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Archive for November, 2001

|| November 16, 2001 || 1:58 am || Comments (0) ||

Reblogger buggy.
Bye-bye, Reblogger.
Hullo to BlogBack.

|| November 13, 2001 || 1:18 am || Comments (0) ||

I am getting just real fucking sick of some people’s ever-offered, non-solicited opinions from how my kid should wear his hair right on through to the way I conduct my professional life. I am gonna have a t-shirt printed that says, “DID I FUCKING ASK YOU, PLEBIAN??” I adore Maxim’s family, but I have grown weary of the over-analytical pow-wows that occur via the phone lines (and subsequently, not involving MY phone, but phones of others), the results of which filter back to me from both parties. The aforementioned parties are in the form of Maxim’s mother and his paternal grandmother.

See, Maxim’s father died when he was young, further securing the ‘Golden Boy’ status that he is favored with by his father’s family. To further heighten my husband’s magnitude in their eyes is the fact that he is the only son of the eldest/favorite son (whose glory shines brighter since he no longer walks the planet, thereby enabling him by default to not fuck up, so he easily retains his ‘Glorious Person’ title).

I understand all this, understood it all before Maxim and I married, because I hold basically the same position within my extended family, but for different reasons. I can relate. I do not begrudge. I hang ten and blend, because this pack o’ nuts is both comfortably and disconcertingly like my OWN family, whom I love and cherish a great deal.

I am real fucking sick and tired, however, of the way that snippets of information and sets of opinions are wantonly flung about. Never mind that all parts of the story aren’t always present. Never mind that some of the stuff passed around for perusal is nofuckingbody’s business except for the one person it was shared with. Never mind that some of the molehills that mountains are made from aren’t even really molehills….just a piece of fluff or two hanging together for dear life. You gettin’ me here, sporty?

I am not being trivial. There have been some intense things passed around the entire family that the entire family should never have been privy to. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not just us, it’s done to everyone, but it’s done to the nth degree where we are concerned. When things are dropped on my doorstep that I’ve no business knowing and I’m asked my opinion, I level my gaze, set my jaw, and say (firmly yet politely), “I think that everyone should just butt out and leave it to the people that it directly involves.” Seems like I have been saying this more frequently as of late, and I have even *gasp* seen a glimmer of chagrin/remorse in someone’s eyes and/or countenance after having said it.

The thing that pushed me to molar-grinding gut-blazing anger this week is rather petty, but real indicative of the whole little dance I’m an unwilling party in. It’s the thing that has set my resolve to not share anything, even the most innocuous anything, with Maxim’s family anymore. ANY. MORE.

Last week, I happened to be at Super Wal-Mart and also happened to be perusing the bigass Halloween clearance aisle, which was still packed with all things spookariffic. All the costumes that were previously $15 to $30 were marked down to $2, $3 and $4. I was picking out a few, because I am a raving bargain whore in such circumstances. I was imagining the dress-up glee in my children’s (and a couple of nieces’ and nephews’) eyes when a lovely little old lady came across the P.A. system to announce that everything was not only clearanced, but that we as happy Wal-Mart zombies could have all this Hallowmess at HALF OFF that lowest ticketed price.

So you know, of course I went into an orgasmic costume-buying frenzy, imagining all the Good Guy Points I’d be wracking up with the imps in my bloodline once they received all the dress-up bounty afforded them by the happenstance of me being (for once) in the right place at the oh-so-right time. And we must not forget the ‘living vicariously’ element to this story. I would have wet my didies as a child if I received an assload of dress-up crapola from my Insanely Cool Auntie (or ma).

So I literally filled poor buggy, creaking and groaning its’ protests, neck-high. Oh, joy, oh unabashed glee, oh feeling of luck and pride! I have costumes and hats and wigs and all is unassailably RIGHT with the entire Godforsaken WORLD!!

It took the checkout lady nearly forty-five minutes to ring me up and key in the discounts. I loved her. She was great fun. Her name was Ramona. I sang her silly songs and she gave me the hangers for free. She had to take her break when we were done. We were both red-cheeked and light-headed.

After I got it all home and started covertly sorting, a realization hit me: “Just where the fuck am I gonna put all this stuff that I got for my own kids? I have no place to put these wondrous things!”

So off I head to Cyberia and the great equalizer known as e-bay. I typed in ‘armoire’ first. Nope, no dice. I typed in ‘wardrobe’ next. After all, the term ‘wardrobe’, despite its’ seeming flatness and practicality, was a more romantic word/notion to me than ‘armoire’. After all, C.S. Lewis didn’t write The Lion, The Witch and The ARMOIRE, did he?? Nosirree, he did NOT. Armoire is simply too grown-up a word for the flights of fancy that a dress-up closet would contain. That’s why I struck gold when I typed in ‘wardrobe’. I found an antique french-style wardrobe that is about five and one-half feet high, four and one-half feet wide. In other words, the perfect size for children’s clothing. It was tagged with a $150.00 opening bid, amazingly enough. I won it at twenty-seven more dollars than that.

I quickly called a friend of ours who is a wonderful painter of whimsical, clunky, freewheeling pieces of art and he sounded eager to get his hands on my newly-acquired piece and a chest of drawers scored at a yard sale for thirty bucks some five years ago that just so happens to match the wardrobe perfectly from a style standpoint. He is gonna perform his exquisite paintbrush mojo and make the outside of this furniture just as magical from a child’s standpoint as the insides will be. One day I will have this stuff for my grandbabies. I am a forward thinker, folks. For now, however, it will be one of the gifts that amazingly appears sometime during the wee Christmas hours this year. With one of those big gigunda bows. A heretical monstrosity of a bow.

I’m obviously very jazzed about this gift. Everything seems to have come together so perfectly and so INEXPENSIVELY. I first shared the news with Maxim’s grandmother yesterday when I was taking Mathias out for a little visit. Her first comment? “Seems like a big wasta money to me to drive to North Carolina.” TO HER, because she is quite obviously the bastion of sanity in our little world. And I somehow find myself in the Pathetic Jerkoff Position (you familiar with it, are you?), answering her challenge and being sucked right into the little game she plays, arguing her point with a series of questions that I answer in quiet defensive mode. This makes me sick, because it is so Pavlovian….I know that it’s coming every single Godforsaken time and yet I still find myself nosing up to my mark, playing my part every single Godforsaken time.

“Well, you know, Mamaw Ruby, I couldn’t buy a new one, much less an ANTIQUE, that inexpensively. Hell, I couldn’t build one MYSELF for that cheap.”
“No, Mamaw, it’s not gonna cost me a hunnert dollars in gas to drive the six hours to pick it up.”
“Maxim enjoys road trips. If he didn’t want to do this, he would have made that abundantly clear.”
“The kids will be at Biff’s and Nana’s, just like they are every Saturday night.”

KEY-rhyst! Forget that I, in my foolish joy, even mentioned it old lady! And while you’re at it, please remember that you never fucking blink an eye when your grandson deems it necessary to drop a thousand bucks on a new piece of musical equipment every third full moon.

So of course, Mamaw is on the horn to Nana ASAP and on the outing to our favorite Chinese buffet yesterday the subject is brought up and I find my self in defense mode, volleying answers on a round of questions that have no business being asked in the first fucking place. ARRRRGGHH!!

“No, I CAN’T find one that cheaply around here.”
“I don’t WANT to go to Lowe’s and buy one of their unfinished ones. They’re ugly, cheaply made, and aren’t kid-sized.”
“Well, you know what? If the kids aren’t as jazzed about it as I am -although I’m betting that they will be- someday I’ll have grandkids and what’s cooler than playing dress-up at granny’s house when you’re four fucking years old?”

And yes, precious readers, I did say the eff word to my mom-in-law right before stomping off for more egg noodles, because I know she fucking hates it with a purple passion and the whole conversation had rubbed me raw. The most annoying thing was the fact that she questioned the value/wisdom of my purchase when everydamnbody at the table KNOWS that she is the Queen of Throwabuckaway. On a whim, even. She zeroes in on a want and acquires the thing of desire before anyone knows what’s hit ‘em.

I didn’t have to bring the subject up later in the day. Maxim, who is not prone to making blanket statements OR rules of the same nature, declared, “THAT’S IT. Don’t share any details about anything, no matter how incontrovertibly small, with my family ever again. I’m tired of this shit. They get stuck on stupid about the lamest of matters.”

Amen, my brother. Or perhaps it’s something to do with the phone lines. My itty-bitty (though thoughtfully made), exciting-to-me purchase became a large matter via the phone lines. Perhaps we should have those lines checked.

Or, with a satisfying little ’snick’ sound, cut.

|| November 9, 2001 || 7:42 pm || Comments (0) ||

Oh, my pretties, my Viking name is Álöf Foesbane.
According to the site, “…actually, that wouldn’t really be your name — since you’re female, your name would be something like “Álöf Björnsdottir”. But this is the twenty-first century, and you want to be known for who you are, not for who your father was, right? Right.”

My Viking Personality: You’re a doughty, stalwart Viking, or at least you would be if you were male. You have a thirst for battle, and tend to strike first and think later. As a Viking, you’re one of the “berserkers“, and rush into battle with no clothes on. If the sight of you naked isn’t enough to disable the enemy, your sword certainly will be.

A long sea voyage aboard a Viking longboat would be difficult for you, but you might be able to manage it. You possess some skills which other Vikings respect, though in your case their respect is tinged with fear.

You have a fairly pragmatic attitude towards life, and tend not to expend effort in areas where it would be wasted. Other people tend to think of you as manipulative and conniving.

Thanks be to Dee.

|| November 8, 2001 || 9:47 pm || Comments (0) ||

Mind? What mind? If your aren’t into the Dirkster for his throbbin’ bod, then yer missing out on just about the only thing….


Where was I? (Anyhoo…)

Many thanks to our beloved (though too scarce) Jett for the advert. She overlooked the best way to get a grip on what we’re about, which is to cruise over to our page at MP3.com, where you can sample 4 of the 10 tracks and see if we are to your liking.

It’s been a long road to this day, so we’d appreciate it greatly if you at least give it a taste. Many thanks.

|| November 8, 2001 || 6:12 pm || Comments (0) ||

Dirk Belligerent and boys have a new CD out.

Take an eedle listen right here, then impress some hot chicks by buying it here. If you’re in the Detroit area, or if you’re feeling a little Detroitish next weekend, then check out the release party on 16 November. More info on that can be found here.

And in case you were wondering, then YES, Dirk is still my little cyber plaything. Just don’t tell HIM that, ‘cos he thinks I value him for his mind.

|| November 6, 2001 || 3:49 pm || Comments (0) ||


|| November 6, 2001 || 3:03 pm || Comments (0) ||

Is anyone else positively creaming themselves over the fact that The Tick unfurls on prime time Thursday night? Sure, it’s not the animated version, I see no signs of an impending Die Fledermaus or American Maid, but, ahhh….

It’s the TICK, mang!!!

Color me happy.