations and Jack sort of propositioned me once. But I think I'll take a lesson from the Tibetan monks and get the hell over it.
I have a friend visiting me beginning on May 6, so I don't know how much time I'll have to blog, but I will do my best. My will is sapped. I am now one with The Blog.
I'm about to break down and get haloscan comments. But I hate like anything to lose the other ones. We've had some nice conversations and Jack sort of propositioned me once. But I think I'll take a lesson from the Tibetan monks and get the hell over it.
I have a friend visiting me beginning on May 6, so I don't know how much time I'll have to blog, but I will do my best. My will is sapped. I am now one with The Blog.
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