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Archive for January, 2002

 
|| January 11, 2002 || 1:44 pm || Comments (0) ||

Comments down and an error on the page until some bugs are worked through. Maybe later on today, kids….

 
|| January 11, 2002 || 11:56 am || Comments (0) ||

I just got an e-mail from my youngest sister, who is 12. She is a junior olympic class swimmer with a GPA in the neighborhood of 3.8. Our father and her mother both possess a Master’s Degree, and Dad is working on his Doctorate.

She hailed me with “hey, wassup!!!” and wrote “how r u” rather than “how are you?”. She also substituted a number two for every ‘to’ and totally abandoned capitalization for I-don’t-know-what.

Why is it deemed cool to appear to be a grammatical retard? Would someone please ask Prince Rodgers Nelson why the hell he started all that shit in the first place?

Cruel or not, I am going to mail her back and tell her that if she desires an electronic discourse with me, she can’t do that goofy shit anymore. I can’t even get past all those numbers to really see what her message is about….

In all fairness though, she picked a fucking COOL ‘fakewebname’. She calls herself Jane Beano. It made me laugh like hell.

 
|| January 11, 2002 || 11:38 am || Comments (0) ||

I had a nice chit-chat with my pal Delmer ‘Skeets’ McGee around 2 ay emm CST this morning. After reading my most recent post at the time, he messaged me to say that he had finally managed to pinpoint who it was that my scribblings reminded him of.

“You read any Science Fiction?” he asked, and my honest response was to say that I had read it voraciously in my youth (from age 8 to age 12 or so) but hadn’t read much of it in my grown years. He then asked if I had heard of Robert Heinlein, and I couldn’t say for sure, because when I was younger I had an affinity for titles rather than authors’ names.

He piqued my interest, and gave me a primer on where to start with Mr. Heinlein’s works, so I reckon now that I’ll wander on over to the college library and see if The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress is available.

On the heels of that, Trouble had a great idear; “list or email me three or so books of any topic or genre that you think everyone should read.” I know, however, how difficult narrowing down to three is….so list five to seven for me. I am asking in earnest, so you answer in earnest, okay?

 
|| January 11, 2002 || 2:51 am || Comments (0) ||

Who would YOU kill from Degrassi Junior High??

 
|| January 10, 2002 || 11:18 pm || Comments (0) ||

I love men.

I love their pat way of thinking, their inexorable philosophies, their largely simple (not to be confused with dumb-ape simple) and direct way of communicating, their hands, their propensity to ‘do first, ask questions later’. I love watching the dynamics of male relationships as they apply to either sex. I like the contrast of the two, but I mostly like the basic underlying similarities. There is a basic pattern there (although it is admittedly a pattern that lacks predictability, if that makes any sense to you) that doesn’t exist in the female dynamic.

Men bring out the best in me, but that’s not to say that I necessarily require a man around for that to happen. I just find so few women that I can really, honestly relate to that the ‘true essence of me’ (how fucking zen-sounding, ICK) rarely shines forth. Men are great company. Most of the time they are so much more relaxed than we are. Women are their own harshest critics, of self and of one another. Men know how to loosen up and laugh from the gut and have a good time moreso than women do. With a male fun always seems to be more spontaneous and less forced. And it generally doesn’t follow any guidelines. I mean, who the hell wants guidelines beyond your basic “Don’t leave a swath of bodies in your wake” when you’re gunning for fun (no pun intended)??

Men act like there are proprietary guidelines to their maleness, but get them behind closed doors and you’ll get them to do damned near anything to stave off boredom.

Miller, my best male friend in the world besides Maxim, is proof of this. He and I used to be damn near connected at the hip. The fact that we both worked third shift (or ‘overnights’) at the same place aided this. When our running buddies pussied out at three ay emm on weekends, we were still going stee-wrong and silly.

We were both stupid with our money, having nothing better to do with it at the time than pay bills and waste the overage. If I was broke, he’d buy the groceries and I’d cook. He’d foot the bill for the two-fisted binge drinkers’ marathon that posed as our night out on the town. When he was broke, I’d do the same. We’d scout fresh meat for one another at various clubs and pubs, then saunter up to the intended score and say, “See that tall, attractive d00d/chick over there? Well, that’s my brother/sister and he’s/she’s interested in you, but he’s/she’s kinda shy…” What a load of absolute horseshit, but the only times (and I’d swear this on my saintly grandmomma’s grave, Godresthersweetsweetsoul) it didn’t work were when the target of affection was attached. Hell, sometimes it did even then. Didn’t matter if the intended’s date got a little upset….Miller and I are a great tag-team, because no one EVER expects a female to jump into the fray, much less punch them in the throat, but MOST especially because we share the same philosophy: when going blow-for-blow with someone, I’m gonna win and there is no such thing as fighting fair. Feh.

So back to this ‘anything-behind-closed-doors-when-they’re-bored’ thing….

One weekend, the inevitable happened. All of our ‘running buddies’ were otherwise occupied with dates or out-of-town doings or obligations and the pinnacle of tragedies occurred. Miller and I found ourselves broke at the very same time. *ack* What’s a body to do? We had enough spare change between us to go to the store and pick up a few things to make Miller’s famous spicy tomato stir-fry (that boy can cook like a bitch, yessir he can) and a couple of sodas to wash it down with. We didn’t even have enough to supplement the evening’s diet with the cheapest of skunk beers. Normally, beer and a tube of those frozen chocolate chip cookies would have fit the bill, but neither of us had eaten all day and we were ravenous.

Of course, no money meant no going out. No money meant no renting a movie. We’d watched everything in BOTH our houses at least thirty times and of course there are fifty-seven channels and nothing on (fifty points to the person who gets THAT obscure musical reference, and I could lay definite odds on who it’ll be….), so I managed to talk Miller into the one thing that he’d neverneverEVER do otherwise.

It wasn’t sex, peabrain….we’d kissed each other only once and as….well, um, heated as it was, the immediate aftershock and gross-out period (“Oh my Jesus LORD, I can’t BELIEVE we DID that!” “I know….I feel dirty and not in a good way…” “Meeeee tooo…bleccccchh…”) was enough to quell any future forays into that arena. Nope, I got him to do the one thing that you think a big, strong man will never in a million years do.

I got him to highlight my hair.

I had been waiting on Sydd to do it, but she was dating a real control-freak dickweed and she could never seem to get the time away. The kit I had purchased sat unused for three weeks and so while we were playing crazy 8’s or something lame like that, I perked up and said, “HEY! I know what we could do!” but didn’t exactly tell Miller what it was. We hopped willy-nilly into his truck at three ay emm and ran to my house and ran back to his house, where I pulled the highlighting kit triumphantly out of my bag.

“TAA-DAAAAAH!” I proclaimed and Miller groaned and I promised to show him my tits if he did a great job and he laughingly acquiesced. We had the most fun, him digging plugs outta my scalp while trying to pull hair through the cap and me being a poor student of the Nintendo 64 wisdom he tried to impart on me. And in the end he did do a great job and I did show him my tits, but lest you think it was a big deal, it wasn’t, because he saw them all of the time. We frequently had sleepovers where we’d snuggle comfortably with one another, me in my bra and a pair of boxers I’d borrow from him, him in his boxers. It was all very innocent and rich and sweet, like when you were in preschool and had that one best friend of the opposite sex that you used to nap next to, before the knowledge that those of the other-gendered persuasion were ‘the awkward enemy’….

Men simply make life more bearable for me, and I think that probably it would be this way even if I were more comfortable with myself as a woman. I mean, think about it…

Light a fart in front of a chick and see what happens. Do it in front of a guy and you are the highlight of their fucking day. Cry in front of a woman. They get it, but they don’t always feel it. Cry in front of a man and you make him feel awkward as hell, but he’ll try with all he’s got to comfort you, because it hurts him and scares him to see this particular type of rawness. Let’s not forget that most men’s shoulders are broader than their hips and that shit is HOT, baybee, HOT. How can a woman compete with THAT??

So anyway, if you are of the male segment of our species and happen to be reading this, I would like you to know that I enjoy your presence on this here planet. You make life richer and more complete by being here and I dig you as a whole.

That is, unless you are one of those male feminist freaks or your name is Doolittle or Donny.

 
|| January 9, 2002 || 12:00 pm || Comments (0) ||

“LISA’S BAD DANCING IS MAKING MY FEET SA-A-AAAD.”

-quote from ‘The Simpsons’, which Maxim watched as I read Prince Caspian whilst we were in bed last night

And I laughed like a big buffoon when I heard it, let me tell ya. I guffawed so hard that he had to cover my head with a pillow lest my monstrous laugh shake the children from their beds and into our tranquil but cold bedroom.

Shortly afterward we began sharing the cookies that he put in my Christmas stocking. After about two bites he grunted in anger.

“What?” I asked.

“Welllll, these SUCK and I was sure they’d be so GOOD!”

This set us off on a discussion of ‘good’ packaged cookies of the Lofthouse and Pepperidge Farms ilk.

“You ever have those Sausalito cookies by Pepperidge Farms?” I asked. “Those are gooood.”

And that triggered a memory from way back. Funny the things that you pocket away in the memory. Funnier still is the way in which they are called forth.

Back in the early 90’s I was a very young swingin’ upwardly-mobile snappy-dressing professional with a well-paying white collar job. I was living in Hawaii at the time. Let me tell you, if you are ever contemplating Hawaii as a home, live on one of the outer islands. I lived on Oahu and for the most part absolutely hated it.

Anyway, I had this fat job that I enjoyed which required travel to the other islands for business purposes on a regular basis. Our company dealt in a myriad of things, one of which was selling timeshares to people with above-average income levels. Most of these people just so happened to be Japanese.

Of course (<---sarcasm), with my blonde hair and blue eyes and tall stature and big bosom I was a natural. My modicum of horse sense came into play somewhere, but I'm quite sure that the physical aspect of the whole package sealed the deal when I was chosen for the position. This was because said position entailed meeting potential buyers, escorting them to outer-island developments for a walk-through of available units and spending a day or two with them while they soaked in the atmosphere and any fun-fun-fun available at any given moment. My job was mostly a party on these away trips. I was offered many 'perks' and 'incentives' by clients, most of which were not above-board and all of which I politely turned down. There were several job offers in there as well....powerful Japanese men with multi-national whosits and whatsits flashing a piece of the pie in my direction. Some of the offers were legit. Some were thinly-veiled offers to be the token trophy or 'kept woman'. It was nothing if not ever-diverse and interesting.

There were rumors of a transfer, so I put in my notice and quit that company, one of the best-paying and promising places I’ve ever worked for. My bad, for the rumor turned out to be only a rumor. No matter, though–I was hired by another company before I ever got my box fully packed.

The place that I went to work for was a court reporting firm, one of the most prestigious and well-known firms on the island, if not in the state. It was a good job with a good salary and lots of potential for upward mobility. I had specific duties within the firm, but I was a sort of ‘girl friday’ as well. One of my duties was to set up the conference room for impending depositions.

I had a well-stocked cupboard with which to play when I was getting the conference room together. It had all the makings for a nice little tea-party-on-the-run: full silver service that the housekeeping staff kept polished with a mirror finish, crisp linen napkins, Noritake china, imported teas, gourmet coffees (at a time before it was vogue and passe), petit fours, exotic sugared fruits and gourmet cookies (one of which was the Sausalito by Pepperidge Farms that I mentioned earlier…so there’s your memory link).

Adrienne, my predecessor, was walking me through my first few days and in the course of showing me the ropes was instructing me on the preferred method of set-up for depositions. We laid out the room, which looked very crisp and elegant. I ushered in the parties for deposition and went about my duties for the day.

About mid-afternoon the deposition wrapped up and Adrienne and I went to clear the room. The trays arranged so meticulously had, of course, been picked over by the attorneys and their clients. I took the tea and coffee services to the kitchenette to leave them for housekeeping and returned to the conference room. I brought over a waste can and began gathering the remaining food on the trays in my hands to throw away when Adrienne stopped me.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” she asked.

“Well, I’m throwing this stuff away…it wasn’t eaten.” I replied.

It was here that I was instructed that everything uneaten was to go back into the packaging from whence it came.

“Nuh-UHHHH.” I said, my lack of aplomb surfacing and bringing my Southern with it.

I was assured that it was so and I was horrified by these foodstuffs being recycled, having been felt up by unknown hands and exposed to the elements all day. It’s not as if this were some family’s home and they were saving the leftovers…..

Needless to say, I never, ever pilfered any goodies from the cabinets, preferring instead to raid the little French bakery on the corner. I’ve also never seen a product with the Pepperidge Farms logo since then without the memory of their cookies being recycled for client after client of this supposedly prestigious firm.

 
|| January 6, 2002 || 2:46 pm || Comments (0) ||

Maxim brought home one of those little ’serenity gardens’ yesterday….you know, the jobbie with a wooden tray, some clean sand, some polished rocks and a little rake. The act of arranging it is supposed to soothe and center you.

Funny that life should put together two people such as we. Arranging stones just so is his release. Hurling them forcefully is mine.

So he’s the better person, according to common logic.

In other news, I received a brief e-mail from “Uncle Jerry” Newingham…Tommy’s (the guy pictured below) dad. *shakes head slowly* Coping. I wish somebody out there would spill, and that is my fervent prayer today. Somebody just fucking cough up something. A man’s grief for his son is a terrible, powerful thing.