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Archive for June, 2002

|| June 27, 2002 || 11:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

In 1989 I lost a baby. It was yours.

Everyone thought it was his, even him. I knew otherwise.

I would sit at the piano and play slow, delicate things meant to cut straight through the psyche and on into the heart — songs meant for lovers. Some of them were the same ones you had played as I sat on the bench next to you not many weeks prior.

He would sit next to me quietly while my fingertips skated the keys and his eyes would fill with tears as he gently placed the flat of his hand on my never-had-a-chance-to-exist tummy. My eyes would fill too, but my head would turn and drop slightly as they did. My blue eyes didn’t hold the same tears as his blue eyes. They didn’t belong to him.

I can’t remember whether I told you that or not. I don’t think that I did. Not the part about the piano, anyway, or really anything past it…..

Three of us. We are all blue-eyed. Distinctly different blue eyes, mine, yours and his. Would he have looked at that child somewhere down the line and noted that the blue of those little toddler orbs was not the smoky lapis of his, or the stormy azure of mine? Would he have simply and quietly marked it an anomaly that the child carried an altogether different shade of blue? Or would part of him have known, especially as the boy with the icy-pale irises grew to be a man?

I wonder now sometimes: is it really better that my belly never grew heavy and dropped that summer? What would be different had that child come to fruition? Would a 7-foot-long stuffed purple snake adorn his room even to this day? Would he beg for the snake’s story –the one that marked the beginning of his parents’ courtship– to be told with any frequency? Would you and I still dance close and exchange poetry and insult even-handedly?

Would we still have parted ways, but with more of a sense of closure and/or completion?

Damn you, Southern,” you used to say.

“Fuck you, Emm-Ay,” I used to reply.

Would we still do that?

I wish I could stop loving you, or at least have the comfort of knowing that you still love me.

|| June 27, 2002 || 1:19 pm || Comments (0) ||

The fucking French just ruin everything.”

*fit to be tied*
*choking on all the phlegm and the laughter*

I’m having a frat party soon…y’all comin’??

|| June 27, 2002 || 1:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

Hooray! I got to talk to my lovely little timato today! Contrary to my worstest fears, he is remarkably alive and well (no thanks to a certain limey bastard that will go unnamed by me):

JettSuperior: SPONSOR ME!

JettSuperior: Noone has as of yet!

T Lutero: yeah, i felt that coming.

T Lutero: not a one?

T Lutero: bastards.

JettSuperior: I feel all flattened by my readership’s
lack of enthusiasm.

JettSuperior: You people, I BLEED WORDS FOR

T Lutero: friday is payday, it’ll be then

T Lutero: oh, unhinge thy hands from the cross already.

T Lutero: =)


T Lutero: sushi grade tuna…yum

JettSuperior: All I’m asking is for a little help for

JettSuperior: Oh, and you are not forgiven for the tuna
remark, snacker.

JettSuperior: And you may go and pledge NOW, for
the blogathon is another 30 days away.

T Lutero: that was by no means a sleight with the tuna

JettSuperior: Here, just let me get the linky-loo for

T Lutero: i’ve already been to the site, squidgy.

JettSuperior: Then what are you waiting for, my
precious little timato?

JettSuperior: What?

T Lutero: pay

T Lutero: day

JettSuperior: Yes, but there is no need in the world to
pony up until post-thon

T Lutero: i was gonna wait another couple weeks, but i’ll
do it tomorrow so you can get some momentum.

JettSuperior: Y#EAH!



Best quote of the day, from a segment of the convo that I cannot in good conscience show you, faithful readers: “I’ve got a big ass grudge clock. I’ll re-visit this situation in a couple years.”

|| June 26, 2002 || 11:09 pm || Comments (0) ||

PIty me, my darlings. Cry big shoulder-wracking crocodile tears for your precious Jett Grrrl.

Tonight I was supposed to have been at the Indigo Girls / Norah Jones show at the Alabama Theater.

Last night a head cold began to overtake me. When I awoke this morning, head cold was successful, and it was replete with wooziness and swollen face from all the sinus pressure. Allow me to inform you that I NEVER get sick. NEVER. When I do finally fall prey to illness, it kicks my ass in a complete and astonishing way.

Maxim, sweet meat that he is, took off of work to pamper me today. Normally I am the kind of person that wants to be left alone in a quiet room with no fuss and no bother when I am sick. Poke your head in occasionally to inquire as to whether I want some water or Tylenol, but otherwise leave me the fuck alone in the quiet and dark.

Every now and again I like to be ‘made over’ (Southern colloquialism for ‘fussed over’) and today was one of those days. I said nothing of this and I wasn’t demanding in the least. Maxim just knew. He always ‘just knows’, because he is my fucking hero, Prince RighteousDude.

He went and procured all manner of shameful indulgences that are my weaknesses, like Mountain Dew and People magazine and barbeque chips. He bought me a cold pack for my eyes and some sort of sinus medicine that made me wonky and a brand-new oscillating fan of my very own in a pretty minty green color. He lay in bed next to me, both of us clad only in boxer shorts, and ran the flat of his hand along my bare skin until I was soothed off to sleep –he’s the Magic Man, baby. When I woke he made me gyros and brought them to me in bed. He catered to and pampered me partially in the hopes that I might be able to attend the concert tonight with him and his mother (I have the coolest mother-in-law on the ever-loving planet, y’all). He did it partially for the fact that he seems to like me and value me for some reason unbeknownst to me.

When I can breathe through my nose again, that boy is gonna be on the receiving end of some fiiiiine oral sex, folks.

By four pee emm I knew I was not destined to make it. I urged Maxim to round up a third body to take to Birmingham with them. I knew that if I forced myself to go I would just feel that much more awful tomorrow and I’d prolly be a drag on the evening. They left at five and I popped in the Lantana DVD Maxim rented for me. I seem to be watching a lot of Lion’s Gate films as of late.

After the movie was over I booted up the ole machine and of course, after only 25 minutes on-line I got a fatal exception whositswhatsits called from somethingorother VxD. Holy mother of fuck, you people know that I am a massive techotard and all I can do it wail in gut-wrenching agony and dumbly try some kindergarten fixes. Well, the machine is on such a craptastic bent lately that nothing within the scope of my –or the system troubleshooter’s, for that matter– knowledge can cure it. In my boredom and frustration I turned my eye to the computer that dad gave me for the kids a couple months back.

My dad’s a hoot….when he has a problem with a system that takes him more than 15 minutes and two calls to my brother (who is largely out-of-pocket due to military obligations) or me to fix, he says, “AHHHH, ta hell with this” and heads for an electronics department near you to buy a complete new setup, printer, scanner and all. The leavings from the old machines are passed on to whatever kid’s available to get them out of his way and quick.

So this machine, my friend Candi (yeah, I really have a pal named Candi, for Jeez Pete) has been over no less than three times to get it up and running for my chirrens with no luck whatsoever. I am bound and determined for once to finish a post without being crapped on, so I crawl all over hell and half of Georgia (read: the floor behind the desk) hooking this and that to other things and then I boot up to see what I can do to get the OS installed but good.

And can you believe that I actually DID IT, by my little lonesome? Just ME. I still don’t know exactly what I did right, but I am all-fire excited, nonetheless. Everything bears out the appearance of working normally, as well. Wheeeee!

|| June 25, 2002 || 11:26 pm || Comments (2) ||

I am flying down the highway that Ralph and I used to travel, groggy with humidity and third-shift obligations, on our early ay emm returns from work.

The sunroof is open, my window down, and my elbow is propped up on the door. My hand, fingers slightly splayed, is upright and barely cupped into the streaming wind. The air is moist and near-cold. I imagine it splintering through my palms and wrists, crucifying me. Crucifying me to this mountain.

Sometimes I think the red clay taste of this place, the sting of fire ants on naked toes, will never leave me.

Double lines, broad expanse of fields to my left, chicken houses and horse trailers and apologetic farms to my right.

A caution light, a sign with a large, stark black + and I swing into a right turn, slowing significantly. A pebbly road paved with what I’ve always referred to as ‘gravelcrete’ is seated between trees that could masquerade as rows of the blackest of monoliths if only their bumpy tops did not give them away. The sky above is still impossibly blue, even though the sun took its’ leave of the horizon two hours ago. It is strewn with bruised indigo clouds that don’t even pretend to be fluffy. They are as flat and as stretched as the road before me.

Hung low, hovering barely above creaking power lines is something that I immediately recognize as not a star. No star has a vivid ring of afterglow like that.

Is it Venus or Mercury? I was never any good at the planets; the one I am on is perplexing enough.

A left turn and another left turn finds me in a darkened rural parking lot. Car idling, I kill the exterior lights and mash one of the interiors, splashing light across my crotch and thighs. Her Automobile Holiness. Our Lady Of The Nighttime Park.

I’ve unbuckled my seat belt and am digging for my laminated and spiral-bound 5″ x 7″ notebook when a large truck pulls up and points it’s bulk at my door. Fucking cops and their obnoxious compulsion for shining the loudest light possible into your cranium….

I swivel my head to face the rumbling diesel monstrosity, keeping my body decidedly forward, and squint-scowl into the glare. I am hoping that Deppity Dawg is disconcertingly reminded of The Exorcist somewhere in the back of his Roscoe P. Brain.

After what seems to be a rather blinding eternity, boyfriend gets outta the light-bedecked truck and approaches my car. Never mind the fact that I am sitting in a circular sort of drive and am pointed toward the road, which would allow me to bolt at any second. Der. He asks me what I’m doing, and I vascillate between three responses:
1) Jump outta the car and wave my notebook, then eagerly open it and begin a dramatic reading from any of the notes/unfinished pieces there. Bow deeply and grandly upon completion.
2) Click away at my pen in a mad sort of fashion while staring straight ahead and tell him that I am busy composing my suicide note, after which I plan to plow a bullet through my grey meat with the big, BIG firearm currently under the passenger seat.
3) Tell him the truth.

I opt for number three, because if/when I go back to the big house, I want it to be because I was acting crazy for a valid reason and/or cause and not just being crazy for the sake of the in-your-face irreverency that I am so darned fond of. The last time I went to jail it was really no fucking fun, because all they let me and about 20 (standard overcrowdedness) other women do in the 20′ x 10′ common area was clean the shiny-painted cinderblock walls overandfuckingover for hours on end while listening to a cornpone gospel preaching station. (Some of the other chicks actually fought over the opportunity to clean the bathroom, I shit you NOT.) Not to mention the fact that when I was inprocessing, they couldn’t find matching duds in the appropriate sizes (laundry was out or somesuch), so I was walking around in an orange-striped top and green-striped bottoms (they color-code the stripes for the severity of your offense). I suppose this meant that I was mildly dangerous from the waist up. At any rate, I felt that I looked like a pack of motherfucking Fruit Stripe chewing gum. w00t!

So when Officer Howdy Doody asked me what I was doing, I simply told him that I was out for a drive and pulled over because I thought of something I needed to write down. Then I waved my notebook and pen for emphasis. He explained to me that there had been a lot of vandalism as of late (ehhh…hicksville and the kids want kicksville….ehhhh….) –why, some of it had occurred in that very lot– and they were “tryin’ to keep a handle on things and take note of comins and goins”. So of course he deems it necessary to see my license and I oblige.

He seems to be taken aback that the photo represents me with blue hair, so then I push my luck only a minute bit and direct his attention to where it states that I have blue hair and blonde eyes (I was a mischeivous, sneaky bastard at the DMV that day, lemme tell ya!). I then tell him that look simply did not work for me, and I decided to try things the other way around. He informs me that I look better with blonde hair and blue eyes. I tell him that my mother agrees wholeheartedly. I then offer to show him my favorite tattoo, but he declines and bids me a lovely evening, as he is comfortable that I am on the up-and-up.

After he drives away I settle in to capture brilliance on paper and then painfully realize that I cannot for the life of me remember the phrase that I pulled over to write.

For fuck’s sake.

I sigh and pull back onto the blacktop, but not before reminding myself to not bother about pulling over anymore. I should just keep on doing the knee-driving-at-90-MPH-and-furiously-scribbling thing that I have favored thus far.

|| June 20, 2002 || 3:57 am || Comments (0) ||

She asks, so I must tell: Doc Martens and a sneer.

|| June 20, 2002 || 2:44 am || Comments (1) ||

One major point is being overlooked here, I believe.

The first Blogathon participants racked up over 20K in sponsor dollars.

Crap, schmap. That ‘crap’ lined some pockets that needed it in a big way. And since the current climate smells to me like people are ‘all gave out’ where charities are concerned (this greatly affects those charities not recognized as ‘mainstream’), I for one feel that even more ‘crap’ is called for.

The long and the short of it being: “PEOPLE! Get those trucks backed on in here to the manure pile! We gotta ton of steaming shit to deliver to Cyberia….about forty-thousand dollars’ worth!!”

And yarf: I, like you, do what I see as my part year-round. Some people need a bit of a reminder. The Blogathon is a silly (albeit proliferate) nudge. Yeah, for the record, staying up stimulant-free and coming up with original content is NOT as easy as you would palm it off as being. But there were some worthy contenders in last year’s ‘thon.

Yes, fair readers, I am participating in Blogathon part deux. My sponsored charity has changed. While I still support Second Harvest and the work they do to combat hunger (which is something I have known in my life first-hand), I have decided to blog for the Tourette Syndrome Association.

I am doing this for several reasons, which include, but are not limited to:
–More than one ‘thonner chose Second Harvest last year. Gooood. This frees me up for something else.
–The more diverse the charities, the more people learn about various organizations and what they work toward/on behalf of.
–Hunger is a largely ‘common-knowledge’ issue. Tourette Syndrome, unfortunately for those who have it, is not.
–Touretters are in turns misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and misrepresented on a fairly large scale.
–In case you weren’t aware, I have a son with TS. He is a terrific, well-rounded kid. This disorder doesn’t define him, but it does shape his life in fairly prominent ways.
–The TSA provides information and resources about TS for parents, educators, those that have the disorder and its comorbid counterparts, and medical professionals, among others. Because TS varies so much from individual to individual (with very few hard-and-fast rules), it is a difficult thing to pin down and it defies a pat definition. Information most assuredly needs to be disseminated so that those with TS aren’t stigmatized and ostracized.
–The TSA is, like many other charitable undertakings, woefully underfunded. Especially if you think of it in terms of how many people are presently diagnosed as having TS.

SO, once again I thank those that pledged and donated last year. AND, I once again stick my hand out shamelessly and ask you to sponsor me in this year’s Blogathon (you can keep up with my ongoing totals here). Last year, including the stragglers and the people that declined to ‘register’ as sponsors (they sent funds later on, after they saw that I made it), Second Harvest gleaned over four hundred dollars because I was able to participate. This year, I’d like to have double that amount in pledges going into the ‘thon. Go rob your ma’s purse, then come pledge all those shiny nickels to ‘The Cause’: ‘Cause The TSA Needs Dough-Re-Mi.

This year you can sponsor me with a flat donation, or you can sorta gamble with the number-of-hours-completed pledge. I recall that I went above and beyond last year…I stretched it to 27 or 28 hours. I didn’t post an entry about all the cool shit that began happening (read: hallucinations) at that point. I don’t even remember how I made it from the monitor to the bath and from the hour-and-a-half bath (fell asleep in it, Daddy-O, and damned near drowndededed. ed.ed.)

Oddly enough, today after I spoke with my contact at The TSA (Mark Levine, for those of you that are taking extensive notes), got the ole thumbs up, then went to the Blogathon site and registered, I got a call. The party calling just so happened to want my son to take part in a controlled study involving kids with TS. Study would include free visits at regular intervals with my son’s specialist, Dr. Prominent Neurologist. If you have ever personally been fucked by the outrageous costs of healthcare, you will know that being supplied with free visits to Dr. Prominent Neurologist (and lest I forget, really one hell of a pretty good fella) is the equivalent to stumbling across a medical goldmine with your flag boldly displayed as the owner across the mouth of it.

Surely some Cosmos Fuckingtm is afoot. I know that I generally tell you otherwise, but not all Cosmos Fuckingtm is heinous and icky.