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."

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.

"[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

“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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 and rarely 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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!