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Archive for March, 2001

 
|| March 17, 2001 || 2:56 am || Comments (0) ||

2 – Number of days since I’ve last posted.

0 – Comments by the propriator since last post.

4 – Number of great things Dow lets you do.

 
|| March 15, 2001 || 10:52 pm || Comments (0) ||

Some numbers (in the style of Erin Brockovich):

13.5 – Number of months since I made the acquaintance of the one and only Jett.

3 – Number of months since I had a conversation of decent length with aforementioned Jett on ICQ.

8 – Number of weeks since I’ve heard from her or seen her online.

0 – Pages of our screenwriting collaboration done.

3 – Number of years I’ve been working on my CD.

Wonder which will happen first? Contact from Jett or finish the CD?

The race is on!

 
|| March 12, 2001 || 10:10 pm || Comments (0) ||

You know what I think would be hilarious? Well pal, I’ll tell ya: to begin referring to myself in the third person. I just find it so fucking funny when other people do it.

What would be even more hilarious than THAT would be to convince all of my pals that blog/journalize to do it. We could masquerade it as some big web movement. “WEBWIDE SELF-AWARENESS WEEK”, or somesuch.

Just a thought.

 
|| March 12, 2001 || 10:05 pm || Comments (0) ||

I really like the Vanguard Records website. If I had any design 5ki11z whatsoever, then my site would look a lot like it. Except for the drop-down menus and the ugly banner shit across the top.

In other news, I am listening to ‘Same Auld Lang Syne’ by Dan Fogelberg lots and lots lately. Don’t laugh me off the web; there is a really thick story attached to this song….just about everybody breathing knows the feeling attached to some songs. THAT feeling. The one where your stomach kind of hitches in a bittersweet way and you feel very disconnected from the moment. Sadness and sweetness and all that cloying clap-trap mashed together in your chest and throat. In the end it seems to become just a wierdly mutated sigh, but that in and of itself is not very much a fitting release…..

Oh well, maybe you know, maybe you don’t. Sometimes I am really sick of being human. I am sick of all that accompanies it in the feelings department. How can I be so young and so damned tired some days? Some weeks?

Overall, I am lucky. I’ve had lots of experiences, pleasant and not-so-, had lots of emotions; there are such things as good loves and bad loves, but overall I feel like they both have equal benefit.

Ahhhhh fuck, folks, I know that I am making no sense to anyone but myself. I wish I just had hinges on my head and a touring escalator through my brain complete with a mechanical female voice that gave needed commentary at appropriate intervals. You know, smoothing over the parts that are awkward for the tourists (tourees?) and making the indecipherable lucid….

There are those of you that I am pondering tonight; I hope that you can feel my thoughts. I hope you know of my fondness for you. I hope you are well, fat and happy.

//End transmission//

 
|| March 10, 2001 || 1:52 am || Comments (0) ||

“Well of course you’re not fine; you’re in the middle of ‘Deliverance‘ land surrounded by a bunch of sober freaks!”

Dominic West as Jasper in ‘28 Days
Damn, I want the soundtrack. How could you not just LOVE ‘Heaven and Mud’??

 
|| March 10, 2001 || 1:38 am || Comments (0) ||

This is quite possibly the stupidest thing that I have EVER seen on the internet.

And oh yeah, Happy Belated Birthday, Brian. w00t!

And what’s kept me alive all these years…

And the standard reply to certain peoples who shall heretohence and foreverartthoumore remain unnamed in this ‘ere forum, this.

I have my doubts.

 
|| March 8, 2001 || 12:49 am || Comments (1) ||

“Mom, you are SO rock an’ roll.”

This is what Scout said to me on our shopping expedition yesterday as we were browsing your basic mass-produced aimed-at-the-pubescent-set ‘trendy’ stores. This gave me pause. My kid, if even for a brief moment, thinks I am way hip and bitchin’. In other words, she likes to hang out with me. Now THAT’S soooo rock & roll…..

Funny to me now that having a daughter is so great. We have the mother of all good times together. I know in a few years she will view me as one of the stupidest, most embarrassing people that she knows, but right now while she’s seven, and then later on when she’s twenty-seven, I am pretty niftaaay in her big baby blues.

I unabashedly take a good measure of delight in that.

When I first got the little itch in the back of my brain that I may be pregnant again, I was hesitant to confirm it. At the time, Sam was only 7 months old and Biff was lying up in a hospital, just having been shot one day prior, and he was damn near dead. I wasn’t ready for another baby, but despite stringent birth control measures, here one was. I swear, my spouse could look at me for longer than 4 seconds from across a crowded room and I was in a family way. We were funny like that. The jerky, dysfunctional way that we got along wasn’t so funny.

I didn’t think that I could ever be enamoured of another baby like I was with Sam-O. He was beautiful and smart and just perfectly behaved. I was all full-on about being his mama. I was ensconced in all that was him. How in God’s name could there be the capacity for that kind of love twice over?

And there was another small problem; I just knew that this baby was a girl. I had always said that I would love to have a whole ballteam of boys as long as God saw fit not to give me any girl-babies. My reasoning? “LOOK, I don’t know how to conduct myself as a woman, much less how to even begin to teach another female.”

Plus, I find the behavior/conduct/attitudes/bitchy little tics that accompany most women quite unbearable. There is a reason why I have several close male friends (besides, of course, my over-large boobies)….the greater percentage of females are stupid and intolerable.

Hear this if you hear nothing else, ladies: WE ARE NOT IN COMPETITION WITH ONE AFUCKINGNOTHER!!!

So, here I am, knowing full well that I have a girl-baby in my womb. Plus I was just seven months off the previous stork arrival. There was absolutely no romance and fun to this pregnancy. I cried lots, which I am not customarily prone to doing. I would also question the Good Lord’s intentions toward me. I would bargain, cajole even. “Can’tcha just throw a penis in there, God? I was made to be a mother of boys! I have a great jump shot! I have a mean pitching arm! What the hell??”

Then the bleeding started, long about month four. I was thrown into the “i’msorry-i’msorry-i’msorry” kinda panic that accompanies a massive moral faux pas. Then the bleeding would stop. Then I would start questioning again, all angry and shit. Then bleeding and the ensuing panic and so on and so forth….it was a vicious little circle-jerk, y’all.

Then I started having contractions toward the end of month six. Terbutaline was prescribed, and terbutaline is nooooo fuuuuunnnn. It gives you the shakes pretty bad. I looked like a whale with the DT’s. I couldn’t even read the paper…the words bounced and jiggled and I would never make it past the ‘A’ section without giving up in frustration. I remember thinking, “This must be what those shaky little old women feel like” and the thought made me immensely sad.

i was not supposed to be on my feet for more than five minutes at a time; that makes it sort of difficult to care for a toddler and a gravely injured husband. Yuck-a-delic time for me, all in all.

Finally the day came where they would let my labor progress and I was amazed at the ease of it all. I had the best labor imaginable, a complete 180 from the hellish labor ordeal with Sam-I-Am. The pain was real manageable, like riding gently cresting waves. With Sam it was like my insides were being pounded with spiky bricks the whole time. *weird trivia, here….labor with both of them was exactly ten and three-quarters hours*

I had heard of women that were not instantly ‘in love’ with their babies after delivery, and I always found that kind of creepy and horrific and weird, especially after I became a mom for the first time. I have never, ever known such a powerful feeling in my entire life as the love I have for my children. It made me kind of sad at the same time, knowing that I could never even approach reciprocating the level of love that my mother has for me.

Anyway, in this scenario I was the freak. I was not instantly overwhelmed with Scout. I was, however, fascinated with the complete dichotomy of my children, even from first glance. From minute one she was all girl, dainty and precious.

And let me settle a myth right here, right now: No matter how equally and non-gender specific you deal with your children, they will fall into a gender-based pattern of behavior. Trust me on this one. God made us tick in certain ways for a plethora of reasons, and it is a beautiful, divine plan. And oh yeah, fuck feminists. I don’t think that I have said that here lately.

Pay attention now, for this is what the build-up and back story were all about. To me, this is the most powerful part of the tale.

When check-out day came (Mother’s Day, quite coincidentally), I went to the nursery alone to retrieve my daughter. The staff nurse was busily running the last minute tests and paperwork on all babies going home that day. All of the other little tykes were screaming their wee fool heads off and bemused, I asked why. Seems that they had been subjected to a PKU test, where blood is drawn from them, blahblahblahmommytalk.

The nurse approached Scout with the (what seemed to be) overly-large needle and prepared to do the stick. She took Scout’s dainty little long-fingered hand and bent it forward so that her palm was literally lying on her wrist.

Now, I am no freak-out mommy, by any means. I know that newborns are a big mass of cartilage, but still I stiffened and drew up right next to the bassinet. The nurse put the needle into my baby’s teeny hand and could not seem to find a vein. Scout’s skin was so fair that it looked transparent. I remember that as clear as if it were yesterday. The nurse dug that big ole needle around a bit, then a bit more.

Scout grunted a little bit and shifted uncomfortably, but she didn’t cry. All these babies around her were screaming hellions from their perfectly-executed one-sticks, but my daughter did not whimper in the slightest. The nurse removed the needle and prepared to go in again. Once more, she clamped the little bird-hand and drove in the needle. Again she dug. Again Scouty squirmed uncomfortably, but did not wail.

I fell hard for her right there on the spot. HARD. So young but so resolute and strong, by God, STRONG!! I wanted to cradle her up and never let go. I also wanted to sock the incompetent psuedo-vampire. “Jesus Pete, lady,” I wanted to bellow, “fucking get it RIGHT, will ya??”

Once again she removed the needle and prepared it for re-insertion. Before she did, though, I placed a hand on her forearm.

“If you don’t get it right THIS time, I am taking my baby and going home, blood test or NO fucking bloodtest.

And that is the story of how I was lucky enough to become –literally become– beautiful Scout’s mother, nearly eight years ago now. It’s just a cherry on top that she digs me back.