I am currently taking a Typography class which I'm finding quite interesting. We're studying the history of different typefaces and doing related projects.
One of our projects is to collect samples of different fonts from anywhere and make a scrapbook of sorts.
There are several new strip malls that have gone up fairly close to where we live, and some of the stores have some interesting lettering in their signs, so I went with Jethro on his lunch break to go take pictures of them.
Without stopping to consider things all that carefully, I took a picture of a jewelry store. Probably not the best idea I've ever had. I was in the middle of photographing the shop next to it when the manager came out. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I was in a typography class and was taking pictures of the lettering of the different store signs.
He said it wasn't a good idea to be taking pictures of a jewelry store.
When put in that light, I agreed that it probably wasn't a terribly good idea.
I figured he was just feeling out the situation to make sure I had no nefarious intentions, so I tried to pleasantly ease his concern.
But then he got a little nasty. He said if his store got robbed the police were coming after Jethro and me, and that he wanted copies of our id's.
He was talking to me, not having the balls to talk to Jethro who observed the whole thing bemusedly from the sidewalk. I just laughed and told him I wasn't going to do any such thing.
He then demanded that I erase my pictures.
Now if he had asked me politely to erase them just for his peace of mind, I would have done it gladly. I'd hate to think of anyone wasting their time worrying about something so unimportant all day long. But he just kind of inspired obstinacy. I told him I had every right to take pictures if I wanted, and he could go ahead and call the police and ask them himself if he had any doubt. I would be happy to wait for them just so I could have the last word.
He abandoned that line of reasoning and told me that I was rude for taking pictures of the store. I told him it was actually a compliment that I wanted to use his sign as an example of good typeface for his particular business (which it was).
He told me I should ask before I did anything like that again.
That wasn't unreasonable and if he had started off with that instead of accusing Jethro and me of casing his joint in broad daylight during lunch hour, I might have been more acquiescent. But that's us, Bonnie and Clyde...
So as it stands, I got my way entirely. I just wish I felt a greater sense of satisfaction.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Thursday, May 08, 2008
The Rules
Gwennie has formed a Gwennie/cheerleading club with Emma as the solitary, and most unwilling participant.
Emma's reticence might have something to do with the Book of Rules, which I will post here for your amusement. I won't change the spelling or grammar.
Rule 1:
listen to the master
(And beneath the rule, she has drawn a picture of herself saying "Go get me a glass of water please," and Emma, drawn significantly smaller, saying "OK.")
Rule 2:
go to the bathroom befor practice/meeting
(underneath she drew a picture of herself waving cheerleader pom poms in front of a crowd of cheering minions and beneath that, she drew a picture of a toilet and Emma washing her hands at a sink with a paper towel dispenser beside her.)
Rule 3:
have fun!
(She drew a picture of herself smiling on a trampoline and Emma on the roof of a house preparing to jump onto the trampoline. Underneath that she drew a square in which she wrote note: most important rule.)
Rule 4:
haircuts will make your points go higher also ponytails.
(Underneath she drew a scoreboard with scores for various criteria, and underneath that, she drew another picture that I can't decipher. It has two girls facing backwards, and a devil with a pitchfork with an unhappy expression who looks as if he is falling down.)
Rule 5:
if you lose all your points you are out of the team
(underneath she drew a group of girls smiling and pointing at another girl who is crying and waving goodbye.)
Rule 6:
Go with the masters choises
(the artwork seems to degenerate from here, but she drew a figure which she labelled as herself and two other smaller figures who look as if they are about to do whatever she says.)
Rule 7:
only the master can go get snack. unless she says so.
(underneath she has a picture of someone reaching for snacks and not quite getting them. or possibly someone who has gotten snacks without permission and who has been kicked from behind. I can't tell.)
Rule 8:
keep pillows on heads at all times in the room (closet)
(Quick note: Gwen and Emma have turned Gwennie's closet into their club room. Gwennie even sleeps in there sometimes. Underneath the rule, she drew Emma with a pillow over her face.)
Rule 9:
only go outside when you have a pass
(underneath she has drawn a figure with a hall pass.)
Rule 10:
do not embaress the master
(underneath, she drew a picture of herself with an angry expression and what actually looks like a blush - two round circles on her cheeks - and Emma with something on her head and a black eye.)
Rule 11:
Do not hurt anyone
(Underneath, she seems to have drawn herself punching Emma. Not quite sure what this means.)
Rule 12:
do not hide Passes
(Underneath, she drew herself yelling at a tiny Emma who has a pass hidden behind her back.)
Rule 13:
if you are not the master do not Write/Draw on Journal
(no picture)
Rule 14:
No Pets allowed exept dogs.
(no picture)
Rule 15:
Do not make the Master mad/sad/upset.
(underneath she drew what appears to be a minion in some kind of prison and the words "Go away get a warning" right next to the picture.)
Rule 16:
Do not steel anything from anyone
(underneath she drew a blond with evil looking eyebrows stealing a marble from a weaker looking figure who is sad or angry. She labelled the marble.)
Rule 17:
Do not trick master
(This is one of my favorite pictures. She drew herself with a long arm and hand with the index finger pointing straight up and an angry expression and Emma cowering beneath her.)
Rule 18:
Do not rip papper
(no picture)
Rule 19:
Do not ignore master.
(no picture)
Rule 20:
Do not brake any rules
(Underneath she drew a square in which she wrote note: another important rule)
Emma's reticence might have something to do with the Book of Rules, which I will post here for your amusement. I won't change the spelling or grammar.
Rule 1:
listen to the master
(And beneath the rule, she has drawn a picture of herself saying "Go get me a glass of water please," and Emma, drawn significantly smaller, saying "OK.")
Rule 2:
go to the bathroom befor practice/meeting
(underneath she drew a picture of herself waving cheerleader pom poms in front of a crowd of cheering minions and beneath that, she drew a picture of a toilet and Emma washing her hands at a sink with a paper towel dispenser beside her.)
Rule 3:
have fun!
(She drew a picture of herself smiling on a trampoline and Emma on the roof of a house preparing to jump onto the trampoline. Underneath that she drew a square in which she wrote note: most important rule.)
Rule 4:
haircuts will make your points go higher also ponytails.
(Underneath she drew a scoreboard with scores for various criteria, and underneath that, she drew another picture that I can't decipher. It has two girls facing backwards, and a devil with a pitchfork with an unhappy expression who looks as if he is falling down.)
Rule 5:
if you lose all your points you are out of the team
(underneath she drew a group of girls smiling and pointing at another girl who is crying and waving goodbye.)
Rule 6:
Go with the masters choises
(the artwork seems to degenerate from here, but she drew a figure which she labelled as herself and two other smaller figures who look as if they are about to do whatever she says.)
Rule 7:
only the master can go get snack. unless she says so.
(underneath she has a picture of someone reaching for snacks and not quite getting them. or possibly someone who has gotten snacks without permission and who has been kicked from behind. I can't tell.)
Rule 8:
keep pillows on heads at all times in the room (closet)
(Quick note: Gwen and Emma have turned Gwennie's closet into their club room. Gwennie even sleeps in there sometimes. Underneath the rule, she drew Emma with a pillow over her face.)
Rule 9:
only go outside when you have a pass
(underneath she has drawn a figure with a hall pass.)
Rule 10:
do not embaress the master
(underneath, she drew a picture of herself with an angry expression and what actually looks like a blush - two round circles on her cheeks - and Emma with something on her head and a black eye.)
Rule 11:
Do not hurt anyone
(Underneath, she seems to have drawn herself punching Emma. Not quite sure what this means.)
Rule 12:
do not hide Passes
(Underneath, she drew herself yelling at a tiny Emma who has a pass hidden behind her back.)
Rule 13:
if you are not the master do not Write/Draw on Journal
(no picture)
Rule 14:
No Pets allowed exept dogs.
(no picture)
Rule 15:
Do not make the Master mad/sad/upset.
(underneath she drew what appears to be a minion in some kind of prison and the words "Go away get a warning" right next to the picture.)
Rule 16:
Do not steel anything from anyone
(underneath she drew a blond with evil looking eyebrows stealing a marble from a weaker looking figure who is sad or angry. She labelled the marble.)
Rule 17:
Do not trick master
(This is one of my favorite pictures. She drew herself with a long arm and hand with the index finger pointing straight up and an angry expression and Emma cowering beneath her.)
Rule 18:
Do not rip papper
(no picture)
Rule 19:
Do not ignore master.
(no picture)
Rule 20:
Do not brake any rules
(Underneath she drew a square in which she wrote note: another important rule)
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Cynicism
Gwennie: "Mom, Bella and I decided to be friends.
Zelda: "That's good."
Gwennie: "Yeah. She said she was friends with Mary first and that I was trying to steal her away. But we decided that since Mary likes both of us, we should all be friends."
Zelda: "That sounds like a good idea."
Gwennie: "Mom, is Mary's party really at Girly Party Place and did they change the time to 4:00?"
Zelda: "Yeah. I spoke to Mary's mom yesterday and she told me they had to change the time."
Gwennie: "So Bella was telling the truth and it wasn't a scheme to keep me away from the party...."
Zelda: "That's good."
Gwennie: "Yeah. She said she was friends with Mary first and that I was trying to steal her away. But we decided that since Mary likes both of us, we should all be friends."
Zelda: "That sounds like a good idea."
Gwennie: "Mom, is Mary's party really at Girly Party Place and did they change the time to 4:00?"
Zelda: "Yeah. I spoke to Mary's mom yesterday and she told me they had to change the time."
Gwennie: "So Bella was telling the truth and it wasn't a scheme to keep me away from the party...."
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Five or Six (Known) Wives of Old G-Pa
The best way to describe my grandfather is that he is a living, breathing reincarnation of W.C. Fields.
He came to town a week early for my sister's wedding, and I was privileged to have an interesting conversation with him. It began with a discussion of the Eliot Spitzer affair.
For an elderly gentleman, my grandfather has quite a libertarian view of prostitution.
He declared that if he was in Spitzer's situation, he would never resign. I told him (jokingly) that if he was in Spitzer's situation he would probably have been impeached upon ascending the office based on his past alone.
He recounted the various women of ill-repute in his small Ohio town, some of whom had gone on to become quite successful in more legitimate businesses, or who had married prominent members of society.
This led to him reminiscing on his ex-wives. I'm not sure of the exact number, but he's definitely in Elizabeth Taylor territory. However, I don't think he counts the ones annulled by angry fathers brandishing various loaded weaponry. If my grandpa is to be believed, he's had his life (deservedly) threatened more than anyone I know.
I don't remember offhand the name of his first ex-wife. He's told me, but I can't remember. She was before my grandmother's time and they were hastily married during WWII when he was 18 and she was somewhat younger. I believe this was the cause of the first loaded shotgun being thrust into his face.
His second ex-wife was my grandmother. Two more incompatible people never forged a union. I do believe, in the finest of my family's tradition, there was some urgency to the nuptials as well.
My grandfather talked for some time about my grandmother. By this point, I'd stopped talking and just listened.
My grandmother was quite pretty and had been the toast of a nearby army camp along with her four sisters who would go and sing harmony for the boys before they shipped out.
She and my grandfather met after the war. He had spent the duration in the navy cruising the South Pacific on a supply carrier visiting the foreign ports and the ladies who passed their time there. She had spent the duration politely rejecting the advances of a hundred soldiers, holding out for Cary Grant.
No doubt he seemed a worldly, sophisticated young man in the small-town, mid-western eyes of my grandmother. And no doubt she seemed quite the trophy gal to my grandfather who possesses, if nothing else, a passive aggressive sense of competition.
To sum things up in a contemporary vernacular, he tagged her. And so began a life fraught with violence and upheaval.
Their first child was dropped on his head by a drunken OB, causing him a brain injury that resulted in mental retardation.
The fact that my grandmother was chronically and compulsively jealous (due to her father leaving her mother for a younger woman in an age where that kind of thing simply did not happen), and my grandfather was chronically and compulsively cheating (due to the fact that he was a man) did nothing to calm anyone's nerves.
And it was on this situation that my grandfather dwelt when talking about my grandmother.
"I had to step lively to avoid the butcher knife more than once," he said placidly. "She'd get herself all worked up about something, and she'd come at me. But then the damnedest thing. She'd be at me with the knife and I'd have had to bang her head on the ground to get her to let go, but when it was over, she'd want to have sex. I couldn't go from A-Z just like that. My nerves were a wreck after 4 years. I had to join the Merchant Marines just to calm down."
His third wife, Maryanne, was a nice lady from Kentucky. She took good care of him, his son, and my mother whom she didn't like much, but did her duty by.
"I really messed that one up," said my grandfather. "It was all my fault. I just couldn't stop the running around."
Maryanne divorced him in fairly short order.
His fourth wife was a rich widow from Arizona. Her name was Goldie. I actually remember her. She was a nice lady. She was about 30 years older than he was, but she kept him well clothed and well fed, and he kept his philandering to a minimum. Her family hated his guts (and not without reason).
When she died, she left him everything with the caveat that he was never to marry again. Her family naturally contested, and he, believing that he had no chance of ever getting the money, began keeping company with the most terrifying woman.
She was about 6 feet tall, of mixed Mexican and American Indian and European descent. She was absolutely wild. I remember my grandfather bringing her to visit us before they were married. My sisters and I just stood there with our jaws hanging. Even by today's standards she was just a little bit past exotic. To say that she was a gold-digger is not quite accurate. She was more of a gold-carnivore. And she voraciously gobbled up Grandpa. They were married shortly after their visit.
A few months later, the judge ruled that Goldie's will was valid and that my grandfather was entitled to her estate. But it was too late. Goldie's family had been proven right about Grandpa, and they had her money on top of it. Wild woman left him in pretty short order and Grandpa swore off marriage for awhile.
After settling in Florida and indulging in several interesting flings that may or may not have entailed a few wild trips to Vegas, Grandpa cast his eye on Katie, a sweet little old divorcee whose husband had left her for her best friend.
Katie had a stroke a short time after they eloped and her sons, thinking Grandpa might in the will, had the marriage annulled. My mom tried to defend him and the marriage, but she kept laughing and had to grudgingly admit that there was the slight possibility that Katie's son's had a point.
It seems that Katie was the last of the wives. Even though the marriage was annulled, Grandpa kept her company in the assisted living facility where she was residing after the stroke.
Recently, he moved in with my parents. He's been diagnosed with throat cancer. I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left, but I can't help hoping that they'll be able to keep him around for at least a few more years. His faculties are charmingly intact for an 83 year old man and his wit is not dulled.
He has a plethora of interesting expressions. And I'll leave you with his favorite:
"First your money, then your clothes, then only God in Heaven knows."
He came to town a week early for my sister's wedding, and I was privileged to have an interesting conversation with him. It began with a discussion of the Eliot Spitzer affair.
For an elderly gentleman, my grandfather has quite a libertarian view of prostitution.
He declared that if he was in Spitzer's situation, he would never resign. I told him (jokingly) that if he was in Spitzer's situation he would probably have been impeached upon ascending the office based on his past alone.
He recounted the various women of ill-repute in his small Ohio town, some of whom had gone on to become quite successful in more legitimate businesses, or who had married prominent members of society.
This led to him reminiscing on his ex-wives. I'm not sure of the exact number, but he's definitely in Elizabeth Taylor territory. However, I don't think he counts the ones annulled by angry fathers brandishing various loaded weaponry. If my grandpa is to be believed, he's had his life (deservedly) threatened more than anyone I know.
I don't remember offhand the name of his first ex-wife. He's told me, but I can't remember. She was before my grandmother's time and they were hastily married during WWII when he was 18 and she was somewhat younger. I believe this was the cause of the first loaded shotgun being thrust into his face.
His second ex-wife was my grandmother. Two more incompatible people never forged a union. I do believe, in the finest of my family's tradition, there was some urgency to the nuptials as well.
My grandfather talked for some time about my grandmother. By this point, I'd stopped talking and just listened.
My grandmother was quite pretty and had been the toast of a nearby army camp along with her four sisters who would go and sing harmony for the boys before they shipped out.
She and my grandfather met after the war. He had spent the duration in the navy cruising the South Pacific on a supply carrier visiting the foreign ports and the ladies who passed their time there. She had spent the duration politely rejecting the advances of a hundred soldiers, holding out for Cary Grant.
No doubt he seemed a worldly, sophisticated young man in the small-town, mid-western eyes of my grandmother. And no doubt she seemed quite the trophy gal to my grandfather who possesses, if nothing else, a passive aggressive sense of competition.
To sum things up in a contemporary vernacular, he tagged her. And so began a life fraught with violence and upheaval.
Their first child was dropped on his head by a drunken OB, causing him a brain injury that resulted in mental retardation.
The fact that my grandmother was chronically and compulsively jealous (due to her father leaving her mother for a younger woman in an age where that kind of thing simply did not happen), and my grandfather was chronically and compulsively cheating (due to the fact that he was a man) did nothing to calm anyone's nerves.
And it was on this situation that my grandfather dwelt when talking about my grandmother.
"I had to step lively to avoid the butcher knife more than once," he said placidly. "She'd get herself all worked up about something, and she'd come at me. But then the damnedest thing. She'd be at me with the knife and I'd have had to bang her head on the ground to get her to let go, but when it was over, she'd want to have sex. I couldn't go from A-Z just like that. My nerves were a wreck after 4 years. I had to join the Merchant Marines just to calm down."
His third wife, Maryanne, was a nice lady from Kentucky. She took good care of him, his son, and my mother whom she didn't like much, but did her duty by.
"I really messed that one up," said my grandfather. "It was all my fault. I just couldn't stop the running around."
Maryanne divorced him in fairly short order.
His fourth wife was a rich widow from Arizona. Her name was Goldie. I actually remember her. She was a nice lady. She was about 30 years older than he was, but she kept him well clothed and well fed, and he kept his philandering to a minimum. Her family hated his guts (and not without reason).
When she died, she left him everything with the caveat that he was never to marry again. Her family naturally contested, and he, believing that he had no chance of ever getting the money, began keeping company with the most terrifying woman.
She was about 6 feet tall, of mixed Mexican and American Indian and European descent. She was absolutely wild. I remember my grandfather bringing her to visit us before they were married. My sisters and I just stood there with our jaws hanging. Even by today's standards she was just a little bit past exotic. To say that she was a gold-digger is not quite accurate. She was more of a gold-carnivore. And she voraciously gobbled up Grandpa. They were married shortly after their visit.
A few months later, the judge ruled that Goldie's will was valid and that my grandfather was entitled to her estate. But it was too late. Goldie's family had been proven right about Grandpa, and they had her money on top of it. Wild woman left him in pretty short order and Grandpa swore off marriage for awhile.
After settling in Florida and indulging in several interesting flings that may or may not have entailed a few wild trips to Vegas, Grandpa cast his eye on Katie, a sweet little old divorcee whose husband had left her for her best friend.
Katie had a stroke a short time after they eloped and her sons, thinking Grandpa might in the will, had the marriage annulled. My mom tried to defend him and the marriage, but she kept laughing and had to grudgingly admit that there was the slight possibility that Katie's son's had a point.
It seems that Katie was the last of the wives. Even though the marriage was annulled, Grandpa kept her company in the assisted living facility where she was residing after the stroke.
Recently, he moved in with my parents. He's been diagnosed with throat cancer. I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left, but I can't help hoping that they'll be able to keep him around for at least a few more years. His faculties are charmingly intact for an 83 year old man and his wit is not dulled.
He has a plethora of interesting expressions. And I'll leave you with his favorite:
"First your money, then your clothes, then only God in Heaven knows."
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Stink Butt. Objectively.
I have a decent vocabulary.
And I realize everyone who has muddled through the gross misuse of some fancy word on my blog probably justifiably wants to punch me in the nose.
But I do have a fairly good vocabulary and I put it to use often. The downside is that my children hate me. The upside is that I can intimidate administrators easily. And also, my kids learn things. Both their teachers have told me they have a great vocabulary. Except that Emma doesn't talk much.
I took the opportunity this morning to elucidate to them the words 'objective,' 'subjective,' and 'empirical.'
Gwennie concluded before embarking on their school day that "Emma has a stinky butt" was an objective statement and was indeed supported by empirical evidence. Emma demurred, insisting that it was subjective because her butt smelled like roses.
Lord love 'em.
And I realize everyone who has muddled through the gross misuse of some fancy word on my blog probably justifiably wants to punch me in the nose.
But I do have a fairly good vocabulary and I put it to use often. The downside is that my children hate me. The upside is that I can intimidate administrators easily. And also, my kids learn things. Both their teachers have told me they have a great vocabulary. Except that Emma doesn't talk much.
I took the opportunity this morning to elucidate to them the words 'objective,' 'subjective,' and 'empirical.'
Gwennie concluded before embarking on their school day that "Emma has a stinky butt" was an objective statement and was indeed supported by empirical evidence. Emma demurred, insisting that it was subjective because her butt smelled like roses.
Lord love 'em.
Monday, April 21, 2008
"[They] Can't "Swift Boat' Me,"
says Barack Obama in response to questions about what is turning out to be many shady associations.
To which I say:
Yes. We. Can.
h/t: LGF
To which I say:
Yes. We. Can.
h/t: LGF
Saturday, April 19, 2008
“I have always had a negative opinion of those who, with their snotty noses and their erotic fantasies, meddle in other people’s lives...”
...said Vladimir Putin, former KGB member and current Russian President, when asked to comment on rumors of divorce.
H/T: Protein Wisdom
H/T: Protein Wisdom
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Frickin' Ouch
I'm brazenly displaying a bit of my bra to demonstrate the exquisite amount of discomfort I am feeling at the moment.
Apparently visiting the Poteet Strawberry Festival has colorful consequences.
I'm going to go wallow in aloe and misery for awhile.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A doctor's rep took Jethro and I out to lunch today to thank us for some patient referrals. I was at the clinic at the specified time and ran straight into Fat Whore as she was getting ready to leave.
She and Jethro were bantering about movies (she was berating him for not having seen all the movies she's seen). I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing cool would come out, so I closed it and observed her silently.
I marvelled at myself and how much I wanted to punch her in her fat face. I'm not usually jealous or violent. I sat there analyzing my feelings and decided that it isn't jealousy. Frankly, and I'll always be honest about this, she's got nothing on me at all. 1.) She's unattractive bordering on repulsive. 2.) She came on to Jethro, which is not the way to pique his interest. 3.) She does not converse nicely.
It is just the fact that she knew he was married (she's seen me before), and even more importantly, that she tried to get him to do something that is illegal and could get him in trouble.
I came to these conclusions as I watched her. I did observe that she wouldn't look me in the face. She knows I know. This amused me.
My goal is to eventually say something nice to her. I think that would be far better than giving her dirty looks.
Maybe I'll ask her if she's interested in three-way or something. Put her on the spot and see how she likes it.
God, I have to quit. Jethro is going to have the most uncontrollable ego and all my years of hard work cultivating indifference to his getting hit on will be wasted.
She and Jethro were bantering about movies (she was berating him for not having seen all the movies she's seen). I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing cool would come out, so I closed it and observed her silently.
I marvelled at myself and how much I wanted to punch her in her fat face. I'm not usually jealous or violent. I sat there analyzing my feelings and decided that it isn't jealousy. Frankly, and I'll always be honest about this, she's got nothing on me at all. 1.) She's unattractive bordering on repulsive. 2.) She came on to Jethro, which is not the way to pique his interest. 3.) She does not converse nicely.
It is just the fact that she knew he was married (she's seen me before), and even more importantly, that she tried to get him to do something that is illegal and could get him in trouble.
I came to these conclusions as I watched her. I did observe that she wouldn't look me in the face. She knows I know. This amused me.
My goal is to eventually say something nice to her. I think that would be far better than giving her dirty looks.
Maybe I'll ask her if she's interested in three-way or something. Put her on the spot and see how she likes it.
God, I have to quit. Jethro is going to have the most uncontrollable ego and all my years of hard work cultivating indifference to his getting hit on will be wasted.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Conversation At Night
Zelda (to a Jethro who is snoring away in a fetal position at the end of the bed with his laptop blazing: "Jethro, honey, lie down the right way. With your head on your pillow. Come on. Close the laptop and put it away."
Jethro: Okay, okay.
some light snoring.
Zelda: "JETHRO! Wake up! Come on. Turn off the light."
Jethro: "Do you mind?"
Zelda: "What are you doing?"
Jethro (haughtily): "I'm trying to relax!"
Zelda: "Do you think I'm talking for my own amusement?"
Jethro: "Yes."
Zelda (looking around for the heaviest portable object in the room in order to smash it into his forehead): "You're being ridiculous. Put the laptop on the floor, turn off your light, get under the covers, and then you can relax."
Jethro (sternly): "Listen. I run down all the animals and you just......
some more light snoring.
Zelda: "JETHRO!!!"
Jethro (condescendingly): "You're just jealous because I'm living the dream. AND. YOU'RE. NOT."
Between the snoring and the sleep arguing, Jethro will be lucky if he's not missing an appendage within a year.
Jethro: Okay, okay.
some light snoring.
Zelda: "JETHRO! Wake up! Come on. Turn off the light."
Jethro: "Do you mind?"
Zelda: "What are you doing?"
Jethro (haughtily): "I'm trying to relax!"
Zelda: "Do you think I'm talking for my own amusement?"
Jethro: "Yes."
Zelda (looking around for the heaviest portable object in the room in order to smash it into his forehead): "You're being ridiculous. Put the laptop on the floor, turn off your light, get under the covers, and then you can relax."
Jethro (sternly): "Listen. I run down all the animals and you just......
some more light snoring.
Zelda: "JETHRO!!!"
Jethro (condescendingly): "You're just jealous because I'm living the dream. AND. YOU'RE. NOT."
Between the snoring and the sleep arguing, Jethro will be lucky if he's not missing an appendage within a year.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr
Go read Jethro's post. Jethro told me about it right away, which I appreciated.
I tried to be all cool about it and laugh it off, but it rankled a little bit. I finally lowered my defenses a little, and what do you know! I'm a jealous bitch just like anyone else.
It wasn't this particular situation, either. It's just that I'm spoiled. For nine years, I've never had a reason to worry. Not that Jethro isn't hot and hasn't been hit on, but it hasn't been very often. Face it. Men don't get hit on the same way or as often as women. I know I've given him moments of anxiety which I have always thought were completely ridiculous because, quite frankly, no one has ever made me an offer that comes close to what I have (well, except for the guy who promised to give me 5 orgasms then take me to Neimann's in the morining as long as I promised never to call him again).
But now I understand a little more. It's not as if this silly girl was offering him anything better. It's just knowing that someone could. The reality of that has never fully hit me before.
Anyway it doesn't really matter. I allowed him to service me during his lunch break and I'm going to go back to cleaning the house now. Top that, bitch.
And upon re-reading those last two sentences, it seems kind of pathetic that I've never had a better offer.
I tried to be all cool about it and laugh it off, but it rankled a little bit. I finally lowered my defenses a little, and what do you know! I'm a jealous bitch just like anyone else.
It wasn't this particular situation, either. It's just that I'm spoiled. For nine years, I've never had a reason to worry. Not that Jethro isn't hot and hasn't been hit on, but it hasn't been very often. Face it. Men don't get hit on the same way or as often as women. I know I've given him moments of anxiety which I have always thought were completely ridiculous because, quite frankly, no one has ever made me an offer that comes close to what I have (well, except for the guy who promised to give me 5 orgasms then take me to Neimann's in the morining as long as I promised never to call him again).
But now I understand a little more. It's not as if this silly girl was offering him anything better. It's just knowing that someone could. The reality of that has never fully hit me before.
Anyway it doesn't really matter. I allowed him to service me during his lunch break and I'm going to go back to cleaning the house now. Top that, bitch.
And upon re-reading those last two sentences, it seems kind of pathetic that I've never had a better offer.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Rage
I'm in somewhat of a dilemma.
The school I'm attending isn't very organized from an administrative standpoint. It's mostly run by women who spend more time on coffee breaks and playing hostess than actually taking care of the details of running an institute of higher learning.
For example. Every six weeks we take up valuable class time to have an assembly. During this assembly, the students with high GPAs receive kindergarten style certificates of recognition, along with recognizing the students with perfect attendance. It is quite embarrassing. The rest of the time is spent socializing and eating whatever food local vendors have been conned into supplying.
This is all well and good, and if my class schedule weren't such a mess I'd have no complaints.
However, every time I try to go to the registrar to ask if they've gotten my transcripts or if I have a class schedule, I am told they are extremely busy and I will have to come back another time.
On my third attempt, I went to the lady in student affairs to complain. As luck would have it, the registrar (about whom I was forcefully voicing my displeasure) came up behind me in the doorway and heard everything. She then announced her presence and assumed I would be embarrassed that she'd heard. I wasn't. But I was even more angered by the fact that she thought she had the upper hand.
Normally, I'm a pretty laid-back, diplomatic person. But the second someone decides it's a good idea to be condescending or insinuate that their incompetence is justifiable and must be respected by me, I speak to wound.
It's a family characteristic. In these situations, we don't yell. We get very calm and slowly and deliberately humiliate the person who has roused our wrath. I don't say this with any pride. It's a very ugly thing to witness andrarely never solves the problem.
So after calmly and methodically eviscerating the registrar, I departed the school in a white hot rage.
Now I have to deal with the fact that I have insulted and alienated the only person who I can speak to regarding my schedule.
I'm considering finding another school, but I have a feeling most are like this and I didn't care enough to notice before.
The school I'm attending isn't very organized from an administrative standpoint. It's mostly run by women who spend more time on coffee breaks and playing hostess than actually taking care of the details of running an institute of higher learning.
For example. Every six weeks we take up valuable class time to have an assembly. During this assembly, the students with high GPAs receive kindergarten style certificates of recognition, along with recognizing the students with perfect attendance. It is quite embarrassing. The rest of the time is spent socializing and eating whatever food local vendors have been conned into supplying.
This is all well and good, and if my class schedule weren't such a mess I'd have no complaints.
However, every time I try to go to the registrar to ask if they've gotten my transcripts or if I have a class schedule, I am told they are extremely busy and I will have to come back another time.
On my third attempt, I went to the lady in student affairs to complain. As luck would have it, the registrar (about whom I was forcefully voicing my displeasure) came up behind me in the doorway and heard everything. She then announced her presence and assumed I would be embarrassed that she'd heard. I wasn't. But I was even more angered by the fact that she thought she had the upper hand.
Normally, I'm a pretty laid-back, diplomatic person. But the second someone decides it's a good idea to be condescending or insinuate that their incompetence is justifiable and must be respected by me, I speak to wound.
It's a family characteristic. In these situations, we don't yell. We get very calm and slowly and deliberately humiliate the person who has roused our wrath. I don't say this with any pride. It's a very ugly thing to witness and
So after calmly and methodically eviscerating the registrar, I departed the school in a white hot rage.
Now I have to deal with the fact that I have insulted and alienated the only person who I can speak to regarding my schedule.
I'm considering finding another school, but I have a feeling most are like this and I didn't care enough to notice before.
The Scramble
It's been so long since I've really blogged about anything that I actually feel a little rusty. Or maybe it's the fact that there are so many ideas in the pipes they feel a little clogged.
Since my sister's wedding, we haven't had a minute of extra time. And it's been good. We've had good weeks at the clinic, I've been swamped with work for school, we've been invited out quite a bit, and every other moment we've been doing stuff with the girls.
One of Jethro's patients is a VP at Sea World and gave us tickets two Saturdays ago. We got there at 8:30 in the morning and for a house full of night owls, that was really really really early.
But we were the first ones there and considering there were 30,000 people at the park that day and we stayed until 6:00pm, we did a lot.
I got sunburned in patches and had to buy a new pair of shorts because my pants got wet on one of the rides. It was the weirdest thing. I was dry everywhere but my crotch. It was as if the waterfall had one singular intention. Yeast infection.
You'd think we'd have been exhausted by the time 6:00 rolled around, and you'd be right. But my sister called and said she, her new husband, and his family who were still visiting from the UK were going to a rodeo a few miles outside of New Town, and asked if we wanted to go too. Since we were already in the car, we thought, "why not?"
I'm so glad we did. It was probably the most fun I've ever had. It was especially fun to watch it with the Brits. The bull-riding is usually pretty exciting, and their stoic faces actually grimaced a couple of times. I think they enjoyed it.
I was kind of in heaven. Cowboys, beer, cowboys, more beer, a pretty lame band, beer...
And I found out the type of girls Jethro goes for. I was always under the impression that it was the cheerleader types. And that was close, but not quite. He likes country girls. The girl who was taking our money at the entrance was prettier than a speckled pup. Cowgirl-Angel-on-the-Christmas-tree kind of pretty. I took note, as I usually do when I see someone or something beautiful, and then noticed Jethro's voice as he handed her his money. Everything suddenly made sense.
I called him on it (naturally) and he grinned sheepishly. "The FFA was really really big where I grew up," was all he would say on the subject.
Anyway, we had so much fun that my sister and her new husband brought their Scottish Friend up this past Saturday and we all went again. There were also a whole bunch of kids from Wisconsin on their band trip. They didn't know how to do the Cotton Eye Joe which baffled, confused and mildly upset the natives who had to inform them about hollering "Bullshit" which baffled, confused and mildly upset the Wisconsonites. But it was still fun.
I guess the bulls had their balls wrapped a little tighter this time, because they were a little more pissed off than last time. One clown was tossed straight into the air and did a few cartwheels before landing on his face. I felt we'd gotten our money's worth on that one.
And it seems that Gwennie at least has not inherited her mother's weakness for cowboys. No. She digs the rodeo clowns. One of them took down his overalls to moon a bull with his red underdrawers. Everyone was chuckling while he was putting his pants back on except Gwennie who screamed, "TAKE 'EM OFF!!!" to my consternation.
Gwennie and Emma both did the calf scramble. Neither of them have any sense of strategy.
Emma also rode the mechanical bull with her little arm way up in the air. Everyone watching just melted. It was so cute to see her do it because she is usually way too shy to be the center of attention like that.
Jethro, New Husband, and Scottish Friend also rode the mechanical bull with hilarious consequences. But I'll let Jethro tell that one.
Anyway, that doesn't even begin to cover our week, but it's a start.
Since my sister's wedding, we haven't had a minute of extra time. And it's been good. We've had good weeks at the clinic, I've been swamped with work for school, we've been invited out quite a bit, and every other moment we've been doing stuff with the girls.
One of Jethro's patients is a VP at Sea World and gave us tickets two Saturdays ago. We got there at 8:30 in the morning and for a house full of night owls, that was really really really early.
But we were the first ones there and considering there were 30,000 people at the park that day and we stayed until 6:00pm, we did a lot.
I got sunburned in patches and had to buy a new pair of shorts because my pants got wet on one of the rides. It was the weirdest thing. I was dry everywhere but my crotch. It was as if the waterfall had one singular intention. Yeast infection.
You'd think we'd have been exhausted by the time 6:00 rolled around, and you'd be right. But my sister called and said she, her new husband, and his family who were still visiting from the UK were going to a rodeo a few miles outside of New Town, and asked if we wanted to go too. Since we were already in the car, we thought, "why not?"
I'm so glad we did. It was probably the most fun I've ever had. It was especially fun to watch it with the Brits. The bull-riding is usually pretty exciting, and their stoic faces actually grimaced a couple of times. I think they enjoyed it.
I was kind of in heaven. Cowboys, beer, cowboys, more beer, a pretty lame band, beer...
And I found out the type of girls Jethro goes for. I was always under the impression that it was the cheerleader types. And that was close, but not quite. He likes country girls. The girl who was taking our money at the entrance was prettier than a speckled pup. Cowgirl-Angel-on-the-Christmas-tree kind of pretty. I took note, as I usually do when I see someone or something beautiful, and then noticed Jethro's voice as he handed her his money. Everything suddenly made sense.
I called him on it (naturally) and he grinned sheepishly. "The FFA was really really big where I grew up," was all he would say on the subject.
Anyway, we had so much fun that my sister and her new husband brought their Scottish Friend up this past Saturday and we all went again. There were also a whole bunch of kids from Wisconsin on their band trip. They didn't know how to do the Cotton Eye Joe which baffled, confused and mildly upset the natives who had to inform them about hollering "Bullshit" which baffled, confused and mildly upset the Wisconsonites. But it was still fun.
I guess the bulls had their balls wrapped a little tighter this time, because they were a little more pissed off than last time. One clown was tossed straight into the air and did a few cartwheels before landing on his face. I felt we'd gotten our money's worth on that one.
And it seems that Gwennie at least has not inherited her mother's weakness for cowboys. No. She digs the rodeo clowns. One of them took down his overalls to moon a bull with his red underdrawers. Everyone was chuckling while he was putting his pants back on except Gwennie who screamed, "TAKE 'EM OFF!!!" to my consternation.
Gwennie and Emma both did the calf scramble. Neither of them have any sense of strategy.
Emma also rode the mechanical bull with her little arm way up in the air. Everyone watching just melted. It was so cute to see her do it because she is usually way too shy to be the center of attention like that.
Jethro, New Husband, and Scottish Friend also rode the mechanical bull with hilarious consequences. But I'll let Jethro tell that one.
Anyway, that doesn't even begin to cover our week, but it's a start.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Miss Saigon
I remember when I listened to the soundtrack of Miss Saigon for the first time. It was Easter Sunday and we were driving down to Galveston. Jethro had the CD. He'd seen it twice and it was part of his repetoire of seduction, It was so amazingly beautiful and sad. I fought to hold back tears because I didn't want Jethro thinking I was some kind of nut. To cover it up, I started asking him questions about the play. I never thought I'd see it, so he told me every detail. He has an insanely good memory.
Then, for my birthday one year, he got me tickets to see it in Austin. I was ecstatic, but I secretly wondered if it had been ruined for me since I'd listened to the soundtrack many times and knew the whole story.
Oh. My. God.
I've never cried so hard in all my life. The fact that I knew everything that was going to happen made it exponentially worse. I pretty much started crying right after the opening number and didn't let up until we were well on the road back to Houston.
And of all the songs in Miss Saigon that make me cry, this one makes me cry the hardest. Every time.
Of course if the emotion is too much, you can always watch the high school version of The Heat Is On In Saigon. It's not good, but it is pretty funny, especially the last 10 or 15 seconds. If I were her I just wouldn't bother to get up.
Then, for my birthday one year, he got me tickets to see it in Austin. I was ecstatic, but I secretly wondered if it had been ruined for me since I'd listened to the soundtrack many times and knew the whole story.
Oh. My. God.
I've never cried so hard in all my life. The fact that I knew everything that was going to happen made it exponentially worse. I pretty much started crying right after the opening number and didn't let up until we were well on the road back to Houston.
And of all the songs in Miss Saigon that make me cry, this one makes me cry the hardest. Every time.
Of course if the emotion is too much, you can always watch the high school version of The Heat Is On In Saigon. It's not good, but it is pretty funny, especially the last 10 or 15 seconds. If I were her I just wouldn't bother to get up.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Bits 'n' Pieces
Haiku:
I just discovered
My panties are inside out.
It's not a big deal,
But now that I'm alerted,
It will annoy me.
-----------------------------
I'm finishing up my last week of classes, but I'm off next week completely, so I will hold a veritable blog fiesta. One post for each day I'm off, perhaps not counting weekends. Or perhaps counting weekends. I don't know yet. The possibilities are endless.
I want to post some of my projects, and I think I might just do that before I submit them. It would help to get some feedback from honest people who don't want to keep me down because I'm white. And old.
Just kidding. My last project was skewered mercilessly by the cholos, but that was because it was good. I don't think it was because I'm white.
Anyway, I must be off. My next project is a Bauhaus poster. It was either that or Russian Constructivism. My instructor is a commie who thinks it's a shame that Bob Dylan is not considered the ideal man. I mean I love Dylan, but there's Dylan, and then there's firefighters.
I just discovered
My panties are inside out.
It's not a big deal,
But now that I'm alerted,
It will annoy me.
-----------------------------
I'm finishing up my last week of classes, but I'm off next week completely, so I will hold a veritable blog fiesta. One post for each day I'm off, perhaps not counting weekends. Or perhaps counting weekends. I don't know yet. The possibilities are endless.
I want to post some of my projects, and I think I might just do that before I submit them. It would help to get some feedback from honest people who don't want to keep me down because I'm white. And old.
Just kidding. My last project was skewered mercilessly by the cholos, but that was because it was good. I don't think it was because I'm white.
Anyway, I must be off. My next project is a Bauhaus poster. It was either that or Russian Constructivism. My instructor is a commie who thinks it's a shame that Bob Dylan is not considered the ideal man. I mean I love Dylan, but there's Dylan, and then there's firefighters.
Friday, March 21, 2008
He Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Politickin'
I have a few posts in the pipe about the wedding and my relatives, but I'm going to wait on them so I can post about The Politics.
I've actually thought I might die laughing over the past two weeks.
First came Eliott Spitzer and his Jersey 'ho. It was hilarious to read the lib blogs who insisted that he shouldn't have to resign because Democrats have no moral standards to which they can be held accountable. "They don't judge other people on issues like that, so you can't hold them accountable when they fuck up." To which I reply, "Oh yes, I fucking can. Spitzer took oaths on more than one occasion to uphold the law. He's prosecuted others for breaking the law. I'm going to judge the mother-fucking hell out of him."
Mark Foley sends dirty messages to some pages and Republicans (most correctly) kicked his ass to the curb along with Hastert just for knowing about it.
But Eliott Spitzer, prosecutor, pays $1,000 per hour to bareback a hooker, and he shouldn't be held accountable? Right.
Then came The Racial Controversy.
I have to say, Obama's pastor is one crazy sonofabitch. Jethro and I have been having a contest to see who can imitate him saying "a Black Maaaayaaaan" better. Jethro has a deeper voice, but I have depth. And soul.
I'm going out on a limb, but I think Obama's done, if not in the primaries, then most certainly in the gen election. I appreciate the fact that he's been searching for his black identity given the fact that his black father abandoned him, but to sit your ass for 20 years in Wright's church and then try to claim you want to unite the races? Sorry, bud. Not happening.
I was greatly amused by the controversy until he tried to compare Wright to his little white granny. That was kind of sad. Wright is a psycho who thinks the CIA infected black people with AIDS. His poor granny was afraid of black men walking down the street. Speaking from personal experience, I'd say the latter, while a bit offensive, is not without basis in reality. But Wright has taken a triple Gaynor off the Cliffs of Insanity.
Anyway, the controversy doesn't mean a whole lot to me. I'd read about Obama's crazy church months ago and had already decided not to vote for him because I disagreed with every vague stand he'd ever taken and disliked what I considered his condescending platitudes.
But I am enjoying sitting back and watching the libs scramble to loosen the racial standards which they have tuned to the highest pitch over the past decade. It's too late, though. The string snapped.
I've actually thought I might die laughing over the past two weeks.
First came Eliott Spitzer and his Jersey 'ho. It was hilarious to read the lib blogs who insisted that he shouldn't have to resign because Democrats have no moral standards to which they can be held accountable. "They don't judge other people on issues like that, so you can't hold them accountable when they fuck up." To which I reply, "Oh yes, I fucking can. Spitzer took oaths on more than one occasion to uphold the law. He's prosecuted others for breaking the law. I'm going to judge the mother-fucking hell out of him."
Mark Foley sends dirty messages to some pages and Republicans (most correctly) kicked his ass to the curb along with Hastert just for knowing about it.
But Eliott Spitzer, prosecutor, pays $1,000 per hour to bareback a hooker, and he shouldn't be held accountable? Right.
Then came The Racial Controversy.
I have to say, Obama's pastor is one crazy sonofabitch. Jethro and I have been having a contest to see who can imitate him saying "a Black Maaaayaaaan" better. Jethro has a deeper voice, but I have depth. And soul.
I'm going out on a limb, but I think Obama's done, if not in the primaries, then most certainly in the gen election. I appreciate the fact that he's been searching for his black identity given the fact that his black father abandoned him, but to sit your ass for 20 years in Wright's church and then try to claim you want to unite the races? Sorry, bud. Not happening.
I was greatly amused by the controversy until he tried to compare Wright to his little white granny. That was kind of sad. Wright is a psycho who thinks the CIA infected black people with AIDS. His poor granny was afraid of black men walking down the street. Speaking from personal experience, I'd say the latter, while a bit offensive, is not without basis in reality. But Wright has taken a triple Gaynor off the Cliffs of Insanity.
Anyway, the controversy doesn't mean a whole lot to me. I'd read about Obama's crazy church months ago and had already decided not to vote for him because I disagreed with every vague stand he'd ever taken and disliked what I considered his condescending platitudes.
But I am enjoying sitting back and watching the libs scramble to loosen the racial standards which they have tuned to the highest pitch over the past decade. It's too late, though. The string snapped.
Monday, March 17, 2008
"No, I Haven't Dropped Dead" or "The Bloody Pianist"
No, I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. I have been hosting relatives for my sister's wedding, participating in said wedding, and recovering from said wedding.
It was a great time bordering on fiasco. I have so much blog fodder I don't even know where to begin.
Both of my grandparents (from opposite sides of the family) had heart issues, the rehearsal BBQ was a wreck, a fire alarm went off at the hotel, the limo took the wedding party to the church and forgot to return for the bride necessitating her to run from the hotel to the church through crowds of spring breakers, and the elderly pianist for the ceremony fell on the way to the wedding and busted her head open. She showed up all cross-eyed and covered with blood, but insisted she could play. Jethro took a look at her and decided that she could probably last through the ceremony, so she played. She did pretty well, all things considered, but I was frantically practicing "Edelweiss" and "Ode to Joy" in my head just in case.
The reception was a blast. Everyone danced until the DJ quit in exhaustion, then we went down to the hotel bar to drink some more.
Jethro and I eventually left, went to our hotel room, then returned the next day to drink still more. It was a blast. The Brits were hilarious, they seemed to like us, and we all had a pretty good time. They are staying for a week and I'm hoping we will get to see more of them.
Anyway, I must run. I still have school this week, and I want to be all caught up by tomorrow morning. I will post more this week while the events are still fresh in my head.
Lest I forget, I'm reminding myself to write about an interesting discussion I had with my grandfather, my grandmother's hypochondria, my sister's toast, and The Worm.
It was a great time bordering on fiasco. I have so much blog fodder I don't even know where to begin.
Both of my grandparents (from opposite sides of the family) had heart issues, the rehearsal BBQ was a wreck, a fire alarm went off at the hotel, the limo took the wedding party to the church and forgot to return for the bride necessitating her to run from the hotel to the church through crowds of spring breakers, and the elderly pianist for the ceremony fell on the way to the wedding and busted her head open. She showed up all cross-eyed and covered with blood, but insisted she could play. Jethro took a look at her and decided that she could probably last through the ceremony, so she played. She did pretty well, all things considered, but I was frantically practicing "Edelweiss" and "Ode to Joy" in my head just in case.
The reception was a blast. Everyone danced until the DJ quit in exhaustion, then we went down to the hotel bar to drink some more.
Jethro and I eventually left, went to our hotel room, then returned the next day to drink still more. It was a blast. The Brits were hilarious, they seemed to like us, and we all had a pretty good time. They are staying for a week and I'm hoping we will get to see more of them.
Anyway, I must run. I still have school this week, and I want to be all caught up by tomorrow morning. I will post more this week while the events are still fresh in my head.
Lest I forget, I'm reminding myself to write about an interesting discussion I had with my grandfather, my grandmother's hypochondria, my sister's toast, and The Worm.
Monday, March 10, 2008
While American feminists are contemplating their vaginae in endless, agonizing minutiae and trying to get them to talk, Wafa Sultan channels a bit of Ayn Rand and reduces her deranged male opponants to screaming imbecility.
Ms. Sultan and Ayaan Hirsi Ali are probably the two bravest, most intelligent women alive today, yet the average woman has no idea who they are.
Ms. Sultan and Ayaan Hirsi Ali are probably the two bravest, most intelligent women alive today, yet the average woman has no idea who they are.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Yes Trashman, The Coffee Break's Over
Because it is Jethro's and my 9th anniversary.
I've now been blogging over half my marriage.
Happy Anniversary darlin'
The sex will be...sexual.
---------------------------------
Anyway, I'm taking a break from my housecleang to write a quick little post. I'm in something of a quandry.
I have to pick one of three graphs which I think best depict how humanity will be punished for our reckless abuse of the Mother Nature.
The problem is that I have no opinion. I simply don't know enough to make even an educated guess.
Just wing it, you say?
I can't. I can't put forth an opinion in which I have no confidence. I don't even know how to begin.
Will we run out of renewable resources and be punished with an unprecedented dieback of epic proportions with the future marked by drastic increases and decreases in the population? I don't know.
Will we correct our greedy, shameless ways and experience only a minor dieback still of epic proportions, but still able to sustain human life at a few billion below the current number? I don't know.
Have we raped the earth to such an extent that recovery is now impossible and we will reach population 0 in 500 years? I don't know.
I'm a fetishist for disaster scenarios, so I'm tempted to pick the last one and go nuts. But it would be like writing fiction, and I have no proof of anything with which to back my most dire fantasies.
I am considering writing a paper in place of this which details my ignorance on the subject while demonstrating that I have the capacity to learn it should he be so kind as to teach it.
I don't want to hurt his feelings though. He is such a nice, nice man.
I've now been blogging over half my marriage.
Happy Anniversary darlin'
The sex will be...sexual.
---------------------------------
Anyway, I'm taking a break from my housecleang to write a quick little post. I'm in something of a quandry.
I have to pick one of three graphs which I think best depict how humanity will be punished for our reckless abuse of the Mother Nature.
The problem is that I have no opinion. I simply don't know enough to make even an educated guess.
Just wing it, you say?
I can't. I can't put forth an opinion in which I have no confidence. I don't even know how to begin.
Will we run out of renewable resources and be punished with an unprecedented dieback of epic proportions with the future marked by drastic increases and decreases in the population? I don't know.
Will we correct our greedy, shameless ways and experience only a minor dieback still of epic proportions, but still able to sustain human life at a few billion below the current number? I don't know.
Have we raped the earth to such an extent that recovery is now impossible and we will reach population 0 in 500 years? I don't know.
I'm a fetishist for disaster scenarios, so I'm tempted to pick the last one and go nuts. But it would be like writing fiction, and I have no proof of anything with which to back my most dire fantasies.
I am considering writing a paper in place of this which details my ignorance on the subject while demonstrating that I have the capacity to learn it should he be so kind as to teach it.
I don't want to hurt his feelings though. He is such a nice, nice man.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Coffee Break
Coffee is like crack to me. I've written before of the effects in has upon my person. I probably shouldn't drink it, but I can get a nice, large, hot, foamy cup at my school for $.50 as opposed to $1.25 for a soft drink, and it keeps me awake until the end of class at 10:30pm.
The downside to this is that it makes me a little chatty. During one of the breaks last Thursday, after having just consumed my usual Amaretto Cappuccino, I rushed outside in a frenzy of caffination. A couple of of my classmates were having a smoke and a conversation. I was frantically whistling "Dueling Banjos." I interrupted them to tell them about Deliverance which for some reason had been on my mind most of the day ever since I had the bright idea to look up Dueling Banjos on YouTube...talk about genetic deficiencies...(but seriously, if you have a moment, click the link and read the comments. The best are the folks making fun of the "imbreds").
One of the classmates was a nice Hispanic guy, very very handsome, quiet and artistic. I call him "Sonny" in my head. The other was a gal with whom I have quite a bit in common. She's about my age, doesn't finish things easily, and has a very pervy sense of humor. Try sitting next to her in Environmental Science and watching a documentary in which someone at some point decides to manually beat a wheat stalk until the kernels drop off. You wouldn't necessarily think that's perverted, but it was. I'll call her....Mandy.
I finished discussing Deliverance complete with audial and visual accoutrements which included simulated, bare Ned Beatty chest rubbing, a little squealing, and some air banjo.
Luckily, I don't care about popularity this time around. Mandy was staring at me with fascination, and Sonny with abject horror. Man-rape, as I find out, is nothing to make light of.
I tried to make myself look less insane by relating the story of the rapist's audition with the director of Deliverance. He wasn't a professional actor and upon being apprehensively informed by the director that his character would have to rape a man, his calm reply was, "I done worse."
The story did not help, but break was over so we all went back up together.
The downside to this is that it makes me a little chatty. During one of the breaks last Thursday, after having just consumed my usual Amaretto Cappuccino, I rushed outside in a frenzy of caffination. A couple of of my classmates were having a smoke and a conversation. I was frantically whistling "Dueling Banjos." I interrupted them to tell them about Deliverance which for some reason had been on my mind most of the day ever since I had the bright idea to look up Dueling Banjos on YouTube...talk about genetic deficiencies...(but seriously, if you have a moment, click the link and read the comments. The best are the folks making fun of the "imbreds").
One of the classmates was a nice Hispanic guy, very very handsome, quiet and artistic. I call him "Sonny" in my head. The other was a gal with whom I have quite a bit in common. She's about my age, doesn't finish things easily, and has a very pervy sense of humor. Try sitting next to her in Environmental Science and watching a documentary in which someone at some point decides to manually beat a wheat stalk until the kernels drop off. You wouldn't necessarily think that's perverted, but it was. I'll call her....Mandy.
I finished discussing Deliverance complete with audial and visual accoutrements which included simulated, bare Ned Beatty chest rubbing, a little squealing, and some air banjo.
Luckily, I don't care about popularity this time around. Mandy was staring at me with fascination, and Sonny with abject horror. Man-rape, as I find out, is nothing to make light of.
I tried to make myself look less insane by relating the story of the rapist's audition with the director of Deliverance. He wasn't a professional actor and upon being apprehensively informed by the director that his character would have to rape a man, his calm reply was, "I done worse."
The story did not help, but break was over so we all went back up together.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I Have No Idea What I Was Talking About In That Last Post
I know I haven't been around lately, but honestly, you wouldn't have wanted me. A raging case of extended PMS just ended, and I'm somewhat sane again.
I'm actually getting excited about my sister's wedding. She's having it in New Town. No one outside our immediate family lives in Texas, so it would be just as easy for them to fly here as Houston, and her fiance's family is flying in from the UK, and she would prefer them to see the scenery around New Town, than Houston. Houston isn't known for its scenery.
But I bought a dress which I love like anything. I'm like a kid. I keep peeking at it just to make sure it's as pretty as I remember. And it always is. It's sleeveless, ivory colored on top (plunging neckline, naturally) with a green band around the empire waist, and a black skirt and seems as if it's made out of some jersyish sort of material. It's a miracle my boobs fit into it. But it's very simple, which is just my style. I don't like fussy clothes with weird contours and complicated decorations. But I don't want to look frumpy either.
Gwennie and Emma are going to be flower girls and they're wearing the dresses my sisters wore as flower girls in my wedding. My mom never throws anything away. She gets it from her mother, and I get it from her. The Depression had longlasting effects.
Anyway, Gwennie tried on her dress at my mom's house and pronounced it "comfortable." You have no idea how profound this assessment is. If Gwennie deems something "uncomfortable," she is not going to wear it. I could beat her, bribe her, or lock her out of the house. My will would break first.
Emma is a completely different little person. If you told her she looked pretty, she'd wair a hairshirt and a crown of thorns. Must be very careful with that one. She's delicate and easily injured.
I'm actually getting excited about my sister's wedding. She's having it in New Town. No one outside our immediate family lives in Texas, so it would be just as easy for them to fly here as Houston, and her fiance's family is flying in from the UK, and she would prefer them to see the scenery around New Town, than Houston. Houston isn't known for its scenery.
But I bought a dress which I love like anything. I'm like a kid. I keep peeking at it just to make sure it's as pretty as I remember. And it always is. It's sleeveless, ivory colored on top (plunging neckline, naturally) with a green band around the empire waist, and a black skirt and seems as if it's made out of some jersyish sort of material. It's a miracle my boobs fit into it. But it's very simple, which is just my style. I don't like fussy clothes with weird contours and complicated decorations. But I don't want to look frumpy either.
Gwennie and Emma are going to be flower girls and they're wearing the dresses my sisters wore as flower girls in my wedding. My mom never throws anything away. She gets it from her mother, and I get it from her. The Depression had longlasting effects.
Anyway, Gwennie tried on her dress at my mom's house and pronounced it "comfortable." You have no idea how profound this assessment is. If Gwennie deems something "uncomfortable," she is not going to wear it. I could beat her, bribe her, or lock her out of the house. My will would break first.
Emma is a completely different little person. If you told her she looked pretty, she'd wair a hairshirt and a crown of thorns. Must be very careful with that one. She's delicate and easily injured.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Conversation at Jethro's Parent's House After a Night of Somewhat Heavy Drinking
Zelda: "That chicken was pretty fucking good."
Jethro: "What chicken?"
Zelda: "The chicken... you just... gave me a bite of. That was fucking chicken, right? Please tell me that was fucking chicken."
Jethro: "Yeah, that was chicken. But we've eaten a lot of chicken today. I wasn't sure which chicken you were talking about."
Zelda: "Oh thank God. It was dark down there and I could have been eating anything."
Jethro: "You were eating cat. No actually, you were eating mole. And not the little burrowing kind, but human mole...."
Zelda: "How do you expect to get a blow job if you make me dry heave?"
Jethro: "I'll just wait til after you're done retching. You're usually good for it."
Which brings me to why I'm blogging at 3:00am after Saturday night...
Jethro: "What chicken?"
Zelda: "The chicken... you just... gave me a bite of. That was fucking chicken, right? Please tell me that was fucking chicken."
Jethro: "Yeah, that was chicken. But we've eaten a lot of chicken today. I wasn't sure which chicken you were talking about."
Zelda: "Oh thank God. It was dark down there and I could have been eating anything."
Jethro: "You were eating cat. No actually, you were eating mole. And not the little burrowing kind, but human mole...."
Zelda: "How do you expect to get a blow job if you make me dry heave?"
Jethro: "I'll just wait til after you're done retching. You're usually good for it."
Which brings me to why I'm blogging at 3:00am after Saturday night...
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Indian Buffet
All you can eat but
the diarrhea gives you
spasmodic Tourette's.
-----------------------------
I'm being forced to take Environmental Science this session. Somebody shoot me. If it wasn't illegal to drink and fondle oneself in public, the class wouldn't be a total waste of time. But since we are a repressed and prudish society, no such luck.
It isn't that I don't care about the environment. If I could talk Jethro into it, we'd live on Walden Pond. However, many of the statement in the textbook make no sense. I made the mistake of raising my hand to ask for clarification of a few points, and the professor (who is probably the sweetest, kindest propagandist on earth) went off on a tangent that didn't help clear up a thing.
I've taken 3 science classes during my illustrious academic career, none of which will transfer because I wasn't indoctrinated into the ranks of the blindly acceptent environmental drones. And this is for an associates degree in graphic design at trade school!
the diarrhea gives you
spasmodic Tourette's.
-----------------------------
I'm being forced to take Environmental Science this session. Somebody shoot me. If it wasn't illegal to drink and fondle oneself in public, the class wouldn't be a total waste of time. But since we are a repressed and prudish society, no such luck.
It isn't that I don't care about the environment. If I could talk Jethro into it, we'd live on Walden Pond. However, many of the statement in the textbook make no sense. I made the mistake of raising my hand to ask for clarification of a few points, and the professor (who is probably the sweetest, kindest propagandist on earth) went off on a tangent that didn't help clear up a thing.
I've taken 3 science classes during my illustrious academic career, none of which will transfer because I wasn't indoctrinated into the ranks of the blindly acceptent environmental drones. And this is for an associates degree in graphic design at trade school!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Jethro's parents were robbed by two black male teenagers with guns the day before yesterday. They didn't tell anyone until last night. I didn't find out until about 1:30am this morning.
They're fine, but rather shaken, as anyone would be.
Jethro's going to give his dad "my" gun.
Anyway, if anyone was reading my blog at about 1:30am, there was a post up using the fuck-word and the nigger-word in the same sentence.
I took it down.
I am torn as to whether that was the right decision. This makes the fifth time either me or someone in my very close family has been robbed/peeped at in the shower by members of a Certain Race. And we've never been bothered by anyone else.
The reason I took the post down was NOT because I am concerned with being labelled a racist. Because, as it turns out, I'm not actually the one with the problem. I'm not the one stealing people's money and threatening their lives. And I think I'm entitled to some pretty blistering contempt for anyone who would do that, complete with calling them the most insulting thing I can think of.
However, while I reserve the right to be extremely pissed off and to use whatever words I want to vent that righteous indignation, I also wish to rise above the situation. I don't want to take the low road and fester in the self-indulgent swamp of hatred and victimology.
But I will say this. There are many Black People who need to get a fucking handle on their lives and the lives of their children. They are robbing people and threatening to kill them, if not actually killing them. And the victims span all races.
So who are the racists now?
Just because all the robbing and killing isn't improving their status in the world doesn't mean these aren't acts of racism - black supremacy even. The fact that they are unsuccessful even with all the entitlement programs, thuggery, and and excuses being made for them is irrelevant.
When people of other races commit the same crimes, no one makes the same excuses. Everyone just agrees they're assholes.
I'm sure I could go on for hours, but anything more I have to say on the subject will just degenerate into pure anger and loathing, so I'll stop now.
They're fine, but rather shaken, as anyone would be.
Jethro's going to give his dad "my" gun.
Anyway, if anyone was reading my blog at about 1:30am, there was a post up using the fuck-word and the nigger-word in the same sentence.
I took it down.
I am torn as to whether that was the right decision. This makes the fifth time either me or someone in my very close family has been robbed/peeped at in the shower by members of a Certain Race. And we've never been bothered by anyone else.
The reason I took the post down was NOT because I am concerned with being labelled a racist. Because, as it turns out, I'm not actually the one with the problem. I'm not the one stealing people's money and threatening their lives. And I think I'm entitled to some pretty blistering contempt for anyone who would do that, complete with calling them the most insulting thing I can think of.
However, while I reserve the right to be extremely pissed off and to use whatever words I want to vent that righteous indignation, I also wish to rise above the situation. I don't want to take the low road and fester in the self-indulgent swamp of hatred and victimology.
But I will say this. There are many Black People who need to get a fucking handle on their lives and the lives of their children. They are robbing people and threatening to kill them, if not actually killing them. And the victims span all races.
So who are the racists now?
Just because all the robbing and killing isn't improving their status in the world doesn't mean these aren't acts of racism - black supremacy even. The fact that they are unsuccessful even with all the entitlement programs, thuggery, and and excuses being made for them is irrelevant.
When people of other races commit the same crimes, no one makes the same excuses. Everyone just agrees they're assholes.
I'm sure I could go on for hours, but anything more I have to say on the subject will just degenerate into pure anger and loathing, so I'll stop now.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Around the Internet
No need for Viagra in Texas. Or at least around the Dallas/Ft. Worth area.
I've been listening to Bobbie Gentry lately. Emma always sits with me to listen to Hushabye Mountain.
Her voice is beyond lovely and Ode to Billie Joe is such a strange, haunting almost creepy song. I always feel like listening to it around Halloween.
And her original "Fancy" is totally underrated. No one can belt it like Reba in all her big-haired glory, but if you dismiss Bobbie Gentry's deep, throaty version, you are seriously missing out.
I've been listening to Bobbie Gentry lately. Emma always sits with me to listen to Hushabye Mountain.
Her voice is beyond lovely and Ode to Billie Joe is such a strange, haunting almost creepy song. I always feel like listening to it around Halloween.
And her original "Fancy" is totally underrated. No one can belt it like Reba in all her big-haired glory, but if you dismiss Bobbie Gentry's deep, throaty version, you are seriously missing out.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Life Lessons
I just had to do a very hard thing. I was at a store buying a birthday present for some kid's party when I discovered my eldest playing with a paper magic wand. I asked her where she got it and she said she got it from a bag. I was bewildered and asked if the bag belonged to her. She said no. I told her that if the bag didn't belong to her, then the wand didn't belong to her, and that she had stolen it and she needed to put it back.
I thought the matter had ended, but we got home and I saw she still had it.
I was livid.
I know it was just a little piece of paper, but I told her that it didn't belong to her and that it was stealing.
So back we go to the store so she can return it and speak to the manager. She was crying so hard and begging me to just let her put it back and not to tell the manager. I've never wanted to give in so badly in all my life. I'm kind of a sucker where my kids are concerned. Peer pressure is probably what keeps me being anything resembling a decent parent.
She asked me what they would do, and I told her I wasn't sure. She asked if they would call the police. I told her they might. But it was her first offense, so they might let her off with a warning. She cried harder.
She was pretty much cried out by the time we got back to the store, just hicupping a little. I told her I would speak to the manager first.
The manager was probably in his early 20s with long, flowing brown hair. I told him the situation and how she had taken it even after I told her it was stealing. He went over to speak to her, and was much nicer than he probably should have been.
I'll say one thing for Gwennie. She has a will of iron. She'll cry in front of me, but she didn't cry in front of him. I tried to shame her a little, but she held on. We all went to put it back where it belonged and she said she was sorry. Her voice broke a little, but no tears.
The manager thanked her (I wish he hadn't) and I thanked him, and we left. I told Gwennie she may not be so lucky next time.
I feel a little drained by it. She doesn't learn lessons easily and it is very seldom she learns them from me, no matter how many discussions we have or punishments I give. I hate that life is going to end up teaching her the hard way, but that is the path she is choosing.
Just like her mother.
I thought the matter had ended, but we got home and I saw she still had it.
I was livid.
I know it was just a little piece of paper, but I told her that it didn't belong to her and that it was stealing.
So back we go to the store so she can return it and speak to the manager. She was crying so hard and begging me to just let her put it back and not to tell the manager. I've never wanted to give in so badly in all my life. I'm kind of a sucker where my kids are concerned. Peer pressure is probably what keeps me being anything resembling a decent parent.
She asked me what they would do, and I told her I wasn't sure. She asked if they would call the police. I told her they might. But it was her first offense, so they might let her off with a warning. She cried harder.
She was pretty much cried out by the time we got back to the store, just hicupping a little. I told her I would speak to the manager first.
The manager was probably in his early 20s with long, flowing brown hair. I told him the situation and how she had taken it even after I told her it was stealing. He went over to speak to her, and was much nicer than he probably should have been.
I'll say one thing for Gwennie. She has a will of iron. She'll cry in front of me, but she didn't cry in front of him. I tried to shame her a little, but she held on. We all went to put it back where it belonged and she said she was sorry. Her voice broke a little, but no tears.
The manager thanked her (I wish he hadn't) and I thanked him, and we left. I told Gwennie she may not be so lucky next time.
I feel a little drained by it. She doesn't learn lessons easily and it is very seldom she learns them from me, no matter how many discussions we have or punishments I give. I hate that life is going to end up teaching her the hard way, but that is the path she is choosing.
Just like her mother.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The Hole
I got the group sex guy in my class to like me, and I wasn't even trying.
I guess mama was right. Boys do like girls who are spastic, a little fat, and married.
I can't take it too seriously though. Right after he said women like me were his weakness, he put out feelers for another girl in my class. She's much better for him (in that she's attainable) and I hope it works out.
Okay. The book.
Jethro and I went out exploring with the girls on Saturday, stopping by a Whole Earth Provision Co store, which sells mostly hippie gear for yuppies.
They had a pretty cool toy section, so we were letting Gwennie and Emma look around. Right next to the toys was a shelf of kids' books. Right next to the kids' books were the shelves of adult books.
Now when I say adult, I don't mean "adult" per se, just simply books that most kids would find utterly boring.
Jethro and I were flipping through "Great Houses at Affordable Prices" when Jethro makes this startled noise, and I look up to see a sparkly little eye staring at me through this. Before the horror could fully register, Emma grabbed it and poked her tongue through while Gwennie screamed with laughter.
"Look Mom! It's Pen-Is Pokey! Isn't that funny? It has underwear on the cover!"
Jethro and I were in heaving convulsions by this time trying not to laugh in a way that would let the kids know that it was much funnier than just a pair of underpants.
We tossed the book and left post haste. There wasn't really any way to get out of it gracefully.
I guess mama was right. Boys do like girls who are spastic, a little fat, and married.
I can't take it too seriously though. Right after he said women like me were his weakness, he put out feelers for another girl in my class. She's much better for him (in that she's attainable) and I hope it works out.
Okay. The book.
Jethro and I went out exploring with the girls on Saturday, stopping by a Whole Earth Provision Co store, which sells mostly hippie gear for yuppies.
They had a pretty cool toy section, so we were letting Gwennie and Emma look around. Right next to the toys was a shelf of kids' books. Right next to the kids' books were the shelves of adult books.
Now when I say adult, I don't mean "adult" per se, just simply books that most kids would find utterly boring.
Jethro and I were flipping through "Great Houses at Affordable Prices" when Jethro makes this startled noise, and I look up to see a sparkly little eye staring at me through this. Before the horror could fully register, Emma grabbed it and poked her tongue through while Gwennie screamed with laughter.
"Look Mom! It's Pen-Is Pokey! Isn't that funny? It has underwear on the cover!"
Jethro and I were in heaving convulsions by this time trying not to laugh in a way that would let the kids know that it was much funnier than just a pair of underpants.
We tossed the book and left post haste. There wasn't really any way to get out of it gracefully.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Franticality
I have multiple projects to complete including a group presentation and a term paper. Obviously blogging will be light.
But do remind me to tell you at some point about the book with the hole in it.
It's perverted, naturally.
But do remind me to tell you at some point about the book with the hole in it.
It's perverted, naturally.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
If You Can't Beat Them, Try Anyway.
Having completed my art projects on time, I have become the Person Who Knows What Is Going On.
This means my fellow classmates come up to me during breaks and ask me what our assignment is, how to do it, and what all the big words in the book mean.
Young Hispanic Gentleman, Slightly Drunk on Boone's: "Yo, man, what exactly are we supposed to do for this project?"
Zelda: "Well first you're supposed to pick a color scheme."
YHGSDoB: "A what?"
Zelda: "A color scheme."
YHGSDoB: "A what?"
Zelda: "Some colors."
YHGSDoB: "What kind of colors?"
Zelda: "Well, you could do the primary colors..."
YHGSDoB: "The which?
Zelda: The prim...Red, blue and yellow."
YHGSDoB: "That's what you're doing?"
Zelda: "No."
YHGSDoB: "What are you doing?"
Zelda: "I'm doing a split complementary of red-orange, blue, and green."
YHGSDoB: "I wanna do that, dog. What's it called again?"
Zelda: "A split complementary. It's when.......you know, you really should do red, blue and yellow."
YHGSDoB: "Naw, man. That's boring."
Zelda: Actually it's kind of hot. They're the very boldest, most dynamic colors. Really only girls do things like split complementary."
YHGSDoB (laughing hysterically): "That's cuz they have, like, split personalities, and shit."
Zelda: "Exactly. You hit the nail on the head precisely."
YHGSDoB: "Yo, thanks, man."
Zelda: "De nada, muchacho."
This means my fellow classmates come up to me during breaks and ask me what our assignment is, how to do it, and what all the big words in the book mean.
Young Hispanic Gentleman, Slightly Drunk on Boone's: "Yo, man, what exactly are we supposed to do for this project?"
Zelda: "Well first you're supposed to pick a color scheme."
YHGSDoB: "A what?"
Zelda: "A color scheme."
YHGSDoB: "A what?"
Zelda: "Some colors."
YHGSDoB: "What kind of colors?"
Zelda: "Well, you could do the primary colors..."
YHGSDoB: "The which?
Zelda: The prim...Red, blue and yellow."
YHGSDoB: "That's what you're doing?"
Zelda: "No."
YHGSDoB: "What are you doing?"
Zelda: "I'm doing a split complementary of red-orange, blue, and green."
YHGSDoB: "I wanna do that, dog. What's it called again?"
Zelda: "A split complementary. It's when.......you know, you really should do red, blue and yellow."
YHGSDoB: "Naw, man. That's boring."
Zelda: Actually it's kind of hot. They're the very boldest, most dynamic colors. Really only girls do things like split complementary."
YHGSDoB (laughing hysterically): "That's cuz they have, like, split personalities, and shit."
Zelda: "Exactly. You hit the nail on the head precisely."
YHGSDoB: "Yo, thanks, man."
Zelda: "De nada, muchacho."
Monday, February 04, 2008
I Know It's a Long-Ass Post, But It All Has to Go Somewhere
We went back to Houston late on Friday, arriving at about 12:30am. We went to sleep and I awakened Jethro around 10:30am so we could see my grandmother during visiting hours. After a gorgeous fight complete with name-calling and hand-gestures, we left.
We get to the hospital and the ICU staff is looking daggers at us. I thought it was because my very large family had been plaguing them during non-visiting hours. Not so. My grandmother, discontent with being the least grieviously ill person in the ICU, had caused quite the ruckus while my aunt, a succubus from the very deepest pits of Hell (otherwise known as NYC), was on the phone bothering the hospital staff.
Now, I can't entirely blame my grandmother. She was being moved to her bed by an orderly and her catheter became entangled in the sheet covering the chair she had been sitting on. One scream didn't have an instantaneous effect, so she continued until the entire ICU was in a blind panic.
Meanwhile, my aunt from Hell (aka NYC) heard all this, and called everyone from the top down and gave them what I can only imagine was the verbal equivalent of a jalapeno infused enema.
Then she called my sisters to bitch at them for not being psychically aware of the situation, threatening to come down and handle everything herself (like she ever would). "I'm a hell of a lot scarier than any of you," she informed my sister. "Damn right," said Sis. "Pol Pot is less scary than you."
By the time Jethro and I arrived, things had calmed down some, but the nurses were none too pleased with us. My grandmother was somewhat sickly looking, but I'm pretty sure she was in her element with an entire hospital staff at her beck and call (albeit somewhat bitterly).
After visiting my grandmother, I went to my sister's (who's marrying the Brit) bridal shower. Three sisters and I all drove together and it was actually kind of a fun ride. We ran out of gas a little bit on the freeway and had to coast to an exit with a service station, only just making it because we were going downhill, and passed a girl in a truck who had a bumper sticker that said, "I Used To Have A Lot of Nice Things and a Wolf. Now I Only Have a Wolf." She was wearing a hat with animal ears, and we passed her up just to get a better look. I don't know how to explain how funny this was, but one of my sisters made wolf-ears with her hands as we passed, looked back and asked, "Did she recognize?" I am still laughing about it.
We arrived at the shower where I was asked unceremoniously and without prelude whether Jethro and I had been married in the (Catholic) Church, by one of the guests whom I hadn't seen in about 15 years.
Just for the record, it isn't wise to ask me this question. But not for the reasons you would think. I know it isn't their business, blah, blah, blah, but I can't find it in my heart to be offended or hurt by people who care so much about me that they would flout protocol in such a spectacular fashion. No. The reason it isn't wise to ask me about it is because I will talk for about 45 minutes without ceasing on the reasons why I am not married in the Church, my issues with religion, my views on theology and dogma, my admiration for religious people even though I feel no need to subscribe, and the fact that I someday want to try anal again just to make sure I really hate it and I don't want to have to go to confession about it.
I warned you.
I fell asleep early Saturday night, intending to visit my grandmother again the next day. We were packing up Sunday morning, when I found myself in the throes of some kind of depression. I was crying for no reason at all, and I could barely move. Somehow I made it to the hospital to see my grandmother. She was all doped up on something that I wanted.
I sat with her for awhile while she drifted in and out of consciousness. I stood up to get her some water and found myself in the throes of some kind of vertigo. I was so dizzy I could barely walk. I don't know for sure what caused it, but I think it was some of the electronics in her room. I'm susceptible.
I waited until my sister got there and left, staggering drunkenly out to the waiting room where Jethro was waiting with the kids. I tried Jethro's tried and true vertigo remedy, which has always worked before, but to no avail.
We left the hospital and started driving back to New Town. We decided to stop and see my family on the way out because I was dry-heaving in a little plastic to-go cup. I went and laid down on my mom's couch and asked her to give me a hug. I'm a pussy.
After resting awhile, we started on again. I was disappointed we were going to miss the Super Bowl, but we didn't want to get back too late. We stopped at a convenience store where I got me some seltzer, Motrin and out of pure desperation, Dramamine.
Then we stopped at a diner for dinner and I took the dramamine.
Hellllooooo Sally. Where has this shit been all my life? I was in pure heaven after about half an hour. No more vertigo, no more depression, no more anything. I was happy and drowsy and rattled on nonstop to Jethro about everything from the punk scene (Don't come to me with your pink hair and pierced face, or your raggedy clothes and caustic wit and demand respect for being different. No one gives a shit, least of all me. Go to a country where you could disappear for bucking the "establishment" and I'll give you all due respect. But here? Within the last 60 years? Gimme a fucking break.) to business (reminder to self: find local produce growers tomorrow).
We tried to find the Super Bowl on the radio, but the signal kept fading. We kept it on anyway.
I had dozed off for awhile after listing the merits of raisng rabbits as a source of protein, when I heard the radio give a particurly loud blast of static. I bolted upright and yelled "TOUCHDOWN!!!! It's the Giants, right? They're winning now, right?"
Jethro's hands gripped the wheel and he said, "I think they've fucking won it!"
"NO!"
"Yes!"
The signal broke through for a second and we heard the score: 17-14 with 35 seconds left.
The signal went out again, and we listened with baited breath to the static. We were pretty sure we knew when the game was over, but we weren't sure who had won. We found out on another station.
Good game. Wish I'd seen it.
We get to the hospital and the ICU staff is looking daggers at us. I thought it was because my very large family had been plaguing them during non-visiting hours. Not so. My grandmother, discontent with being the least grieviously ill person in the ICU, had caused quite the ruckus while my aunt, a succubus from the very deepest pits of Hell (otherwise known as NYC), was on the phone bothering the hospital staff.
Now, I can't entirely blame my grandmother. She was being moved to her bed by an orderly and her catheter became entangled in the sheet covering the chair she had been sitting on. One scream didn't have an instantaneous effect, so she continued until the entire ICU was in a blind panic.
Meanwhile, my aunt from Hell (aka NYC) heard all this, and called everyone from the top down and gave them what I can only imagine was the verbal equivalent of a jalapeno infused enema.
Then she called my sisters to bitch at them for not being psychically aware of the situation, threatening to come down and handle everything herself (like she ever would). "I'm a hell of a lot scarier than any of you," she informed my sister. "Damn right," said Sis. "Pol Pot is less scary than you."
By the time Jethro and I arrived, things had calmed down some, but the nurses were none too pleased with us. My grandmother was somewhat sickly looking, but I'm pretty sure she was in her element with an entire hospital staff at her beck and call (albeit somewhat bitterly).
After visiting my grandmother, I went to my sister's (who's marrying the Brit) bridal shower. Three sisters and I all drove together and it was actually kind of a fun ride. We ran out of gas a little bit on the freeway and had to coast to an exit with a service station, only just making it because we were going downhill, and passed a girl in a truck who had a bumper sticker that said, "I Used To Have A Lot of Nice Things and a Wolf. Now I Only Have a Wolf." She was wearing a hat with animal ears, and we passed her up just to get a better look. I don't know how to explain how funny this was, but one of my sisters made wolf-ears with her hands as we passed, looked back and asked, "Did she recognize?" I am still laughing about it.
We arrived at the shower where I was asked unceremoniously and without prelude whether Jethro and I had been married in the (Catholic) Church, by one of the guests whom I hadn't seen in about 15 years.
Just for the record, it isn't wise to ask me this question. But not for the reasons you would think. I know it isn't their business, blah, blah, blah, but I can't find it in my heart to be offended or hurt by people who care so much about me that they would flout protocol in such a spectacular fashion. No. The reason it isn't wise to ask me about it is because I will talk for about 45 minutes without ceasing on the reasons why I am not married in the Church, my issues with religion, my views on theology and dogma, my admiration for religious people even though I feel no need to subscribe, and the fact that I someday want to try anal again just to make sure I really hate it and I don't want to have to go to confession about it.
I warned you.
I fell asleep early Saturday night, intending to visit my grandmother again the next day. We were packing up Sunday morning, when I found myself in the throes of some kind of depression. I was crying for no reason at all, and I could barely move. Somehow I made it to the hospital to see my grandmother. She was all doped up on something that I wanted.
I sat with her for awhile while she drifted in and out of consciousness. I stood up to get her some water and found myself in the throes of some kind of vertigo. I was so dizzy I could barely walk. I don't know for sure what caused it, but I think it was some of the electronics in her room. I'm susceptible.
I waited until my sister got there and left, staggering drunkenly out to the waiting room where Jethro was waiting with the kids. I tried Jethro's tried and true vertigo remedy, which has always worked before, but to no avail.
We left the hospital and started driving back to New Town. We decided to stop and see my family on the way out because I was dry-heaving in a little plastic to-go cup. I went and laid down on my mom's couch and asked her to give me a hug. I'm a pussy.
After resting awhile, we started on again. I was disappointed we were going to miss the Super Bowl, but we didn't want to get back too late. We stopped at a convenience store where I got me some seltzer, Motrin and out of pure desperation, Dramamine.
Then we stopped at a diner for dinner and I took the dramamine.
Hellllooooo Sally. Where has this shit been all my life? I was in pure heaven after about half an hour. No more vertigo, no more depression, no more anything. I was happy and drowsy and rattled on nonstop to Jethro about everything from the punk scene (Don't come to me with your pink hair and pierced face, or your raggedy clothes and caustic wit and demand respect for being different. No one gives a shit, least of all me. Go to a country where you could disappear for bucking the "establishment" and I'll give you all due respect. But here? Within the last 60 years? Gimme a fucking break.) to business (reminder to self: find local produce growers tomorrow).
We tried to find the Super Bowl on the radio, but the signal kept fading. We kept it on anyway.
I had dozed off for awhile after listing the merits of raisng rabbits as a source of protein, when I heard the radio give a particurly loud blast of static. I bolted upright and yelled "TOUCHDOWN!!!! It's the Giants, right? They're winning now, right?"
Jethro's hands gripped the wheel and he said, "I think they've fucking won it!"
"NO!"
"Yes!"
The signal broke through for a second and we heard the score: 17-14 with 35 seconds left.
The signal went out again, and we listened with baited breath to the static. We were pretty sure we knew when the game was over, but we weren't sure who had won. We found out on another station.
Good game. Wish I'd seen it.
Friday, February 01, 2008
What Happened the Year You Were Born?
In 1976 (the year you were born) |
 Gerald Ford is president of the US The US celebrates its bicentennial, marking the 200th anniversary of its independence The Viking II sets down on Mars' Utopia Plains Promising, "I will never lie to you," Jimmy Carter is elected president of the United States Israeli commandos rescue hostages from Entebbe, Uganda The Concorde begins flights from New York to Europe George W. Bush is arrested and fined for driving under the influence of alcohol Cray-1, the first commercially developed supercomputer, is invented by Seymour Cray Freddie Prinze Jr., Reese Witherspoon, Colin Farrell, 50 Cent, Fred Savage, and Shannon Elizabeth are born Cincinnati Reds win the World Series Pittsburgh Steelers win Superbowl X Montreal Canadiens win the Stanley Cup Rocky is the top grossing film Filming begins on George Lucas' Star Wars The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins is published The Eagles Their Greatest Hits compilation becomes the first album in history to be certified platinum "Tonight's The Night" by Rod Stewart spends the most time at the top of the US chart Charlie's Angels and The Muppet Show premiere |
H/T: Blonde Sagacity
My grandmother has to have another little operation this weekend, so we're going back to Houston. Keep her in your prayers, and have a great weekend.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
No One Appreciates My Art
Since moving to New Town, I've had to adjust to a whole new set of radio stations. Not that it's difficult or anything. They pretty much play the same crap you hear everywhere else. But I did manage to find a country station that plays old cowboy songs and Country and Western from back when it was called "Country and Western." A preponderance of Willie doesn't hurt either.
However, no one in my family appreciates this. If it doesn't have that fictional, synthesized quality, or a stomach pounding bass, they just aren't interested.
I tried to get the girls to sing "Tryin' to Love Two Women (Is Like a Ball and Chain) the other day, but they'd have none of it and begged me to turn it down before any of their friends heard.
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I have another class project due tonight. Upon it's completion, I will have simultaneously fulfilled a promise I never thought I'd be able to, and shocked my class who (amazingly) considers me to be a rather quiet person who does not draw needless attention to herself.
Update: I will post a picture of the project as soon as I get it back.
However, no one in my family appreciates this. If it doesn't have that fictional, synthesized quality, or a stomach pounding bass, they just aren't interested.
I tried to get the girls to sing "Tryin' to Love Two Women (Is Like a Ball and Chain) the other day, but they'd have none of it and begged me to turn it down before any of their friends heard.
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I have another class project due tonight. Upon it's completion, I will have simultaneously fulfilled a promise I never thought I'd be able to, and shocked my class who (amazingly) considers me to be a rather quiet person who does not draw needless attention to herself.
Update: I will post a picture of the project as soon as I get it back.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
A Quiet Evening
I just got home from class. I hate still lives. And charcoal. Really, I'm just not good at drawing, and that sucks. I resignedly put my crappy picture up for critique every class, and I'm running out of ways to say "Yeah, I screwed up, but I'm so much improved!!!!"
Anyway, I've eaten a salad and I'm debating whether I should start my next project. I can finish it tomorrow, but if I at least started it tonight, I might get ahead for friggin' once.
However, Jethro is sitting all alone with his laptop, meticulously scouring the internet for some very specific pornography to send Corin in Iraq, at Cornin's request. There is no sacrifice Jethro wouldn't make for his friend; no titty he'd fail to scrutinize, no $3.99 per month subscription he wouldn't at least consider purchasing. Perhaps I should go help him bear this unspeakable burden.
Decisions......
Actually, Corin has requested porn containing large, natural bosoms and Asians. I'm thinking Jeth and I could save a little money here. I know this is conceited, but you don't get better than mine for cartoonishly large, unfake boobies, and Jethro is pretty. So so pretty. A wig and some lipstick and we could have an Asian/huge tittied lesbian encounter, provided Jethro was able to tuck in properly, and the lighting was suitably dim. Corin would never know. And even if he did, he'd probably just curse our names and beat off anyway. I hear soldiers in Iraq aren't too picky, which is a good thing. Maybe now they'll let me start cybersexing them again.
Anyway, I've eaten a salad and I'm debating whether I should start my next project. I can finish it tomorrow, but if I at least started it tonight, I might get ahead for friggin' once.
However, Jethro is sitting all alone with his laptop, meticulously scouring the internet for some very specific pornography to send Corin in Iraq, at Cornin's request. There is no sacrifice Jethro wouldn't make for his friend; no titty he'd fail to scrutinize, no $3.99 per month subscription he wouldn't at least consider purchasing. Perhaps I should go help him bear this unspeakable burden.
Decisions......
Actually, Corin has requested porn containing large, natural bosoms and Asians. I'm thinking Jeth and I could save a little money here. I know this is conceited, but you don't get better than mine for cartoonishly large, unfake boobies, and Jethro is pretty. So so pretty. A wig and some lipstick and we could have an Asian/huge tittied lesbian encounter, provided Jethro was able to tuck in properly, and the lighting was suitably dim. Corin would never know. And even if he did, he'd probably just curse our names and beat off anyway. I hear soldiers in Iraq aren't too picky, which is a good thing. Maybe now they'll let me start cybersexing them again.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Political Dabbling
It's like watching a mangy white hen try to peck her little black chick to death and the little black chick feebly scratching at her eyes.
I do not agree with Obama on any of his main issues, so obviously will not be voting for him. But he is one hell of a likeable candidate. You almost feel as if you could ask him nicely not to steal your money. And I think he's black. Bonus.
I do not agree with Obama on any of his main issues, so obviously will not be voting for him. But he is one hell of a likeable candidate. You almost feel as if you could ask him nicely not to steal your money. And I think he's black. Bonus.
Friday, January 18, 2008
AGIBs
I was listening to one of the artistically gifted, but intellectually bereft (or AGIBs for short) tell a story about a near escape he had with members of law enforcement. At first I thought it was a story about an apartment dog, which turned out not to be the case. But that was the only reason I began listening. I'd never heard anyone refer to a dog who lived in an apartment as an "apartment dog." The entire story was liberally peppered with both "dog" and "fool," including this gem of a sentence, "Yeah and my girl she was pissed off, dog cuz I was supposed be in court the next day, fool."
I guess it was better than "like" and "whatever."
And I was right. They are all high. When we have our breaks, if they're not in the parking lot smoking weed, they're dipping. One of my classmates told me about the massive bloody nose he experienced after snorting some coke while suffering a sinus infection. I try to keep my angelic face on so I won't be forced to say something like, "No, man. Pot makes me sleepy." Or some other witty excuse from my unused '80s repertoire.
I guess it was better than "like" and "whatever."
And I was right. They are all high. When we have our breaks, if they're not in the parking lot smoking weed, they're dipping. One of my classmates told me about the massive bloody nose he experienced after snorting some coke while suffering a sinus infection. I try to keep my angelic face on so I won't be forced to say something like, "No, man. Pot makes me sleepy." Or some other witty excuse from my unused '80s repertoire.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
No Big Brother Today
If you haven't caught Mr. Ezra Levant's excoriation of the Canadian Human Rights Commission to which he was ingloriously summoned by a complaint from one, Syed Soharwardy, for publishing the Danish cartoons of Islam's Pedophile Prophet, you really should. (Start at the last one.)
The fact that Mr. Levant has been brought before this "Human Rights" Commission is disgusting. But it's almost worth it simply for the exposure it gives to the false liberalism and soft fascism of Institutional Political Correctness.
H/T: Jim Treacher
The fact that Mr. Levant has been brought before this "Human Rights" Commission is disgusting. But it's almost worth it simply for the exposure it gives to the false liberalism and soft fascism of Institutional Political Correctness.
H/T: Jim Treacher
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
"Seventeen year olds nowadays are crazy. They're up for anything. They even like it when you go ass to mouth." - Clerks II
Well maybe not 17 year olds, but one 25 year old classmate of mine. I'll call him Joe. He's into group sex. I thought you only got into group sex when you were too old to have decent regular sex. Or if you were ugly and had to compromise in order to get laid.
The guy is cute in an everyday kind of way. Nothing spectacular or anything, but certainly not repulsive. And he's smart. But he'll double up with another dude on some chick.
I'm always shocked when I find out someone I know, however briefly, is engaged in sex acts I have only seen in 15 second clips on the internet.
Now every time I see him I'm going to wonder if his balls have slapped another guy's face, or if he's kissed a girl who's just gone ass to mouth.
The guy is cute in an everyday kind of way. Nothing spectacular or anything, but certainly not repulsive. And he's smart. But he'll double up with another dude on some chick.
I'm always shocked when I find out someone I know, however briefly, is engaged in sex acts I have only seen in 15 second clips on the internet.
Now every time I see him I'm going to wonder if his balls have slapped another guy's face, or if he's kissed a girl who's just gone ass to mouth.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Lo! Who is that, striding out of the wasteland! It is Zelda, hands clutching a sharpened screwdriver...
I have come to the conclusion that it is time for Jethro and me to part ways.
While we sleep.
He snores. It's getting worse. If the sleep apnea doesn't kill him, there is a very good chance I might. You know you're on a very bad track when you are waked by a particularly loud reverberation and think you're being logical as you weigh out the reasons why choking him to death is a good idea, and whether or not you should dig the grave first.
Last night was another straw. Since he snores, he doesn't fall into a deep sleep. This makes him prone to sleep activity. Last night he was pawing my face and throat and muttering to himself. When I woke up screaming, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP TOUCHING ME!!!" he informed me haughtily that he was just trying to help me.
I'm thinking that, given our deep sexual commitment, separate twins and a nice, thick, carpeted screen between them would not necessarily be a throwback to 1950s prudery.
While we sleep.
He snores. It's getting worse. If the sleep apnea doesn't kill him, there is a very good chance I might. You know you're on a very bad track when you are waked by a particularly loud reverberation and think you're being logical as you weigh out the reasons why choking him to death is a good idea, and whether or not you should dig the grave first.
Last night was another straw. Since he snores, he doesn't fall into a deep sleep. This makes him prone to sleep activity. Last night he was pawing my face and throat and muttering to himself. When I woke up screaming, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP TOUCHING ME!!!" he informed me haughtily that he was just trying to help me.
I'm thinking that, given our deep sexual commitment, separate twins and a nice, thick, carpeted screen between them would not necessarily be a throwback to 1950s prudery.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Musings
Snow falls in Baghdad. IT'S GLOBAL WARMING!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!
If you you bother to read the article, note the excessively cheesy James Joyce reference and apology - further proving my suspicion that journalists are just writers who are having trouble selling their works of hack.
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Classes are going. I'll be very happy when I'm done with the drawing portion. I have no hand- eye coordination. I seem to have a fabulous grasp of the concept of graphic design, however. But just when I was congratulating myself on that fact and feeling slightly superior to everyone else in the room, I came to the conclusion that everyone else in the room was high. And they're still better at drawing.
Why does God see fit to bless these peasants with such gifts?
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And if you do nothing else the rest of the weekend, watch this: Swiped from Jim Treacher at Blowing Smoke.
We are staying put this weekend, thank goodness. I don't think I could handle one more trip back to Houston. I like my own bed, dustmites and all.
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I did not watch the GOP debate last night, being in class the whole time, but I hear Mr. Thompson cleaned up. Good for him. I think he might sweep the South. I certainly hope so. Huckabee's evangelicals are getting on my nerves, but they don't begin to compare to Ron Paul's psychos. How alarming is it when the candidate's supporters are scarier than the candidate?
I realize the slightly more conservative (cough...Michelle Malkin...cough) are jumping all over Thompson for not skewering McCain on issues such as immigration and campaign finance reform. I would have thought much less of him if he had. McCain could be a very valuable ally if he wins the nomination, and McCain should be given the utmost respect by Republicans and Democrats alike, even when you disagree. He has earned that in spades.
If you you bother to read the article, note the excessively cheesy James Joyce reference and apology - further proving my suspicion that journalists are just writers who are having trouble selling their works of hack.
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Classes are going. I'll be very happy when I'm done with the drawing portion. I have no hand- eye coordination. I seem to have a fabulous grasp of the concept of graphic design, however. But just when I was congratulating myself on that fact and feeling slightly superior to everyone else in the room, I came to the conclusion that everyone else in the room was high. And they're still better at drawing.
Why does God see fit to bless these peasants with such gifts?
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And if you do nothing else the rest of the weekend, watch this: Swiped from Jim Treacher at Blowing Smoke.
We are staying put this weekend, thank goodness. I don't think I could handle one more trip back to Houston. I like my own bed, dustmites and all.
--------------------------------
I did not watch the GOP debate last night, being in class the whole time, but I hear Mr. Thompson cleaned up. Good for him. I think he might sweep the South. I certainly hope so. Huckabee's evangelicals are getting on my nerves, but they don't begin to compare to Ron Paul's psychos. How alarming is it when the candidate's supporters are scarier than the candidate?
I realize the slightly more conservative (cough...Michelle Malkin...cough) are jumping all over Thompson for not skewering McCain on issues such as immigration and campaign finance reform. I would have thought much less of him if he had. McCain could be a very valuable ally if he wins the nomination, and McCain should be given the utmost respect by Republicans and Democrats alike, even when you disagree. He has earned that in spades.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
The Usual
I haven't read the article yet, but I did like the headline: "Moderate drinking and exercising may lower risk of heart disease." I do hope they mean at the same time. I can see myself enjoying the clinic exercise bicycle so much more.
So classes are interesting, but I'm just as bad as I feared. I sincerely hope they can do something with me. However, I seem to have gone overboard on the humility and can't seem to stop apologizing for my lack of talent. I think I have a decent amount of skill when it comes to concept, but making my hands execute that concept is like trying to escape from a cement coffin. It's always been a struggle to make my hands do what my brain is telling them. It's what keeps me from being a good musician as opposed to a just a strummer or a plucker. Luckily I can type and when the situation calls for it, write, otherwise I'd have no creative gifts whatsoever. And then all I'd have is boobs and I'd have to work out and become a stripper, or find some other profession that utilizes breasts. Nipple piercing model maybe (NSFW)?
Regardless, I'm going to learn as much as I can. It's amazing how much more focused I am now than when I was in school a decade ago. I really wasn't ready, which should have been obvious given that my first thought upon entering any class was how many absences the prof would let me get away with. But as with anything, you're ususally the last person to figure this out.
So classes are interesting, but I'm just as bad as I feared. I sincerely hope they can do something with me. However, I seem to have gone overboard on the humility and can't seem to stop apologizing for my lack of talent. I think I have a decent amount of skill when it comes to concept, but making my hands execute that concept is like trying to escape from a cement coffin. It's always been a struggle to make my hands do what my brain is telling them. It's what keeps me from being a good musician as opposed to a just a strummer or a plucker. Luckily I can type and when the situation calls for it, write, otherwise I'd have no creative gifts whatsoever. And then all I'd have is boobs and I'd have to work out and become a stripper, or find some other profession that utilizes breasts. Nipple piercing model maybe (NSFW)?
Regardless, I'm going to learn as much as I can. It's amazing how much more focused I am now than when I was in school a decade ago. I really wasn't ready, which should have been obvious given that my first thought upon entering any class was how many absences the prof would let me get away with. But as with anything, you're ususally the last person to figure this out.
Monday, January 07, 2008
The Drive Home
I got a handsome high school boy to talk to me last night at a McDonald's in Flatonio, TX. He was so cute. I think it was just because he was nice, but I'm hoping it was because I was wearing my special shirt. We commiserated over McDonald's decision to replace the medium fries with the small fries on the dollar value menu.
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I start my first class this evening. I'm actually nervous. I have been thrown straight into Drawing I and I can't draw anything freehand. I was the worst picture maker in my entire 7th grade class. I am hoping against hope that abstract has not gone out of style yet.
Wish me luck.
I am working on a difficult blog post regarding Transcendentalism and Objectivism. No one will enjoy reading it, but I am thoroughly enjoying writing it.
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I start my first class this evening. I'm actually nervous. I have been thrown straight into Drawing I and I can't draw anything freehand. I was the worst picture maker in my entire 7th grade class. I am hoping against hope that abstract has not gone out of style yet.
Wish me luck.
I am working on a difficult blog post regarding Transcendentalism and Objectivism. No one will enjoy reading it, but I am thoroughly enjoying writing it.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Schtuff
So I'm back to just the sniffles after a wild crescendo of illness, the zenith being a head somewhere around 6 lbs full of a thick snot pudding, I wanted to shoot myself just to relieve the pressure.
But it's better now. I took the antibiotics and they seem to be doing the trick.
I'm headed for orientation tonight. It will be interesting to see if my pride can withstand an environment related to a subject of which I am almost completely ignorant. I don't like being the dumbest one in the room. It remains to be seen if I can muster the humility to actually learn something, pride being somewhat of an Achille's heel for me. Better work on that for the new year. The housekeeping got far away from me while I was sick, so I have that to work on that too. Squelching pride and housekeeping. Dull business.
On the upside, though, I'm very happy to have the kids back. I missed them. Even though I had the option to make as much noise as I wanted (and I tried, but very little sound escaped from my battered vocal chords) while in certain compromising positions, life seemed very two-dimensional.
Oh, and Jethro and I visited a sex toy shop the night before we left for Houston to pick up the girls. I'm shy about that kind of thing in public, so I referred to Jethro as "Don" and he to me as "Kelly" and we pretended we were going to a bachelor/bachelorette party for two people named "Jethro" and "Zelda."
And boy oh boy were Jethro and Zelda going to have fun.
In fact, Jethro and Zelda had so much fun, they only managed to open the vibrator package part way before they said, "screw it" and had regular old sex.
But I hope this vibrator lasts longer.
But it's better now. I took the antibiotics and they seem to be doing the trick.
I'm headed for orientation tonight. It will be interesting to see if my pride can withstand an environment related to a subject of which I am almost completely ignorant. I don't like being the dumbest one in the room. It remains to be seen if I can muster the humility to actually learn something, pride being somewhat of an Achille's heel for me. Better work on that for the new year. The housekeeping got far away from me while I was sick, so I have that to work on that too. Squelching pride and housekeeping. Dull business.
On the upside, though, I'm very happy to have the kids back. I missed them. Even though I had the option to make as much noise as I wanted (and I tried, but very little sound escaped from my battered vocal chords) while in certain compromising positions, life seemed very two-dimensional.
Oh, and Jethro and I visited a sex toy shop the night before we left for Houston to pick up the girls. I'm shy about that kind of thing in public, so I referred to Jethro as "Don" and he to me as "Kelly" and we pretended we were going to a bachelor/bachelorette party for two people named "Jethro" and "Zelda."
And boy oh boy were Jethro and Zelda going to have fun.
In fact, Jethro and Zelda had so much fun, they only managed to open the vibrator package part way before they said, "screw it" and had regular old sex.
But I hope this vibrator lasts longer.
Monday, December 31, 2007
The Year In Retrospect And A Brief Anecdote
It's been quite a year for us, this 2007 - a red-letter year in so many respects. Jethro ditched his widow-maker of a boss in a unexpectedly timely manner. That in and of itself makes the year worthy of note. But on top of that, we bought our own business, moved cities, and renovated our tiny monstrosity of a home. It will definitely stand out for many years to come for all the wonderful things that came out of it.
And yet I'd trade every good thing in an instant to erase the one bad thing.
Jethro and I went to the cemetery to visit Charles again on Christmas Eve. There were so many things we needed to do that day, but that just seemed to be the most important. And am I ever glad we did. His mom and fiance had gone the day before and put up a wreath and an ornament which the wind had blown down and strewn all over. Jeth and I collected it all and put it back. I found some Christmas ribbon in the car and tied everything down so the wind couldn't knock it over again. I felt better knowing that his grave would be the way his mom and his girl wanted it for Christmas. It's funny the comfort we take in such small things.
Ah well. I don't love ending the year with such a somber post, but I must remember our friend. He is definitely worth it. I'll make up for it with a funny story about him, or actually just involving him. It's mostly about a large girl who was another friend of ours.
I'll call her Tina, and I'll say it again. She was large.
When we were in college, Tina used to throw these crazy parties. We'd fill a Rubbermaid trashcan (designated solely for that purpose) with Trashcan Punch, buy a few cases of beer, and have some fun. We had several awesome parties there including one where we watched the Rockets sweep the Magic in the '95 NBA Finals, loaded 20 people, a keg, and a couple of brooms into the back of someone's pick-up......but I digress.
Tina's apartment complex was in a shady part of town, and not terribly well kept. But it did have a swimming pool. And swimming pools have a bad habit of luring in drunken young college chicks. And drunken young college chicks have a bad habit of removing their clothing, once succumbing to the lure.
On this particular occasion, being a chaste and virtuous maiden, I had passed out in a pool chair after having only removed my top.
When I came to, I found myself alone except for Tina who was happily cavorting in the pool all by herself. Since it was her apartment complex, she was afforded the luxury of a swimsuit, and so had not felt the need to return with the others. Apparently I was chopped liver. No one had bothered to wake me up to go get dry.
I had misplaced my glasses as was usual for me at these parties, but had enough clarity to realize that I was pretty drunk and all alone with a 300 lb. girl who was similarly inebriated. I was pretty sure, should she start to drown, that I could not save her. And I wanted to save her. I liked her a lot, and her parties were great.
"Tina!" I called. "Come backatha party! I need nonother drink. Drinkiepoo. Y'know. Drink."
"But I'm having fun out here," Tina said, floatily. "Tell the others to come back!"
It took a minute or two for this to sink in, but I was pretty sure by the time I thought of a good reply, I could go back to the party and bring a few more people out.
"'Kay, Tina. I'll bre righ-back," I shouted as soberly as I could. "Shtay by th' pool shteps an' I'll go bring 'um back here."
I wobbled back to the party where I procured the help of Charles and tall, skinny girl named Kara. Charles, having lost his own glasses (he wore glasses back then), let Kara lead the way. We chatted merrily, if not coherently, until we got to the pool.
Suddenly, without warning, Kara stopped short and flung her arms out. Charles and I were nearly clotheslined.
"Stop," Kara said in a low voice. "Y'all turn around right now."
Frightened, we obeyed.
"Tina! Tina, sweetie!" Kara chirped in her most endearing southern twang. "You might want to put your swimsuit back on now, honey!"
"But I'm free! FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" sang Tina as she splashed joyfully through the white water of her own wake.
Charles and I clawed at each other for a minute in a mutual frenzy of horror and mirth, and immediately congratulated ourselves not only on having lost our eyewear, but on having need for it in the first place.
I don't remember much after that. I think Tina ended up putting back on her swimsuit, but not before someone called out an order to "man the harpoooooons!" which I thought was very rude. I do know that not once did Charles so much as squint in her direction - a temptation that surprisingly few were able to resist.
Just one of many strange, fond memories...
And yet I'd trade every good thing in an instant to erase the one bad thing.
Jethro and I went to the cemetery to visit Charles again on Christmas Eve. There were so many things we needed to do that day, but that just seemed to be the most important. And am I ever glad we did. His mom and fiance had gone the day before and put up a wreath and an ornament which the wind had blown down and strewn all over. Jeth and I collected it all and put it back. I found some Christmas ribbon in the car and tied everything down so the wind couldn't knock it over again. I felt better knowing that his grave would be the way his mom and his girl wanted it for Christmas. It's funny the comfort we take in such small things.
Ah well. I don't love ending the year with such a somber post, but I must remember our friend. He is definitely worth it. I'll make up for it with a funny story about him, or actually just involving him. It's mostly about a large girl who was another friend of ours.
I'll call her Tina, and I'll say it again. She was large.
When we were in college, Tina used to throw these crazy parties. We'd fill a Rubbermaid trashcan (designated solely for that purpose) with Trashcan Punch, buy a few cases of beer, and have some fun. We had several awesome parties there including one where we watched the Rockets sweep the Magic in the '95 NBA Finals, loaded 20 people, a keg, and a couple of brooms into the back of someone's pick-up......but I digress.
Tina's apartment complex was in a shady part of town, and not terribly well kept. But it did have a swimming pool. And swimming pools have a bad habit of luring in drunken young college chicks. And drunken young college chicks have a bad habit of removing their clothing, once succumbing to the lure.
On this particular occasion, being a chaste and virtuous maiden, I had passed out in a pool chair after having only removed my top.
When I came to, I found myself alone except for Tina who was happily cavorting in the pool all by herself. Since it was her apartment complex, she was afforded the luxury of a swimsuit, and so had not felt the need to return with the others. Apparently I was chopped liver. No one had bothered to wake me up to go get dry.
I had misplaced my glasses as was usual for me at these parties, but had enough clarity to realize that I was pretty drunk and all alone with a 300 lb. girl who was similarly inebriated. I was pretty sure, should she start to drown, that I could not save her. And I wanted to save her. I liked her a lot, and her parties were great.
"Tina!" I called. "Come backatha party! I need nonother drink. Drinkiepoo. Y'know. Drink."
"But I'm having fun out here," Tina said, floatily. "Tell the others to come back!"
It took a minute or two for this to sink in, but I was pretty sure by the time I thought of a good reply, I could go back to the party and bring a few more people out.
"'Kay, Tina. I'll bre righ-back," I shouted as soberly as I could. "Shtay by th' pool shteps an' I'll go bring 'um back here."
I wobbled back to the party where I procured the help of Charles and tall, skinny girl named Kara. Charles, having lost his own glasses (he wore glasses back then), let Kara lead the way. We chatted merrily, if not coherently, until we got to the pool.
Suddenly, without warning, Kara stopped short and flung her arms out. Charles and I were nearly clotheslined.
"Stop," Kara said in a low voice. "Y'all turn around right now."
Frightened, we obeyed.
"Tina! Tina, sweetie!" Kara chirped in her most endearing southern twang. "You might want to put your swimsuit back on now, honey!"
"But I'm free! FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" sang Tina as she splashed joyfully through the white water of her own wake.
Charles and I clawed at each other for a minute in a mutual frenzy of horror and mirth, and immediately congratulated ourselves not only on having lost our eyewear, but on having need for it in the first place.
I don't remember much after that. I think Tina ended up putting back on her swimsuit, but not before someone called out an order to "man the harpoooooons!" which I thought was very rude. I do know that not once did Charles so much as squint in her direction - a temptation that surprisingly few were able to resist.
Just one of many strange, fond memories...
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Emo Post
Life is so unfair. For Christmas, one of Jethro's sisters asked to take the girls to Florida to swim with dolphins at some dolphin swimming place.
The plan was that we would leave the girls with the in-laws Christmas day night, drive back to New Town, spend the whole week nekkid (except for when we were at the clinic), put on some clothes for the weekend and party, then finally drive back to Houston on New Year's Eve to pick up the kids.
It was going to be fantastic.
But I am still sick. Feverishly, bloody sinusly, ear infectiously, swollen neck glandsedly sick.
So I am sitting here shivering and glowering, feeling like a two-year old who hasn't gotten her way. I would stamp my feet if I thought it would make me feel any better. But it won't. It would just make my head ache more.
Good bye, cruel world.
The plan was that we would leave the girls with the in-laws Christmas day night, drive back to New Town, spend the whole week nekkid (except for when we were at the clinic), put on some clothes for the weekend and party, then finally drive back to Houston on New Year's Eve to pick up the kids.
It was going to be fantastic.
But I am still sick. Feverishly, bloody sinusly, ear infectiously, swollen neck glandsedly sick.
So I am sitting here shivering and glowering, feeling like a two-year old who hasn't gotten her way. I would stamp my feet if I thought it would make me feel any better. But it won't. It would just make my head ache more.
Good bye, cruel world.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
The Magic 8 Ball
It was a nice Christmas. No major dramatics (miraculous for a family consisting of 12 females and 2 sperm donors), just the heartfelt observation that we could use some men in the family. Jethro cannot carry the load by himself. Every time we leave my family's estrogen plantation, I see just a few more gray hairs on his head. It's already driven my stepfather to insanity.
I am still not feeling well. I was doing better yesterday, but seem to have had a relapse. I have the energy for one funny story, but then I'm spent.
Gwennie and Emma had themselves a great Christmas and got a pretty nice haul. One of Gwennie's presents was a Magic 8 ball. It was a last minute present because Emma was getting a high school musical poster, and Gwennie's Pokemon poster hadn't come in yet. They have to have an even number of presents. Be quiet, they just do.
Anyway, Gwennie had left her Battleship game all over the floor and I asked her to pick it up. The third time I asked, I didn't ask nicely. She snatched up her game in a manic huff and nearly threw it at me.
"What is your problem?" I asked, nonplussed.
Tears formed in her eyes. Real, legitimate tears.
"My family doesn't love me," she said simply.
"What on earth would give you that impression?"
"I asked my Magic 8 ball if I like pie and it said "yes." Then I asked it if my family really loved me and it said, "no." Her voice broke.
"Oh my god. I'm going to smash that thing into pieces. Gwennie. Look at me. You can't ask a piece of plastic important questions like that. It's just a game. You're only supposed to ask it questions like, 'Should I wear my red shirt today?' You know, things that don't really matter. You know I love you. I love you and Emma more than anything in the world. The day I had you was the happiest day of my life."
She brightened considerably.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Gwennie?" I asked seriously.
"Yes. I feel much better now that I know it's just a game."
A mischievous look came into her eyes. She shook up her Magic 8 Ball and asked, "Am I going to get presents next year?"
She turned it over and read: "Outlook not good."
She frowned a little and said, "I'll ask it again."
She turned over the 8 ball and read: "All signs point to no."
She sighed. "I'll ask it one more time."
Once more she asked the question and shook up her 8 ball: "My reply is no."
She looked at it for a second, then said cheerfully: "Well, that's it for today."
I am still not feeling well. I was doing better yesterday, but seem to have had a relapse. I have the energy for one funny story, but then I'm spent.
Gwennie and Emma had themselves a great Christmas and got a pretty nice haul. One of Gwennie's presents was a Magic 8 ball. It was a last minute present because Emma was getting a high school musical poster, and Gwennie's Pokemon poster hadn't come in yet. They have to have an even number of presents. Be quiet, they just do.
Anyway, Gwennie had left her Battleship game all over the floor and I asked her to pick it up. The third time I asked, I didn't ask nicely. She snatched up her game in a manic huff and nearly threw it at me.
"What is your problem?" I asked, nonplussed.
Tears formed in her eyes. Real, legitimate tears.
"My family doesn't love me," she said simply.
"What on earth would give you that impression?"
"I asked my Magic 8 ball if I like pie and it said "yes." Then I asked it if my family really loved me and it said, "no." Her voice broke.
"Oh my god. I'm going to smash that thing into pieces. Gwennie. Look at me. You can't ask a piece of plastic important questions like that. It's just a game. You're only supposed to ask it questions like, 'Should I wear my red shirt today?' You know, things that don't really matter. You know I love you. I love you and Emma more than anything in the world. The day I had you was the happiest day of my life."
She brightened considerably.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Gwennie?" I asked seriously.
"Yes. I feel much better now that I know it's just a game."
A mischievous look came into her eyes. She shook up her Magic 8 Ball and asked, "Am I going to get presents next year?"
She turned it over and read: "Outlook not good."
She frowned a little and said, "I'll ask it again."
She turned over the 8 ball and read: "All signs point to no."
She sighed. "I'll ask it one more time."
Once more she asked the question and shook up her 8 ball: "My reply is no."
She looked at it for a second, then said cheerfully: "Well, that's it for today."
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Got Tagged
Still feel like shit, but I was fortunately tagged, so I don't have to do any great thinking.
I guess I must post the rules so here they are:
1) Link to the person who tagged you. That would be Sohos.
2) Share Christmas facts about yourself.
3) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4) Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
1. Wrapping or gift bags? Wrapping. I like difficulty.
2. Real or artificial tree? I prefer a real tree, but have had an artificial one until this year. The artificial one actually broke at the base the first year we got it and we've jerry-rigged it for seven years now. Last year if fell over three times, so we decided it's time had come and gone.
3. When do you put up the tree? Whenever we get the chance, but not until the beginning of December.
4. When do you take the tree down? Again, whenever we get a chance. I once left it up until February.
5. Do you like eggnog? Oh yes. But definitely with rum in it.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? A Barbie Dream House. We'd just finished with the Best Christmas Ever in the way of loot, when I looked over and saw this strangled look of delight on one of my sister's faces. My dad had pulled off a sheet exposing a brand-new Barbie dream house. We were really into Barbie, but never expected the dream house for even a second.
7. Do you have a nativity scene? Yep. Two actually. Gwennie broke Mary and Jesus last year with a yo yo, I think, and I was quite peeved.
8. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Haven't really received a bad one. I've liked, or at least appreciated them all.
9. Mail or email Christmas cards? I ought to mail them, but I never do. This year I emailed them.
10. Favorite Christmas movie? A Christmas Story. "FRA-GI-LE. Must be Italian." Cracks me up every time.
11. When do you start shopping for Christmas? I always say I'm going to start early, but I always end up starting after Thanksgiving.
12. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Marie Callenders Razzleberry pie
13. Clear lights or colored? Colored
14. Favorite Christmas song? Fairytale of New York by The Pogues and Merry Christmas from the Family by Robert Earl Keen
15. Travel at Christmas or stay at home? I usually go to my parents' house.
16. Can you name all of Santas reindeer? Yes, thanks to Gene Autry, the Christmas Cowboy.
17. Angel or star on the top of your tree? It's a nativity tree topper that should have a star over it, but it broke. Gwennie again.
18. Open your presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? The adults open theirs' in the evening, but we make the kids suffer until morning.
19. Most annoying thing about this time of year? Lunatics on the road.
20. What do you leave for Santa? Cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer.
21. Least favorite holiday song? Let It Snow. It's just cruel to play it in Texas.
22. Do you decorate your tree with any specific theme or color? Nah.
23. Favorite ornament? A silver martini glass. It's just cool looking.
Anyone who wants to do it is more than welcome, but I'm specifically tagging Angi and Jeanette to be answered at their leisure.
I guess I must post the rules so here they are:
1) Link to the person who tagged you. That would be Sohos.
2) Share Christmas facts about yourself.
3) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4) Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
1. Wrapping or gift bags? Wrapping. I like difficulty.
2. Real or artificial tree? I prefer a real tree, but have had an artificial one until this year. The artificial one actually broke at the base the first year we got it and we've jerry-rigged it for seven years now. Last year if fell over three times, so we decided it's time had come and gone.
3. When do you put up the tree? Whenever we get the chance, but not until the beginning of December.
4. When do you take the tree down? Again, whenever we get a chance. I once left it up until February.
5. Do you like eggnog? Oh yes. But definitely with rum in it.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? A Barbie Dream House. We'd just finished with the Best Christmas Ever in the way of loot, when I looked over and saw this strangled look of delight on one of my sister's faces. My dad had pulled off a sheet exposing a brand-new Barbie dream house. We were really into Barbie, but never expected the dream house for even a second.
7. Do you have a nativity scene? Yep. Two actually. Gwennie broke Mary and Jesus last year with a yo yo, I think, and I was quite peeved.
8. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Haven't really received a bad one. I've liked, or at least appreciated them all.
9. Mail or email Christmas cards? I ought to mail them, but I never do. This year I emailed them.
10. Favorite Christmas movie? A Christmas Story. "FRA-GI-LE. Must be Italian." Cracks me up every time.
11. When do you start shopping for Christmas? I always say I'm going to start early, but I always end up starting after Thanksgiving.
12. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Marie Callenders Razzleberry pie
13. Clear lights or colored? Colored
14. Favorite Christmas song? Fairytale of New York by The Pogues and Merry Christmas from the Family by Robert Earl Keen
15. Travel at Christmas or stay at home? I usually go to my parents' house.
16. Can you name all of Santas reindeer? Yes, thanks to Gene Autry, the Christmas Cowboy.
17. Angel or star on the top of your tree? It's a nativity tree topper that should have a star over it, but it broke. Gwennie again.
18. Open your presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? The adults open theirs' in the evening, but we make the kids suffer until morning.
19. Most annoying thing about this time of year? Lunatics on the road.
20. What do you leave for Santa? Cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer.
21. Least favorite holiday song? Let It Snow. It's just cruel to play it in Texas.
22. Do you decorate your tree with any specific theme or color? Nah.
23. Favorite ornament? A silver martini glass. It's just cool looking.
Anyone who wants to do it is more than welcome, but I'm specifically tagging Angi and Jeanette to be answered at their leisure.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
What A Night
I'm going to try to explain the night I had last night, but I was feverish, so there is a good chance this post will make no sense.
Nope. I changed my mind. I don't feel well, so I'm just going to sum it up.
A skunk set off our smoke alarm.
Nope. I changed my mind. I don't feel well, so I'm just going to sum it up.
A skunk set off our smoke alarm.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
*SSSSSSNIIIIIFFFFFFFF*
I'm not feeling very well. I have a runny nose, an earache, and a sore throat. I'm dripping on the keyboard as I speak, so I'm going to bed.
Everyone have fun and avoid the malls.
Everyone have fun and avoid the malls.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
Something To Make Your Head Explode
I read this courtesy of Michelle Malkin. I just want to cry. I can't even waste thought on those two pieces of raw sewage who gave her up. Just give her to me. She can be my little girl and she will never have to worry about fitting in with disgusting eurotrash.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Ignorance Is Bliss. Damn the Internet.
Gwennie is supposed to write a little paper on Johnny Appleseed, so I helped her look him up on Wikipedia. I thought it prudent to skip the part that discusses his views on marriage.
Which leads me to the bad part of the internet. There is so much I never wanted to know. I didn't want to know that most of the Riders of Rohan from the Lord of the Rings movies were women. I didn't want to know Errol Flynn's friends propped him up in a hotel lobby after he died so people could get a look at him (actually, I don't really mind knowing that for some reason). And I most especially didn't want to know that Grandpa on the Waltons was a bi-sexual. I don't even like thinking of him as a unisexual. I hope it's a rumor.
Which leads me to the bad part of the internet. There is so much I never wanted to know. I didn't want to know that most of the Riders of Rohan from the Lord of the Rings movies were women. I didn't want to know Errol Flynn's friends propped him up in a hotel lobby after he died so people could get a look at him (actually, I don't really mind knowing that for some reason). And I most especially didn't want to know that Grandpa on the Waltons was a bi-sexual. I don't even like thinking of him as a unisexual. I hope it's a rumor.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Spectres From Our Past Never Die
I have not encountered anyone on this planet who has the capability of annoying me more than Jethro's former boss. 'Annoying' might be too mild a word, but I hesitate to reveal the psychotic depths of anger to which that ugly, stupid bitch can drive me.
It could probably go without saying, but she owes Jethro a not insignificant amount of money from when he worked there. Knowing her as we do (she is tighter than the asshole of a straight man who isn't into that type of thing), we have not exactly been expecting it to be paid. It doesn't change the fact that she still owes it.
But now to the part that makes me want to ruin her self-esteem (puzzlingly intact for such such a boring, witless, unattractive woman).
She wrote Jethro an email explaining why she was not going to pay him. Dumbass Bitch would have been better off not bothering. Her reasons were that 2 people he referred had not panned out according to her expectations and she had trouble collecting from one of their insurance companies - neither of which have anything to do with the fact that she owes him money.
Now I, in my haste to injure her emotionally, would have sent back the following email had I been Jethro:
Hey Dumbass Bitch,
I expected some kind of excuse from you regarding the money you owe. You are quite predictable in this regard. Luckily, it is quite well-known that you are not a person of her word, so we didn't rely upon it. Hopefully you will use whatever you've screwed us out of for a complete physical makeover - a benefit to all who cross your path in the future.
Best Regards,
Jethro
Jethro, being somewhat less hot-tempered than I, actually responded with a cheerful, positive email detailing how happy he was to be on his own, how pleasant it is here, and never once mentioning the money.
Upon reflection, this was the best type of email to send. There is nothing in this world that would chap her ass more than knowing Jethro is doing well on his own, and better than she was doing when she was first starting out. She is a very jealous person.
No doubt she'll try to convince herself his comparative success is due to the fact that he has a penis, or because he knows Asian people, or because he bought an existing practice, or because his hair swirls in a particular direction on his head. She'll do everything but acknowledge it's because he is a far more pleasant person, a far better doctor, and not physically repulsive. But she'll know.
It could probably go without saying, but she owes Jethro a not insignificant amount of money from when he worked there. Knowing her as we do (she is tighter than the asshole of a straight man who isn't into that type of thing), we have not exactly been expecting it to be paid. It doesn't change the fact that she still owes it.
But now to the part that makes me want to ruin her self-esteem (puzzlingly intact for such such a boring, witless, unattractive woman).
She wrote Jethro an email explaining why she was not going to pay him. Dumbass Bitch would have been better off not bothering. Her reasons were that 2 people he referred had not panned out according to her expectations and she had trouble collecting from one of their insurance companies - neither of which have anything to do with the fact that she owes him money.
Now I, in my haste to injure her emotionally, would have sent back the following email had I been Jethro:
Hey Dumbass Bitch,
I expected some kind of excuse from you regarding the money you owe. You are quite predictable in this regard. Luckily, it is quite well-known that you are not a person of her word, so we didn't rely upon it. Hopefully you will use whatever you've screwed us out of for a complete physical makeover - a benefit to all who cross your path in the future.
Best Regards,
Jethro
Jethro, being somewhat less hot-tempered than I, actually responded with a cheerful, positive email detailing how happy he was to be on his own, how pleasant it is here, and never once mentioning the money.
Upon reflection, this was the best type of email to send. There is nothing in this world that would chap her ass more than knowing Jethro is doing well on his own, and better than she was doing when she was first starting out. She is a very jealous person.
No doubt she'll try to convince herself his comparative success is due to the fact that he has a penis, or because he knows Asian people, or because he bought an existing practice, or because his hair swirls in a particular direction on his head. She'll do everything but acknowledge it's because he is a far more pleasant person, a far better doctor, and not physically repulsive. But she'll know.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Little Bit of Nothing, Little Bit of Elvis
I guess it's hard to top a post about dream bestiality, but I really don't want to leave it up any longer.
Not much to talk about. I start classes on January 7th. I'm borderline excited. There is a lot I want to do with it, but anything specific is as yet unformed in my mind. Regardless, Jethro had his turn in school, and now it's mine. Mine won't be nearly as long or as expensive. If I may be serious for a second, I feel like I have an overload of creativity and no outlet. Certainly no market. We'll see where it goes.
I really don't have much else, so I'll leave you with Elvis jamming my favorite Dylan tune.
"I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind,
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kind of wasted my precious time
Don't think twice it's alright."
Not much to talk about. I start classes on January 7th. I'm borderline excited. There is a lot I want to do with it, but anything specific is as yet unformed in my mind. Regardless, Jethro had his turn in school, and now it's mine. Mine won't be nearly as long or as expensive. If I may be serious for a second, I feel like I have an overload of creativity and no outlet. Certainly no market. We'll see where it goes.
I really don't have much else, so I'll leave you with Elvis jamming my favorite Dylan tune.
"I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind,
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kind of wasted my precious time
Don't think twice it's alright."
Thursday, December 06, 2007
I Had A Dream
Yes, it's a dream post, but before you run away screaming, I must inform you that it will probably be the most embarrassing post I've ever written, perhaps with the exception of this one.
I must preface this by saying that I'm the world's most masochistic dream-cheater. In the dream state, I can be about to copulate with the hottest of BLY(M)HwLSE***, when suddenly, millimeters from pure bliss, I'll remember I'm married, and virtuously put a stop to it; whereupon I will wake up and ravish Jethro.
However, when I'm about to copulate with some hideous troll of a man/woman (yes, I said woman) or some other person with whom a sexual interlude would cause eternal social discomfort, I don't remember I'm married until after the fact. Or worse yet, I do remember I'm married but I'm too consumed with lust to care.
I'll have to blame the dream I had last night on the unhealthy combination of watching Naruto, and reading Trashman and Jim Treacher all in one day. It's too much for anyone.
So, to be concise, I dreamed Trashman was a giant toad who gave it to me good with his tongue. And it was pierced (the tongue, that is).
And there was no remembering I was married. Even if I had it would have done no good. The tongue was waaaaaaay too sticky.
***Barely Legal Young (Male) Hottie with Low Self-Esteem.
I must preface this by saying that I'm the world's most masochistic dream-cheater. In the dream state, I can be about to copulate with the hottest of BLY(M)HwLSE***, when suddenly, millimeters from pure bliss, I'll remember I'm married, and virtuously put a stop to it; whereupon I will wake up and ravish Jethro.
However, when I'm about to copulate with some hideous troll of a man/woman (yes, I said woman) or some other person with whom a sexual interlude would cause eternal social discomfort, I don't remember I'm married until after the fact. Or worse yet, I do remember I'm married but I'm too consumed with lust to care.
I'll have to blame the dream I had last night on the unhealthy combination of watching Naruto, and reading Trashman and Jim Treacher all in one day. It's too much for anyone.
So, to be concise, I dreamed Trashman was a giant toad who gave it to me good with his tongue. And it was pierced (the tongue, that is).
And there was no remembering I was married. Even if I had it would have done no good. The tongue was waaaaaaay too sticky.
***Barely Legal Young (Male) Hottie with Low Self-Esteem.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
It Seems I'm Lacking Development
I did some testing at the school of graphic design I'm going to attend in January, and I had to write a stupid essay. The computer (yes, I said computer) graded and critiqued the essay as soon as I had submitted it and informed me that I had excellent sentence formation and grammar, but that my content needed development.
What was particularly galling was that it was true, but how much could I do with a 600 word limit? However, there is no arguing with Com-Pu-Tor, so I had to deal with my 9/10 score on the essay.
I also discovered that I am retarded in Algebra. They won't even let me take a class until I pass some remedial program. It's a bit humbling. Jethro makes fun of me. He seems to think that just because he can read, I should be able to add letters and numbers as if that makes any sense whatsoever.
I told him when he can read without moving his lips, I'll learn to multiply letters. It wasn't really fair. Jethro doesn't move his lips that much, but I'm sensitive about my lack of mathematical skills, and I'm pissed because he shaved his face and it makes me look like a child molester.
What was particularly galling was that it was true, but how much could I do with a 600 word limit? However, there is no arguing with Com-Pu-Tor, so I had to deal with my 9/10 score on the essay.
I also discovered that I am retarded in Algebra. They won't even let me take a class until I pass some remedial program. It's a bit humbling. Jethro makes fun of me. He seems to think that just because he can read, I should be able to add letters and numbers as if that makes any sense whatsoever.
I told him when he can read without moving his lips, I'll learn to multiply letters. It wasn't really fair. Jethro doesn't move his lips that much, but I'm sensitive about my lack of mathematical skills, and I'm pissed because he shaved his face and it makes me look like a child molester.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Bits
This is hilarious. Especially if you like Shakespeare (or were forced to read him ad infinitum in college).
H/T: Phlegmfatale
So things are rolling along here. Jethro had a spectacular day at the office today, and I am going back to school.
I don't dare get my hopes up though.
One day at a time.
Keep on keeping on.
It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.
Roses are red, violets are blue, my husband's johnson is an ungodly hue.
H/T: Phlegmfatale
So things are rolling along here. Jethro had a spectacular day at the office today, and I am going back to school.
I don't dare get my hopes up though.
One day at a time.
Keep on keeping on.
It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.
Roses are red, violets are blue, my husband's johnson is an ungodly hue.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
So I was going to get a serious buzz on last night, but Emma came down with a stomach ache so bad, she was writhing and crying and I had to give her a Fleet, or as she put it, "some butt medicine."
I knew it was bad when she asked me to give it to her.
Turns out she was constipated on top of having eaten a great deal of broccoli and some onions.
Poor baby.
She was fine this morning, so I feel justifined in having consumed nearly a bottle of chianti and one of Jethro's fabulous Bloody Marys.
Now I'm going to watch Tombstone and get laid.
Ciao, y'all.
P.S. According to the AP (which I have yet to take with anything but a grain of salt) Chavez lost.
I knew it was bad when she asked me to give it to her.
Turns out she was constipated on top of having eaten a great deal of broccoli and some onions.
Poor baby.
She was fine this morning, so I feel justifined in having consumed nearly a bottle of chianti and one of Jethro's fabulous Bloody Marys.
Now I'm going to watch Tombstone and get laid.
Ciao, y'all.
P.S. According to the AP (which I have yet to take with anything but a grain of salt) Chavez lost.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
I'm Not Think About What I'm Writing, So Whatever Comes Out....Comes Out.
I think I'm turning into a dirty old gay man. Barely legal young men have been kind of working me over lately.
I love Naruto. I hate my husband for turning me onto the program, but I love it. Better than Harry Potter.
I hate Windows Vista. I want to get rid of it and go back to whatever it was we had before.
I'm going for an interview at a school for graphic design on Monday. We'll see.
Is anyone else turned on by their own boobs? Men? Lesbians?
I'm gonna go get another beer now. Have a great weekend.
I love Naruto. I hate my husband for turning me onto the program, but I love it. Better than Harry Potter.
I hate Windows Vista. I want to get rid of it and go back to whatever it was we had before.
I'm going for an interview at a school for graphic design on Monday. We'll see.
Is anyone else turned on by their own boobs? Men? Lesbians?
I'm gonna go get another beer now. Have a great weekend.
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