Anticip.....ation.

I'm so excited to be going to Dallas. Elliott - baby - save me a dance or something. You too, Tease.

I'm taking the bus. I'm actually excited to be taking a freakin' bus. For starters, I can't drive very well. This has a long, boring personal history behind it, so I won't bore you. Secondly, I love bus stations. The more child hookers the better. Just kidding. I just like the comings and goings. My favorite word in the whole English language is 'departure' announced over an intercom.

Perhaps I'm not as much of a country girl as I thought.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the uninterruped moments of solitude. I plan on sleeping and playing Zuma on my cell phone on the way up. And speaking of which, I have to remind Jethro to get an extra motel room. He's sharing one with three guys right now, and I'll screw him in front of them if I have to, but I'd prefer a little romance. Or at least a shower curtain or something.

And speaking of Jethro, pray for him tomorrow and Saturday which is when he'll be taking those boards. They start at 8:45am and go until 7:00pm both days. I know. The horror. And on top of that, he's sick with a sore throat and a fever. So keep him in your prayers. We can't do much if he doesn't pass.

So thanks for all the Bratz advice. It's nice to know I'm not some kind of psycho prude who's going to end up forcing her daughters into prostitution just to escape the injustice of never owning a Bratz doll. As it turns out, the makers of Bratz have made other, less repulsive dolls called 4 Ever Best Friends. I realize they're a little PC in their mixed-race themes, but face it, My kids are mixed and these dolls look like them and their friends. I think that's important. And since they're made by whoever makes the Bratz dolls, I can buy the Bratz sushi lounge (which is so cool it makes me want to cry) for them and satisfy my obsessive compulsive disorder regarding accessories matching the dolls.

And, best of all, these dolls lack the 'tudz.

I know I spend a lot of time thinking about their toys. Probably too much. But the girls watched one episode of the Bratz Rock Angels cartoon. Jethro and I were there and didn't think much of it until Jethro asked Emma, the good one, to put on her shoes and she raised her little hand, snottily, and said "Whatever." To. Her. Father.

Oh no she didn't, girlfriend. That was nipped in the bud. But all because of that lousy show. They are never watching it again. And in fact, they're never watching the Cartoon Network again. They can watch Nick Jr and the Disney channel. And maybe PBS if I'm feeling generous.

I don't think the makers of those programs know anything about kids. I know the idea is to show spunky girls, full of piss and vinegar, who have fun and won't let anyone stop them. The problem is that the only ogres trying to stop their fun in real life are their parents who want them to go to school or clean their rooms. Yeah. We suck.

This has been the longest day of my life. Jethro is in Dallas and I am just trying to get through the week without him. I hate being alone. I hate it so much, I moved in with my in-laws for the week. Screw all of you for laughing. You try being robbed by two gun-weilding psycho-boys and then tell me you wouldn't put up with your in-laws for the security of knowing your children are safe. But I don't actually have to "put up" with my in-laws. I like them and they tolerate me reasonably well, so it's win-win, especially because they get to have a slumber party with their grandaughters every night.

But seriously, I don't know how military families do it. One night without my husband, and I'm antsy and miserable. I can't say enough heartfelt "thank you's" for the sacrifices they make. Bless you all.

So I had the kids fed, homeworked, bathed and in bed by 8:30pm. Then their grandparents came home and ruined it. "Who wants ice cream?!" Damn them. So I decided they would have to get the girls to bed and I would come back to my house to take out the trash and take a shower. First thing I did was grab the gun and keep it in the bathroom with the shower door open, just in case. After I was finished, I sat here naked and started blogging. Then I thought about horror movies and how the naked chick always, always dies. So I retrieved the weapon from the bathroom and I'm now sitting here blogging naked and holding a gun. A loaded gun. If I make it through the week without getting a tit blown off, I'll consider it a major victory for self-reliance.

So I hope we get to see everyone in Dallas. I'm just sitting here, naked, with a gun, counting the minutes.

Monday

First a funny from Emma. We were out eating and she decided to get up. Just as I picked her up out of her chair, she let one rip. I laughed and said, "What do you say?"

She said, "I farted."

I laughed again and said, "No, you're supposed to say "excuse me."

She said, "Oh. Excuse me. I have to go tell Gwennie I farted."

No shame, that one.

Anyway, I need advice. Gwennie and Emma love the Bratz dolls. So far, I haven't let them have one because they seem too narcissistic and materialistic. Plus, they look ridiculous. They have huge heads and scrawny little bodies. They should start billing them as "ethnic anorexics, whoring their way to better fashion."

But more than the pounded on makeup and the slutty clothes, I have a problem with the "attitudz," as they like to claim the "toyz" posess. Even the "ponyz" have "attitudz." Look at them. They look like My Little Ponies in Hell.

So I'm torn. I know the girlz, I mean girls want them, and I'm not one of those people who think toys can magically and evilly posess children and start making them think things are not actually what they are. I mean, I played with Barbies and I had no delusions about what I would look like when I grew up. It was pure fantasy.

And the Bratz are pure fantasy. I just don't know that I really like that fantasy. At least the Barbies stayed home or had careers - actual money-making careers. But I'm going to go out on a limb and say that they're probably harmless and I will consider getting them for Christmas, but I had better not see a hint of the Bratz attitudz or I will have no problems reconsidering while I spank 'em good.

Atrocity

*WARNING: EXTREMELY GRAPHIC PHOTOS*

Please notice how you will only be reading about this on blogs. I know it should probably go on Payasita, but I'm putting it here instead. Perhaps it seems more personal because one of the girls looks like my daughter.

If you ever have any doubts about who and what we are fighting, don't. There is no second-guessing motives here. This was not done out of desperation or poverty. And this is what we can expect if islamo-facism wins. You can sit around and try to understand the "whys," but you won't get any answers. It's as if the David Koreshes and the Jim Joneses were suddenly financed and given license by governments to cut the heads off children in the name of Christianity.

I don't care about offending Muslims. Muslims should be worrying about offending me. Where is the outcry from the Muslim world. I want to hear their outrage that someone of their religion would do such a thing. But we have nothing. Silence. Perhaps whiny equivocations from those leftists who are too stupid to realize that they are staring at their fate.

Does this represent the tactics of all Muslims? No. And I know it, so spare me the "not all Muslims are like that." But Muslims say nothing. And they will pay the price for letting the screaming imbeciles have their way.

Thanks to Blonde Sagacity for the link.

Payasita Update: Machismo vs. Homosexuality.

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Jethro and I are going to be in Dallas the evening of November 12 and during the day on November 13 (Saturday and Sunday) during the day. If anyone is interested in hooking up with either of us, you can email us at jethrozelda@yahoo.com. I'll email you back my cell phone and stuff. It'll be fun. There is an excellent possibility Carlos will be there so if there are any interested ladies, I've offered to be his pimp.

I'm off to go vote.

I'm back. There wasn't anything of interest except Prop 2 regarding the definition of marriage.

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Ok, I know this is random, but I just remembered it and I thought it was funny. After Jeth and I had sex the requisite 6 weeks after Gwennie was born, we lying there smoking our Marlboro Reds and I said, "You know what this makes you?"

Jethro said, "What?"

"A motherfucker."

Ba-Dum-PA! Thank you. I'll be here Tuesdays and Thursdays. Be sure to tip your waitress.

Good Halloween

It was a dark and stormy night.

And Gwennie had bronchitis. So trick-or-treating was limited to only a few houses. Then we took them to the mall. Keep reading. It gets better. Jethro decided that I, dressed as a looter, didn't do it for him, so on went the corset and fangs and crazy eyes. I guess I can manage to dress all slutty for him once a year. Jethro's leather pants fit a little tighter, and I had to lace the corset up a little looser, but I think we still managed to look pretty good.

Digression: Did you ever look into the mirror and realize you were looking older? My looks haven't changed much since I was 18, but I've been really looking at myself in the mirror lately, and I see things. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. But Jethro is going to end up looking younger than me eventually. And he'll be a doctor. I don't think my tits are going to make it that long. Show no fear. Read. Learn. A head full of thoughts will sustain you through times when you are alone. It seems silly to be worrying about loneliness with a husband and two children. I love us to the point of heartbreak. Is that enough to keep your best friend around when someone younger and hotter wiggles their way onto the table with a mouth full of flattery and tits full of saline? Am I giving this my best shot?

Resume: Gwennie and Emma were Mulan and Sleeping Beauty. So much for originality. I tried to make Emma Mushu, but she took one look at the costume and freaked out. It was so funny. She was so excited at first, but she got a look at the dragon head and her grin turned into a face of abject terror. I felt guilty and let her be Sleeping Beauty like she wanted.

At the mall, Jethro and I scared people with the eyes. Actually Jethro scared people with the eyes. I scared them with the boobs. It was funny. We will have pictures.

Sundries, and a Payasita Update

Payasita Update. I know I've been neglecting my little political clown, but nothing has aroused my ire until today. I still intend to post about Crawford though, as well as some personal insights into hippie/anti-war culture from the point of view of someone (me) who was conceived for the purpose of continuing a communist utopia. Yes, I've had an interesting life, and most of it wasn't even my fault.

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So Emma hops onto our bed last night, picks up the remote, and says, "I want to watch the Astros! GO ASTROS!!!" Jethro wept.

Later that night, I had dropped a pen behind the bed and was reaching below to get it out. My ass was sticking straight up, and Jethro came up behind me and started loving on it. My arm was stuck behind the bed, so Jethro had full advantage. Just as he was getting into full on spank-the-mommy mode, Emma calls out, "Mommy! Come and wipe my butt! She had been sitting in our bathroom on the potty the whole time.

Gwendolyn has bronchitis. She worked the pathos and got us to take her out for sushi. I must say there is nothing that will take your mind off a crushing World Series defeat like a sick child. But there is no one who can ruin your sympathy for her illness like Gwendolyn. She seemed to think that just because we did her bidding in taking her to the restaurant she wanted, we were now required to do her bidding forevermore. Long story short, she got spanked. And if you are going to take your child "to the car," there is no better place than an Asian restaurant because if anyone understands about beating children for a tone of voice, it's Asians.

Anyway, my day is going swell. I am having some people over for Halloween, so hopefully this will get my ass in gear and our house will be clean. If not, well it's not like I have that much of a reputation anyway. Have a great weekend.

Bad Post

Ok, I'm feeling a little bad about the last post. I wrote it last night after an evening of pure misery. I'll just have to be forgiven. But I give credit to Houston for not rioting.

Some fabulous news though. Jen had her little girl. She was three weeks early and is a teeny, tiny one. I can't wait to see her.



So I've decided to design our costumes to resemble these good folks.



Kristin sent me this picture and I laughed until I couldn't breathe. I'm afraid the crack ho look will be a little hard for me, since I am quite er.. healthy, but I'll do my best.

Jethro should have no problem.

Bad Baseball

All I have to say is that it's pretty easy to win a world series when umpires are on the take, Selig's dick is massaging your prostate, and a worthless media riles up their savages to assault the opposing players' wives, then proclaims the opposing team "too white to win." Granted the Astros sucked ass and probably would have lost anyway, but this was ridiculous. Call after bad call. And we saw how the umps screwed the Angels too.

I feel bad for the Astros. They deserved to play at least all of their home games. But the ones I really feel sorry for are the White Sox because their victory is now just as tainted as their defeat in 1919.

Bad Day

In case no one has noticed, I'm a terrible sport. I don't high-five and say "good game" after losing. I barely do it after winning. That is, unless I'm pressured into it by better sports than I. It's probably a good thing I grew breasts and gave up sports because I would be unbearable. More than I am now even.

So I've decided on our Halloween costumes. We are going as LOOTERS!! Jethro's going to carry our broken tv and a 6 pack. I'm going to carry a package of pampers and a 6 pack.

And the big winner of the Halloween costume contest is AJ in Iraq. I know how disappointed Jack is. He was pining for Jethro's nekkid ass, a fact in which Jethro has been rubbing my nose for days now. He walks around all cocky, flexing his buttock muscles, pointing at me at random intervals, and saying, "You and Jay can suck my dick. He wants me." It's bordering on the obscene.

Now AJ didn't come up with the exact idea, but he set me on the right track, so he gets to see one boob. Just kidding. The boy's in Iraq for crying out loud. I wouldn't do him like that.

Ensberg should have sacrificed and circumstances beyond our control prevented us from following our prescription for Astros' success. I don't want to talk about it.

IT'S ON BABY!!!

I think we have discovered the winning strategy for Astros victory. I CANNOT wear my Astros lounge pants at any time during the game. I probably shouldn't even look at them. Any time Jethro or I display a moment of confidence I must knock on at least two different pieces of wood. Jethro must also buy a 6 pack of Coronas during the 4th and 5th innings. He must open mine for me and let me have the first sip. And finally, I must masturbate said Corona gently during the 8th inning and simulate a vigorous blow job on it during the 9th, all the time whispering what I will do to every single pitcher if they win and if Jethro would release me from the marital vows for about 30 seconds apiece.

I reinjured my toe while giving Jethro's leg a thorough victory humping. Don't feel bad. It was worth it.

OSWALT ROCKS!!!! GO 'STROS!!!!

Random (and yes, I know that word is overused) Thoughts (that are somehow mostly on fatness)

1. I think it's cheating if you lose weight by having a gastric bypass or liposuction, so if you have had it, spare me the lectures on healthy eating.

2. I had a dream that my sister told me I was a size Jumbo. I woke up pissed off and hungry.

3. You know certain pants are bad if they make the store mannequins look fat.

4. I have to look good when Jethro becomes a chiropractor or people won't take him seriously.

5. Men are pigs and women are whores. No judgments.

6. Christopher Walken has jumped the shark.

7. Drugs=Eugenics. Legalize them.

8. There is an individual who currently exists for whom I feel no guilt over wishing him cancer, prison sex, castration, and death by suffocation with his own child's umbilical cord and after his eyeballs have been removed and replaced with his own testicles.

9. I have an overdeveloped sense of justice.

10.I'm actually a very laid-back person.

Would You Look At That!

What blows my mind is that she's wearing a thong too. My sexy underwear are bigger than those "shorts."

So I haven't lost my mind yet. I still don't have any order to my life, but I have an idea of how that order is to take shape, so it's a start. It's funny. I talk about masturbating, and suddenly I don't have to anymore. I think Jethro takes it personally.

Jeth and I went to a sex toy party the other night at the home of two married lesbians. I was peer pressured into buying a vibrator called "the insatiable g." It's made out of some kind of gel and it's curved inward. It also has a circle that's supposed to stimulate the clitoris. You push the vibrating bullets into both the phallus and the clitoral stimulator and it's supposed to stimulate your g-spot and bring you to earth-shattering, ear-splitting, eye rolling, tongue wiggling climax in under three minutes. It put me to sleep. If you want the truth (and I can't imagine why you would), I think the phallus was too small and soft. Pardon me, but I like a big, hard cock. Thank you.

There is something I find interesting about society. We insult each other with abandon. We are all cheerful, unashamed hypocrites when it comes to judging not. Mind you, I'm not judging this, but you take a pro-choice, anti-christian, liberal and let her know that you are a pro-life, non-religious, who is unashamed of her sex life, and suddenly you are a "dirty-mouthed skank whore" who has no right to an opinion just because she writes a dirty little blog. Like I would have more of a right to speak if I were a christian fundamentalist damning her to an eternity of hell and writing about stew and brown bread.

I've come to realize that I scare people. I scare die-hard pro-choicers because I'm a woman, but I'm not religious and don't think religion has anything to do with the issue. I scare liberals who play the race card because of Jethro. I scare religious people who worry about the future of the conservative movement. I scare Libertarians because if there is anyone who should be converted, it's me, but I oppose their priorities.

The sickest part about all of this is that I enjoy it. I enjoy it when I can't be defined. I get wet when someone calls me a racist, then sees Jethro. My nipples get hard when a pro-choicer calls me a whore. I don't know why and I don't care.

I haven't been this honest in awhile. It feels good.

Miseries

Please forgive what will be a very disjointed post.

I'm poorly. I have too many things on my plate. I decided to organize the house and it isn't going well. I decided to do everything at once so there are huge piles of clothes and toys and crap all over the house. I hate it.

On top of that Jethro has his boards and I'm doing online real estate classes which are completely boring and utter bullshit.

On top of that, Stepfather decided to get an office so I won't be working from home any longer. I'm fine with that, but he needs a desk, so I volunteered my home desk. This means my office can become Gwennie's room and there will be a place for all the toys and clothes (hopefully).

There is an order that things have to go in, and if you know me, you know how I detest order. I have to clean my bedroom, so I can move the computer out of the office, so I can move the desk to the new office, so I can move Gwennie's stuff into the office, so I can organize the toys and clothes and finally, finally clean up the living room, so I can concentrate on my real estate classes, so I can pass the test, so I can make some money, so we can move out of this dump. It's like the house that Jack built - and I'm no goddam architect.

On top of that, Carrie, the girl who is staying with us is due to have her baby any freakin' second. She's overdue by about 4 days and I'm ready to induce her myself.

On top of that, the toe I tried to kick Carlos in the balls with, but missed and hit his knee instead, is not healing. I have been limping for two weeks now, and it's really starting to interfere with my Carmen Electra Striptease Workout. Has anyone ever seen/been aroused by a limping stripper? I didn't think so. But if I ever have a band, that's what I'm going to call it. Limping Stripper. I can feel the damaged muscle and it's one that I have to walk on, so I imagine it will take quite a long time to heal. I'm supposed to keep it elevated (pardon me while I laugh hysterically).

So what do I do in the face of all this stress? I blog. And I masturbate. And I'm very good at both.

The Zoo

I still don't know what we're going to be for Halloween. There are actually a couple we are considering, so keep up the good work.

Jethro and I took the girls on a trip to the Houston Zoo this past Sunday. I have fond memories of the zoo. One time we went, there was a lady getting her picture taken by the monkey cages. She was standing there grinning like an idiot, while a monkey wanked it just above her head. She had no idea. It was hysterical.

Jethro's ex worked at the zoo for awhile. When the subject would come up, I would tell people her job was to stand in front of the monkeys and keep them from masturbating. Yeah. Don't ever date my husband.

This past visit was relatively uneventful. Gwennie lu-hu-hu-huves animals and was in 7th heaven when she thought some birds were trying to talk to her. "Look Mommy! They're talking to me! K-a-a-a!! K-a-a-a!!" she said earnestly. It was cute. Emma was very excited to see a "baby jagwater" as she calls both jaguar kittens or any other small cat resembling a jaguar. The zebras were also on her must see list along with koalas, giraffes, and tigers.

The funniest thing happened when we were eating lunch before we got to the zoo. We thought it would be nice to take the girls out for a little brunch, and our waiter happened to be as bald as a bean. As he left the table, Gwennie said, "Daddy, how do you say 'bald' in Vietnamese?" It wasn't as bad as the time she told the nice waitress she had a big butt and then laughed hysterically, but it was up there. Unfortunately, I wasn't paying attention to why she was asking that question, and I thought it was interesting, so I repeated it to Jethro who put his head in his hands and started crying softly.

Help Me Please

I am philosophically challenged at coming up with Halloween costumes. Showing off my boobs three years in a row is just tacky. I want something funny that doesn't involve Jethro in assless chaps - not that I wouldn't appreciate that, but he is too much of a prude.

Any suggestions would be most helpful and if I use any of your ideas, I'll send you a boob picture if you're a guy. If you're a gal, I'll take a pic of Jethro in the shower. He won't like it, but I'll risk his displeasure and it's the only time I'll be able to photograph him naked and scowling. And don't anyone dare say they don't want to see my husband nude.

A Forty-Year Old Virgin Reviews A Forty Year Old Virgin. Go Read It and Give Him Some Love

I was driving Emma to preschool and some idiot cut me off. I gave him my standard "fuck you." Emma started shrieking hysterically from the back seat. "I like dat word," she sighed when she was through laughing.

*gulp*

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If you've never given a blow job with pop rocks in your mouth, I highly recommend it. Fun for you, cheap for them - or something equivalent.

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That's pretty much all I have for today. Peace, Love, and Crabs.

Conversations With Gwennie

Zelda: "You really don't talk about anything but Sponge Bob with Nicholas, do you?"

Gwennie: "Not really, but tomorrow I'm going to tell him about Phantom of the Opera."

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Zelda: "What is your problem?!!!"

Gwennie: "Here or at school?"

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Zelda: "Gwennie, sit down, cross your legs and put your hands in your lap. See? Emma's doing it and I didn't even have to ask her."

Gwennie: "She cheated."

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(a letter from Gwennie, misspellings included)

Dear Evereone,

Please bring babies into this hows. I will tak good car of them. It would make me really glad.

Love,

Gwendolyn

Jethro was late getting up this morning and was in a frenzy trying to leave for clinic. He yanked open the door of the shower (while I was in it) to kiss me good-bye. After he did, I saw him for one brief second, look at my tits.

This is the power. He's late for work, he's seen them one-hundred thousand times, and he still looks.

Yeah. *smacks her own ass.* I still got it.

I'm considering myself tagged by Brighton.

The rules are:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

"I guess I have always been kind of non-conformist."

This does, in fact, sum up my blog.

I'm tagging Jen, Jethro, JP, John (you know who you are), and Gooch.

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Jethro and I went to Carlos's welcome home party last night. It was an interesting time. I bit his ass and Jethro filmed it. Everyone was pinching each others' nipples. Carlos dunked me in the pool. Jethro dunked Micky (his ex) in the pool (entirely her fault) and brained her a little on the side of it. He ended up in the pool too because if he hadn't she would have been crushed like an armadillo in hill country. I'll explain what happened.

After Carlos dunked me, I didn't want to get out of the pool, but I was bored so I called Jethro over to come drink with me. Micky had already been in the pool and decided that she would shoving Jethro in as well.

Jethro stood up, with her firmly implanted on his back and flung her pretty damn hard at the water. Now common sense dictates that when you are being launched towards water and concrete, you aim yourself at the liquid. For some reason, Micky held onto Jethro and ended up smashed against the side of the pool. Jethro jumped in to lessen the impact.

A short time later, I had the perfect opportunity to push Micky's husband into the pool, but I didn't. And I let him know it. He thanked me profusely and I got the last word whether Micky knows it or not. So there. Nya.

But there were funny moments too. Later that evening I tried to pull Carlos's pants down, then ran away. He pretended to chase me then told me I ran like old people fuck. I knew I was about to get pantsed so I turned around and hissed at him aggressively. It wasn't planned or anything. Apparently, it is what I do when I'm cornered. Carlos started laughing and didn't pants me. We started sparring and he aimed one at my face. I kicked at his balls, but he cock-blocked and I kicked his knee with my big toe which hurt like the very devil. Still does. It's swelled up real big and it's all red. Well, the top is red, the bottom is kind of pink. I think Jethro was amused. But I know for sure that he would have pantsed me.

Over the course of the evening, I got to wondering about this group of ours. We are all college friends and I think everyone has slept with everyone at least once (or just made-out with, in my case). A lot of us are married now - and, if not to each other, always to people who fit right in. I was drunkenly observing all of our drunken behavior last night and I wondered if this was how scandals and key parties get started. It was depressing. As time goes by you lose more and more innocence. Oh, I know people think they are all bad in college, but it's an innocent kind of bad. I see potential for much greater harm in an incestuous little group of college friends after everyone starts pairing off. I hope it won't happen, but it might. It's the way things go. But I made a drunken decision that I won't allow that to happen to Jethro or me. You can mock the drunkenness, but my drunken decisions stick. I was drunk when I decided that Jethro would be the First. And that was almost a year before it happened.

Now I don't mind anything that happened last night. Some light-hearted titty twisting is just fine with me. But there is a stage where things can degenerate and I mean to be alert to it.

In other personal news, there is a possible job for Jethro right here where we are living now. It would be perfect because I'm taking my real estate classes as we speak, and I could stay here and build up my business while Jethro builds up his. I should be ecstatic. I have no right NOT to be ecstatic. But I'm not thrilled. I can't stand where we live. It is so fake and nouveau riche and utterly stifling. Give me the city or the country. I don't really care which. Just not the mind-numbing mundanity of the suburbs. I want to move to Wimberly, TX. Ok. I'm done bitching. I will start counting my blessings and quit being an ungrateful bitch. Yeah. That'll happen.

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Oh, and yesterday was my blog's birthday. Yeah. I know.

Voices From Beyond

Whenever I have dreams of my dad, he never speaks. I told my mother-in-law about it and she said that sometimes when you dream of those who have died, they don't speak. That's how you know they are dead. She said that she had a dream of brother's widow in Vietnam and she just stood there soundlessly. She called her parents back there and asked about her. They told her that she had, indeed passed away (under very politically suspicious circumstances - as did her husband - but that's another story), but they hadn't wanted to tell her.

There was only one time when my father spoke to me in a dream. And it's so spooky, I'm almost afraid to share it.

It was right before I was to marry Jethro. I was a wreck. I was pregnant and ill and nervous and I had no idea if I had any right to force Jethro to live with me indefinitely. When I went to sleep, I had a dream that I was about 10 years old, and my sisters and I were at a flea market looking for winter mittens. There were hundreds and hundreds of mittens in these barrels and you had to dig through them to find the pair you wanted.

After digging through them and finding a pair, we left. I started second-guessing immediately about whether or not I had picked the right pair. I was fretting and moaning and really working up to a good whine, when my dad put his hand on my shoulder and said, "It'll be alright."

That was it. I woke up feeling reassured.

I never expected to feel my father's presence after his death. And, with the exception of this dream, I haven't. I don't feel ignored, however. If you believe in any way in spiritual "warfare" (for lack of a better term), you would know my father had bigger fish to fry. We all knew what was expected of us and I think he would have been miffed if we distracted him from his larger task by going off the deep end (which I did anyway). But in that one moment where I desperately needed some reassurance, he came through. And I've lived by those dream words ever since.

What Jethro Packs Besides A Firearm

I sorted through years worth of shit to find and pack that which was most valuable to us. It ended up being photos and a few heirlooms from deceased grandparents, and some toys that I enjoyed Gwennie and Emma play with.

Jethro packed meat. Forty pounds of frozen meat on ice in a cooler.

It's interesting to see where our priorities lie.

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We met Trashman at a divy little joint called the Broken Spoke, which Jethro kept calling the Sliding Knob. Guess who hasn't gotten any in awhile? We also met his lovely wife, Jen, and their two very cool sons, who were raised well enough to pretend they weren't bothered by our two little girls tagging along after them and insisting that they play with them.

I am actually at a loss for words when it comes to Trashman. The man is virtually untapped. He was all he's cracked up to be and much more. He had Jethro and me in stitches and I was wiping tears of mirth from my eyes more than once. If you would, please try to get him to blog about Vegas. It will be well worth it. He is not only entitled to his opinions, he has earned them. He has done shit and that's all I can really say.

And as for Jen, well, he is a lucky, lucky bastard. She is cool and beautiful and down-to-earth and so funny and friendly. I liked her instantly.

We talked for five hours during which Jethro did his best to get Jen drunk. I don't know how well it worked, but he sure made his best effort. Trashman gave me my .38 special casing earrings. I plan on wearing them when I want to intimidate people.

So all in all, I am very glad we evacucationed to Austin.

We met the Trashman. More later.

"Better Refugee North Right Quick, Ma'am"

Twelve hours to get from Houston to Austin. We spent four hours of that on 1093 (Westheimer) on a stretch that should take only 10 minutes. I had to take Emma to pee on the side of the road and she cried because she doesn't like to do bathroom things in front of people. I'm sure she was utterly traumetized having to do it in front of 100,000 people. I also got eaten alive with fireants on my left foot because I couldn't shake them off while Emma was peeing. But I don't complain. There are others who still haven't made it here.

But once you resign yourself to the fact that traffic is going to be a bitch and you are not going to make good time, it becomes much easier to handle mentally. I only had one instance of road rage. We had just made it through the four hours of traffic on 1093 and the only reason traffic was moving at all was because two nice men were directing the traffic that was coming from two directions. We were the second in line and the woman in front of us stopped to ask the nice men directions. There were probably 15 hours of cars behind her by that time, and the stupid bitch wants to hold it up to ask for directions she probably didn't have the brain function to understand anyway. I lunged across Jethro and plunged myself on the horn. It was either that or the gun, and I didn't care which. I just leapt upon the first thing that would do my bidding. The woman is very lucky she survived Hurricane Rita with her body whole.

We are staying with one of my sisters who lives in apartments owned by a frat house. It is a total shitbox, so Jethro and I went to WalMart (which is a blog post in itself) and bought her a dvd player, a shower curtain and some groceries. We will end up buying her a shower head too when all is said and done. She is lucky to have us and we are lucky to have her, but she is one of those kids who is a little old lady long before her time. I think Gwennie and Emma will put quite a strain upon her nerves by the time we leave.

I am hoping Trashman calls us. It would be great to finally meet him (hint, hint).

Thank you all so much for your well wishes. Aside from worrying about Jethro's parents, who wouldn't leave even when I had Gwennie call them and beg, we are doing fine. God bless you all.

Run For The Hills Folks

So we are planning on evacuating and we are planning to stay. Does this make any sense? The stores have run out of water, plywood, and batteries. It's a good thing I put fresh ones in my vibrator. We can use those.

But I think we're evacuating to Austin. If it hits the way they are projecting, Austin will get it too, but it won't be as bad. So Trashman, here we come. If I can talk my sister in to watching Gwennie and Emma, I will spend the duration getting plowed on 6th street. I thought of a new drink for the occasion: The Hurricane Rita. It would probably taste terrible, but it would be so freakin' cool.

We 're going to be getting ready today and leaving tomorrow depending on the projections, so I don't know if I will have time to blog. If I don't get a chance to blog for a few days, say your prayers for us and everyone else in harms way.

And Jack, on the off chance we try to ride it out, will you come and save us?

New Bra and a Bag of Cheetos

Haiku

I must buy my tops
At the store for Large Ladies.
Shut up. It's the boobs.

On the floor was an
Empty, crinkled Cheetos bag.
I laughed pretty hard.








(I'm sorry AJ).








But seriously. God bless the UK. If it weren't for them, it would be strictly army issue.

Neighborhood Kids

My neighbor dropped by yesterday and asked if I could pick her elder son up from school. Her younger son (with the big thang) popped his head in and said, "Because I have to go to the doctor. I have a bad pee pee infection. It's swelled up real big and it's all red. Well, the top is red, the bottom is kind of pink."

I am doubled over laughing at this point, and his slightly drug addled mom has just realized what her son has said. She tried clamping her hand over the kid's mouth, but it was far too late. It was less than no trouble to pick up her son, so I agreed.

This particular son has a crush on Gwennie, but as you may know, Gwennie walks across the street every day with a boy named Nicholas. I had no idea how hard Elder Son was taking this until yesterday. I was waiting for all the kids to cross the street. Elder Son reached me first and we waited for Gwennie and Nicholas who were holding hands and laughing as usual. Elder Son frowned and looked menacing and he wouldn't speak to Gwennie in the car. Heehee. And so it begins. I've decided to take a position of non-interference. Unless there is actual meanness or snobbery on Gwennie's or Emma's part, they can pick their own friends.

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I only had one steady boyfriend before I dated Jethro. I'll call him Joe. He was a very sweet boy, but so not the one for me. He was Southern Baptist to begin with and I was very very Catholic. It wasn't really a problem for either of us, but there was always this undercurrent. You'd think two Christians would have less friction that a Buddist and a Christian, but not so. We made out a lot, but I don't think he ever got past a very limited second base. Poor guy.

There were so many little things that drove me nuts. He always said the same thing whenever we got behind a slow car: "Come on, people. Vertical peddle on the right!" I had made the near fatal mistake of laughing politely the first time he said this. After that, he seemed to think it was one of his better lines.

There was one incident in particular that marked the beginning of the end. He was going to Baylor College in Waco and decided to come down one weekend to see me. He and his boys had stopped at a Mexican restaurant first. I was growing a little weary of him by this time, but it was hard to break up with him. I didn't have a whole lot of friends and for me, boyfriends were a little hard to come by.

The doorbell rang and I answered it. There was Joe standing there, smiling. I stared at him in horror. He had been eating beans apparently because his front tooth was encased in a bean skin. There is nothing so gross looking. He swept me up in a big bear hug and tried to plant one on my mouth. I gave him my cheek at the last minute. I wasn't quite sure how to tell him in front of my family and his friends that there was no way in hell he could kiss me on the mouth with a bean skin on his tooth. Joe just chalked up my reticence to Catholic modesty. I was panicking by this time. No one else seemed to notice the bean skin which, to me, had suddenly become the biggest thing in the room. I was standing at the edge of the kitchen and living room. Everyone was talking and Joe sidled off to the kitchen presumably to get a drink of water. Suddenly, I was snatched from behind, pushed up against a wall, and kissed about as soundly as I've ever been.

Have you ever screamed with someone's tongue in your mouth?

When he was all through, the bean skin was gone. I checked my own mouth frantically with my tongue, but came up dry. I never did find it and I must have looked quite strange to Joe, who was standing there grinning like a Cheshire cat. Somehow, I don't think my reaction to his grand, romantic gesture was quite what he'd expected. We broke up a month or two later. I called him at college and told him we needed to see other people. Rumor had it that he still liked me, although I can't imagine why. Poor guy. I wasn't mean to him, but I was thorough.

The Boom Boom Room

Jeth and I went to Brighton's Saturday night. We hadn't planned on it because I thought we had a wedding. As it turned out, the wedding is this coming weekend and we were able to make it to Travis's party.

Brighton's home is so beautiful. I got to meet her kids who are adorable right down to Sara's brand-new glasses. And I got a look at the Lennox tan walls which are all they are cracked up to be.

I'll have to admit I sucked back quite a few margaritas. They were delicious. This had the common side-effect of making me pretty drunk. After the party ended, the folks who were left made a little trip to the Boom Boom Room. For those who haven't read Brighton's blog, the Boom Boom Room belongs to their neighbors. It is in the back of their garage and it looks like a little hole-in-the-wall bar. There was a bar set up at one end and a refrigerator full of beer at the other. The decor consisted of a few deer skulls over which were draped several bras, and the head of a some type of feral cat with it's teeth bared. There was also a stripper pole which may have been a contributing factor in the dangling of the bras.

Brighton, brought out her stripper shoes and treated us all to a display of highly professional dance moves. Carmen E-slut-ctra has nothing on her. What struck me as so amusing was that one second she was an adorable little hostess with the mostest and bestest margarita machine in the entire world, and the next second, she was a professional seductress in 9 inch heels.

And speaking of the 9 inch heels, I tried them on. How drunk was I?

I don't have good balance as it is and I rarely wear heels. I bought a pair to wear to a formal in college. I was practicing walking in them outside my apartment and my gay neighbor observed that I walked like a truck driver and proceeded to wedge his feet into them and show me how it was done.

I didn't fair a whole lot better with Brighton's. I crammed by long, narrow tootsies in them and had to spread my legs very wide to maintain some kind of balance. Sounds sexy doesn't it? It wasn't. I didn't see my reflection or anything (and couldn't have anyway since I was cross-eyed drunk), but I have a feeling I looked like I was giving birth. To a truck driver.

But it was a very fun night. It is always nice to meet people who take it upon themselves to make their own good times. So here's to enterprising married couples with beer, margaritas, and boom boom rooms.

A View From The Top

When I was in college in New Hampshire, a few friends and I decided to make a trip to NYC over the Thanksgiving break. It was bitterly cold, and being from Texas, I was not in posession of a very good winter coat. I was wanting to stay inside as much as possible and there was no argument from the rest of the group. Most of the guys had never been to NYC before, so we were stuck doing the usual touristy things - which really are mandatory on your first visit. Since I had grown up in NY and had relatives in the city, I had already done everything we ended up doing. The only thing I hadn't done was visit the observation deck of the World Trade Center.

Being fairly terrified of heights, I agreed to go to the top of the building, but not onto the roof. However, being with a group of boys for whom exploiting one's worst fears is their idea of rollicking good fun, I found myself forced onto the escalator leading to the outside deck. I never did end up near the railing, but I could see plenty from the wall to which I stuck as if my back were made of wet cement.

Thoughts of the apocolypse are not far from anyone's mind when they're staring out from atop one of the tallest buildings in the world. Perhaps there is a primogenitive fear of the consequences of the Tower of Babel. My mind went nuclear immediately and I saw a ball of fire rise from the edge of the world, and engulf the twinkling lights below. I was happy to leave.

My father said once that he didn't like the World Trade Center. I asked him why and he said they were too big a target. I'll admit I was a bit of a daddy's girl, but I still think he had second sight.




Evil is powerless if the good are unafraid

- Ronald Reagan


"Burn my Flag and I will shoot you........but I'll shoot you with a lot of love, like a good American".

-Johnny Cash, American entertainer, country music legend.


The battle is now joined on many fronts. We will not waver; we will not tire; we will not falter; and we will not fail. Peace and freedom will prevail.

-President George W. Bush
October 7, 2001

Of all the advice I have to give, this is probably the most valuable:

Don't ever, EVER, EVER shave your armpits and then try to soften them up with lemon verbena/sweet pea bath salt.
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I swear if I didn't have all girl stuff, I'd be a guy. I can't sleep anymore unless I've gotten off. I don't know what it is. I'm good for one per night and then it's lights out, mama.
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Gwennie got a note home and her star crossed out because she spit on the floor while they were lining up for P.E. WTF? I never did anything like that when I was in school. She cried so hard when I asked to see her folder last night, and when I read of her transgression, she said she did it because she was bad and selfish. No duh. Sometimes the inner workings of her little brain baffle me.

Emma is her usual good little self. She started pre-school at her old daycare. I'm so glad they have a program because she loves the girl who runs it. When I told her she would be starting preschool soon, she got all excited. The next morning when I was walking out the door with Gwennie, she came running up with her little lunch box and said, "I'm ready for school, Mommy!" I had to leave her heartbroken and sobbing when I told her she wasn't starting until next week.
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I'm in the middle of reading about fornication in Imperialist Japan. There is a book called The Pillow Boy of Lady Onogoro. I've read it a few times now. It is quite...stirring. I'm also reading a history of the U.S. presidency, but I doubt anyone wants to hear about that.

Jack Is Wearing My Underpants

Well, maybe not Jack, but some N.O. cop is. Jethro and I were fortunate to find a retired police officer who was heading down to the area to bring supplies to the police officers there. We were able to load up on t-shirts, undies and socks - all extra-large, of course, and give them to him before he headed out.

I know this is an unprecedented disaster, but all of this hurricane stuff is depressing.

Not that this has anything to do with anything, but I went to bath junkie yesterday and made my own bath salt in a lemon verbena/sweet pea fragrance. It smells awesome. It's more of a summer fragrance than a fall one, but since it is sweltering down here until sometime in January, I figure what the hell. The bath junkie girls had never smelled it before, and liked it so much they wrote it down so they could recommend it to others. I was slightly piqued that they wouldn't allow me to enjoy my rather exclusive creation, but was flattered they thought it would sell well.

Jethro and the girls and I went one of our cousin's weddings Saturday night. I was running around like a madwoman trying to get everything ready. I posted a comment at Fleece's, that sweet, ruthless connoisseur of bad fashion, describing the outfit I left the house wearing:

I was in a huge hurry to get things for a wedding, and I left the house wearing extremely unflattering orange lounge pants and a brown muscle shirt [dyed] with Texas dirt, a fact which is proudly stated on the front along with a picture of the TX flag, that I didn't realize showed more of my bra than not, and unmatching pink flip flops that gave me blisters after awhile and made me walk funny.

How sick is that?

One of my excursions that day included Payless for Emma's sandals. I suddenly remembered a man I once saw there. He was utterly nondescript. I would never be able to identify him if I ever saw him again, but I caught him with his pant legs rolled up and he was trying on very large sized ladies shoes. I did a double take. If I'd been in Montrose, Houston's rainbow fairy district, I wouldn't have looked twice. But in ultra-conservative part of Greater Houston, where I am pleased, or at least resigned, to make my abode, this sight is something of a rarity.

I asked the people working there if he ever came back and they said he came in all the time and that he was one of three men who regularly shopped there for all their large footed needs. They said he would peek his head in first to make sure no one could see him, and then proceed to the size 12's. They said sometimes he would come in with a little purse, and sometimes he would be wearing pantyhose.

You just never know about people sometimes.

Kind of a Hiatus

I'm not going to stop blogging, but my posts may be less profound and witty than usual. I'm going to be spending most of my time working and every other minute will be spend sorting clothes at the church. They have so many donations, but no one to sort through and organize them. Just so you know, if you wish to donate clothes, if you could take a few extra minutes and seperate out boys/girls/ladies/mens and put them into size categories. I can't tell you how much easier this would make everyone's lives. Everyone has been so generous already. If you are leery of giving money, you can give formula and diapers and wipes. They are always in need of that and the need is constant.

I just want to say that it is simple to blame the feds for the chaos in the aftermath of this hurricane. But the feds did everything in their power. The local government of New Orleans, corrupt since its very beginning, is to blame for not getting people out. Emergency funds were made available by the Bush administration before the storm even hit. And today we are seeing pictures of buses and cars vehicles under water that could have been used to evacuate the city and get them north or east. I believe blame will go to the Bush administration for cutting off funding to rebuild the levies. And it is deserved. It was a dangerous situation that was ignored. But the responsibility for the chaotic aftermath of the hurricane should be laid squarely on the local governments of Louisianna from the governor's office to city council and the mayor of New Orleans. They failed catastrophically at the one job they had to do - keeping people safe. And it isn't like a terrorist attack where there is little to no advance warning. They knew of this almost a week in advance. Utter and complete failure as far as I'm concerned.

New Orleans has a chance now, for the first time in its history, to make the city safer from hurricanes, and to toss out the corrupt government. It will be the only good to come out of this disaster. It's very convenient to blame the Bush administration since everything is always their fault, but if they and our mainstream media overlook the staggering incompetence of the local officials, they will deserve whatever happens in the future.

My Favorite City In The Whole Wide World

When I was about 15, my family moved to Houston. My father had been diagnosed with leukemia and was going to have treatment at MD Anderson Cancer Center. Before he was scheduled to go in, my parents thought we should travel a bit. We couldn't go very far being that we were 8 girls squished into a big, smoking, grey van, but we did make it to New Orleans. My grandfather and great-grandmother met us at the hotel, and the first morning we were there, my grandfather was robbed at gunpoint of $800 when he went to get his morning paper. Not the greatest of initial impressions.

My mom is a huge history buff and couldn't wait to get to the French Quarter. I don't think anyone had told her what would await her there. My mom is a nervous and easily embarrassed sort of lady. At one time she had a little gyrating dance and scream she would do if she saw something naughty that might contaminate the pure minds of her virgin daughters. She has since given up the song and dance now that she fears our souls are in firm possession of the devil, but on that day my poor mom ended up gyrating and screaming throughout most of the French Quarter. She fit right in.

I was a typical teenager; sulky and cross and wishing I was anywhere other than with my pious family in what was clearly a very adult town. Everything I knew of New Orleans I had read in a Nancy Drew book, so my knowledge was limited to Mardis Gras and a few pirate stories.

It was a chilly day, probably sometime in March, not long after Mardis Gras. I grumpily trudged around after my ridiculous family, trying to stay at least 10 paces behind on the off chance that if a cute guy happened to look my way he wouldn't think I was with them (all the time knowing full well that there was no mistaking it). We ended up at the French Market, with my mother alternately trying to point out historic sites while simultaneously distracting us from a rubber vagina suspended in a shop window.

After wandering about the market, I bought 3 porcelain masks at $3 apiece. I considered them among my most prized possessions until they disappeared when I went to college. I also bought a baseball cap to wear low over my eyes so I could never be positively identified as belonging to my family.

But as we made our way towards the river, the city began to work it's voodoo. The musicians in the street filled the air with something riveting. Ancient, yet new. Timeless, yet fleeting. Happy, yet indescribably sad. And as your ears caught a thread of melody, you felt a longing to snatch it and soar back to a time of pirates, and Cajuns, and quadroon balls. You remembered the soldiers and slaves, and the ladies of the night, and all the other ghosts when they lived.

As we were walking along the river back towards Jackson Square, a young man passed us singing "Mama Said" by the Shirelles. Not particularly jazzy, but something familiar, I picked up the tune and started singing; my sisters joining in one by one. All of us being blessed with decent voices and cute faces, we might have caused a brief stir anywhere else. Not in New Orleans. The most we got was a nod and a smile from a man with a trumpet who looked as if he knew from where that song had come.

I've been to New Orleans several more times since then, each time drunker than the last. But when I look back, that first visit is the one that means the most because there is just something about being in a place and recognizing a part of your soul. When the song of a city fills your heart, you leave a little piece behind so you don't forget. It's still there. It's probably under water, but it's still there.

Pray for that city tonight. There is so much that has been lost, and yet there is so much more to lose. Find a charity. Catholic Charities is a good one. So is the Red Cross and Mercy Corps. And they operate in all of the other areas affected too, not just New Orleans.

If you are in the Houston area, they need supplies for the 25,000 refugees coming to the Astrodome. The Diocese of Galveston/Houston is taking up collections for the Largest Sleepover in Texas. For the terrified children, they would like character sleeping bags and pillows.

Jethro and I were going to be counter-protesting Mother Sheehan as she visited Houston. But in light of this disaster, instead of going political, we are going to use any publicity she generates to hold a food and clothing drive. She may do some good yet, however inadvertent.

I have a neighbor who is the unfortunate victim of circumstance and has chosen to float through her troubles on a sea of prescription drugs. Every time I see her, her eyes are glazed and distant and she starts talking about God. I try to avoid her, but sometimes it can't be helped. On one of these occasions, she offered me the unsolicited information that her younger son's penis is humongous while her elder son's penis is relatively small.

The younger son (with the large penis) is around Gwennie's age. He is aggressive and obnoxious and an all around little shit. The older one is kind of shy. He has a crush on Gwennie and is sweet and kind to both her and Emma.

I'm just wondering if the old penis size has anything to do with anything. No one has to answer that.

-----------------------------

One of jp's last posts got me thinking about music. I hardly ever write about it. I listen to everything. Country, folk, rock, metal, jazz, celtic, zydeco, bluegrass, you name it. Which brings me to my gripe: Today's version of country. It isn't country. It's pop with a southern accent. It's stupid, trite, talentless and the sewage is churned out at the rate of well...sewage. If I hear one more pseudo-cowboy - no matter how hot he is or how big his penis is speculated to be - sing about bein' a big ol' cryin' teddy bear who weeps big ol' tears when his little girl trips and falls on his dawg, I will scream my bloody head off.

Where is the next Frank Sinatra or Elvis or Johnny Cash? You wouldn't dare speculate on their penis sizes for fear they'd punch you in the face.

Who is popular now? Tim McGraw? Please. He doesn't even chew. Justin Timberlake? I can barely make my fingers type that name. He'd look much better with a few teeth missing preferably from the shovel I smack him with.

But since my rant is mostly about country music, I will continue in that vein. I like old country or folk country, but expecially bluegrass. If you're going to sing country, get out your fiddle and your banjo. Oh, you think it sounds too hick? I got news for you. Your fan base likes hick. And playing the banjo takes talent - real talent. Playing the fiddle takes even more. I know. I play the violin. It's fucking hard. Someone who can't appreciate a good fiddle because they think it makes them one step away from the trailer park is just as ignorant as someone who can't enjoy a good violin because they think it will make their penis small.

Have I been talking a lot about penises? Am I suddenly obsessed? Did I get some on the way up to Crawford in the back of my husband's Honda Accord?

It is FREAKIN HOT!!!!!!

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.

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 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?

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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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

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?

Hi and Stuff.

Payasita Updatate

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.