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Archive for August, 2002

 
|| August 29, 2002 || 11:27 pm || Comments (3) ||

Maxim enters dining room, where Jett is busy stowing (in extremely well-organized fashion) all manner of things into canvas shopping-type bags and placing them neatly alongside two suitcases, one small and one medium. He has very recently awakened on the couch, where he passed clean out after a wretchedly-hectic day in the wage-slave trenches.
MAXIM: There is no way that all of this nonsense will fit.
Jett sighs, having both witnessed and participated in this dance before.
JETT: Yes, darling, it will.
Maxim, as a matter of course, feels that it is his responsibility to eye her dubiously.
MAXIM: I don’t think so.
JETT: That’s why you are the beauty and I am the brains of this outfit. Besides, I am the master packer, yo.
MAXIM: Look, it’s not all gonna fit and I am not breaking a sweat at six in the morning to try and make it. Can’t we just do something about all this? *generalized sweeping motion with arm*
JETT: The way I see it, you can sell a kid or you can get me a bigger vehicle.
JETT: Don’t you start this whole ‘Crabby Vacation Daddy’ bullshit with me. I am busy, I am tired, and there’s still a load of shorts in the dryer and groceries to pack. I’m icky-hot and need a shower. What I DON’T need is shit. Go to bed, crabass, and have your keys and defensive driving skills laid out for quick departure in the morning. The kids need every juice box and sand pail that I am squeezing in, okay?
Maxim smiles, kisses her forehead and shuffles off to bed.

Yes, darlings, I am in the midst of a vacation-preparation maelstrom. As always, I lone it. People have so little appreciation for The Mom…they just show up and –as if by magic– have an unencumbered good time. It occurs not just in this household, but in countless households across the nation. I’m sure it has happened since the dawn of man: Mother cavewoman packed all of the spare rocks and gathered up hair-bones and made sure everyone had pelts and carcasses to spare while the rest of the cavefamily counted down the minutes until they left for the dinosaur mating ground or wherever the fuck it was that cavefolks wandered to in search of a good ole time at great detriment to the tenuously-held family budget.

Ahhhh, the days long ago, when I would throw some sheer-type things held together with strings, a bottle of TaKillYa, a jar of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter, a Walkman, a couple books and notebooks and pens in a backpack and hit the white sands blessedly unencumbered and unfettered….

So, all of the Superior ingrates family lies sleeping peacefully while I gather the props for the Time To Be Had this week. I owe God for being the “advance team”, as it were….for getting on in there and building the backdrop, laying the scenery and sets so that I don’t have to worry about that, too. *Looks heavenward* Thanks, Big Guy. I owe ya. You make a meaner Gulf of Mexico than I ever could. Those sunsets are to die for! And those gently-shimmying waves at daybreak, wow. Leave it to the Master, I say.

While I am away, please try not to rumple things overmuch. You can have all the parties you want, just take your empties with you, vacuum up a bit and –I will NOT repeat this– stay away from my grandmother’s bone china, for fucksakes.

Here, I hired clowns to entertain you. Their show is of the mostly G-rated variety, but they are hella, HELLA funny. Enjoy!

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:: click image to enlarge ::

 
|| August 29, 2002 || 3:41 pm || Comments (1) ||

Okay…..fishaaaay wins this month’s TACKY PACKtm. She has 48 hours from this post to contact me via the TACKY PACKtm mail addy with postal mailing info, or the offer is NULL, VOID, CRAPPED OUT, WITHDRAWN, etc. After that I make the offer to the runner-up (who shall remain unnamed) who will also have a 48-hour window.

But let’s no get ahead of ourselves, mmkay?

 
|| August 29, 2002 || 7:02 am || Comments (2) ||

So, quite unceremoniously, we’ve been plunged back into ball season. Here in the South, if it’s Fallish then ‘ball season’ refers to football. If it’s Springish, the term refers to baseball.

After getting Scout fitted for her uniform (rah-RAH), she and Mathias and I went over to the ballfield to catch the tail-end of Sam’s practice.

I tried to get him to play ball over here, but he was indignant about it:

“They play flag and flag is for girls.”

HEY….don’t look at me….he gets that shit from Biff. Scout always calls him on that kind of thing, though.

“Me an’ Momma are girls, stooooopid!” I smile quietly at moments like these. “Don’t call your brother stupid, Scouty. He’s just repeating what he learned from your dad. Take it to the source.”

The flag league is less than ten blocks away. The full contact league is fifteen minutes away, twenty in the traffic that exists around the 5:30 practice time.

Of course, we signed up for the tackle league because parental convenience dies an unwitting death–it simply has no place in the bigger picture.You were maybe aware of that?

There was fresh rain and thick red mud and clean car interior, so I kept Scout and Mathias in the car with me. Mathias proceeded to roll his window down, to hang half out of it and then to shout greetings to the children in the cars surrounding ours.

Over and over and (“ohmygaaaahd,whenwillhestopthismadness”) over rang the phrase, “My name Mathias Superer!” as well as introductions: “Dis my seesy, dis mommy. Baxter at home in his crate….”

I heard “My name Mathias Superer.” so many times that I was sure I’d lose my tenuously-held maternal grasp on sanity. I flirted with the thought of changing his name; by the time he got the hang of the new one, maybe we’d be home with a few walls separating us.

After a time, I heard Scout say, “C’mere, Mathias,” and she began to whisper away. I brought my book closer to my nose.

Before I knew it, Mathias’ head was out of the window and he was declaring,

“My name Mathias Superer….you kill fahdder. Prepare….to die!”

Scout exploded with glee.

“Scout,” I said as I turned to the little giggling mass of girl in the back seat, “people already believe we’re not right in our heads, please don’t give them any evidence to document.”

 
|| August 27, 2002 || 9:26 pm || Comments (0) ||

Okay, I am certainly trying not to get alarmed, but I’ve had no less than (and in all truth, maybe more than) six referrals that pointed to my 21 July archives in about a week.

What? WHAT??

 
|| August 27, 2002 || 8:51 pm || Comments (3) ||

You were standing on the corner / When it all came crashing down / On your black shoes and your black hat / You pulled your black dress ’round

I suppose you should feel sorry / But I see you dressed in silk / With your double cappuccino / And it’s topped with twice-steamed milk / You know, I guess you should feel sorry after all / But I’m not crying…anymore

Yeah, and do you forget who you are / When you’re the last one in the bar / And then morning unfurls / On the wallflower / Yeah-yeah, wallflower girl / On the wallflower girl

Well you’re in and out / And up and down / And halfway in-between / You’re Holly Golightly / Yeah I heard you played that scene / Well you say that you’re an actress / And a painter on the side / And you used to read the tarot cards / But you don’t like what you’d find / Well, I suppose we both know our future anyway / Hey-hey-hey

Now, do you forget who you are / When you’re the last one in the bar / And then morning unfurls / On the wallflower / Wallflower girl / On the wallflower girl

When you’re climbing up a mountainside / You know, well they say it hurts your ears when they pop / But that’s the price you pay now / For bein’ on top

While the light is turning greener / Than my thoughts are ringing true / And the reason that I’m so hard, girl / I see myself in you / And the mountain-tops and valleys / And the vantage points between / Well, you used to read the tarot cards / But you don’t like what you’ve seen / But I suppose we both know our future anyway / Hey-hey-hey

Now, do you forget who you are / When you’re the last one in the bar / And then morning unfurls / On the wallflower / Yeah-yeah, wallflower girl / Yeah, on the wallflower girl

Better Than Ezra, “Wallflower Girl”

 
|| August 26, 2002 || 10:33 pm || Comments (9) ||

Nora has two teenage sons with Tourette Syndrome; she is concerned that her youngest may have it, as well.

I just found out for the first time today that she has it also….

It breaks my heart that she views herself as a ‘genetic weak link’.

 
|| August 26, 2002 || 9:47 pm || Comments (1) ||

I made the UPS guy laugh like a crazy person today. It was great; it made my whole day.

The favor was karmically returned, because tonight I got a search referral from Google: “bitches on pillows no credit card needed”. TO DIE FOR, DAH-LINGK.

Also today were referrals for ‘desperate to pee females’ and my personal favorite (and maybe new nickname…try it out on me for a couple days and let’s see how I likes it), ‘rivet nose’. What a great thing to call somebody in anger….just imagine! “You fucking rivet nose motherfucker!!”

Have sweet dreams, my dear ones…and don’t forget, TACKY PACKtm submissions close soon. Gimme a good line for my future headstone and you could be the next winnah!