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Archive for October, 2002

 
|| October 19, 2002 || 12:42 am || Comments (3) ||

Ohhhhh, hooray-HOORAY!

Skits has moved me into Bloggerville….there is now a Jett Sim! I’ve wanted to be a Sim since she put the second house up, but didn’t want to bug her, so that precious Nerdboy intervened on my behalf.

I’m sharing a wicked rad house with Dave and Trish. I don’t know much about this Dave-person save for the facts that he likes to swear copiously and he appears to be a Friend O’ The Alkyhaul, so we have a starting point. Did you see Trish Sim’s top? Hubba. That’s all I’m sayin’.

The house has a heart-shaped hot tub out back (no, really! Go look!)….tres tacky! SO for me! Plus it has one of those nifty cast-iron old-timey stoves. And there’s what appears to be a rec room replete with piano and guitar….wonder how long before I’m plinking away on either/both?

You, dear readers, should be ecstatic with joy; I was the first one in the house to sit down and blog. Apparently I have a discerning eye for art in Bloggerville, as well; my very first act was to criticize a painting in the kitchen. And I have Doc Martens, by God. Wonder what other real-life traits will emerge by happenstance as the days unfold?

Side note: I talked weather with Hoopty. That would never happen in real life, for shitsakes.

It’s really cool timing that I got added, because Skits is gonna be one of the beta testers for Sims Online, where her little Bloggerville Sims will be interacting with Sims from all over the planet via the smashing ole InterWeb. Huzzah!

 
|| October 18, 2002 || 6:55 pm || Comments (13) ||

So, Maxim and I got all tooted up on tequila and decided to go and watch Red Dragon and make out like pimply teenagers if it sucked as badly as Hannibal did. It didn’t. It was delicious….got right up inside you the way that Silence of the Lambs did, and maybe even further.

This time around they had the benefit of an exceptional cast; while stellar performances were turned in by three divine actors in Lambs (Hopkins, Foster and Scott Glenn), Dragon had a solid team of heavy hitters on board. I particularly enjoyed –and was pleasantly surprised– by the performances of Mary-Louise Parker (my, what a hottie she’s become, Dorothy!) and Emily Watson (who puts a SOOOPER face on abject terror). All in all, we were thoroughly pleased and satiated at movie’s end; I didn’t even have to fall back on my fawning affection for Edward Norton. This is one that I would recommend catching on the big ole screen at a theater, although it will be no less slyly effusive (just a titch less tantalizing) on your twenty-seven inch in the bedroom, with the covers up around yer nose.

After the movie was over and we were headed out to the car for some quick oral sex, I paused at the door to the still-pitch-black theater to respectfully let a family with wee ones pass.

It took about twenty seconds, but when it registered, it settled in hard. I turned to Maxim. Of course, what I had to say came out loud. LOUD.

“What the FUCK are a five- and six-year-old doing in a movie like this?? WHATAREPEOPLE THINKING??” Maxim, being his easygoing-and-mostly-silently-disapproving-self, shrugged and got all thin-lipped. He had the hard set of anger to his face. For once, he didn’t shush me….he just shook his head in disgust at the errant judgement of the little ones’ parents.

Remember, we are the parents who don’t have cable. We are the parents whose children think we are nuts because NO SHOWINGS OF DRAGON BALL Z ARE ALLOWED IN THIS HOME is a hard-and-fast rule (as a substitute, Sam draws them obsessively and he and the others make up their own dialogue). We are the parents that allow some PG13 action into our home, but insist on seeing every movie (no matter the rating) before immersing our children in it.

I think, in these amorphous times, Maxim and I are a true anomaly: We are sincerely concerned, but not to the point of zealotry. We try to give our kids enough rope to hang themselves and then we yank it back, but it is a carefully-crafted rope.

I ranted and raved and railed and about midway to the front of the theater, I noticed two women casting sullen and squint-eyed looks my way. They had children of about six and seven in tow, and having just come out of the SAME FUCKING GRAPHIC-ASSED movie that we and the Family With Wee Ones had, they assumed I was talking about them. So in true Jett Asshole Stylie, I kicked it up a motherfucking notch.

Look people, how you choose to raise your spawn lovely offspring is truly your business, and maybe I should mind mine. But I think that:
a) having to share this planet with what you ultimately raise up, it should be fair and okay for me to share my opinion on certain matters and
b) basic common sense on your part should come into play.
On the big issues like diet and spiritual beliefs and attire, I will butt the fuck out, but when I see a child being psychologically/emotionally harmed, I am going to whip out my hard-as-nails soapbox and start testifyin’.

Basic math. That’s all it boils down to. This movie had VERY graphic rape and murder scenes. The scenes that didn’t have graphic imagery and violence were very emotionally intense. Kids. Don’t. Belong. In. That. Atmosphere. And I believe that it’s not too great a stretch for me to add ‘by anyone’s standards’.

If you don’t want to sit your ass through the Veggie Tales’ Newest Yea Verily installment, if you find the thought of it too boring or trite or painful, then hire a babysitter. If you can’t afford a babysitter, then you sit your ass at home and wait until the kiddies are tucked in all snug before you pollute your cranium with the latest DVD rental fodder.

It’s verrrrrryyyyyy siiiiiiimmmmpppllllle. It is.

We wonder where all the miscreants are coming from. They are six and are trailing out of bloody movies with twisted psychological undertones. They are ten and streaming from music stores, songs of despair and destruction (and not in a radcoolfun way) clenched in their fists. They are four to fourteen and dabbling in adult-themed worlds right under our parental noses, sometimes with our approval. We are creating the miscreants with our apathy and our too-liberal views on what counts as suitable for preteen consumption. We do our children a disservice by not demanding ‘yessir’ and ‘nosir’ and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ from them. Basic manners are not paltry; they are an impetus to a social conciousness, a groundwork for making young ones cognizant of the feelings and needs of others. Humanity, I may not by-and-large-as-a-rule like you, but I ByGod respect you until you fuck up according to my not-overly-stringent standards.

We are creating infidels with outrageous personal codes of conduct because we present them with the wrong people to look up to. Because my dears, face it: As nasty a muthafukka as Hannibal Lecter is, he is also insanely* cooool. He’s smart, he’s witty, he’s cultured with the eensiest little touch of smarmy gauche so as to render him non-stuffy. He’s sexy and fun –from a personality standpoint, because EEGADS!, who’d want to sleep with Mister Oldy McWrinklyparts?– in that psychotic sort of way. Don’t tell me that you’ve never known a little mental mattress action with a Truly Crazy Persontm. It was heinously glorious, the mindfuck, wasn’t it??

And I shudder and want to cry and scream and give those wonderful Moviegoing Parents the beating of a lifetime because these precious little brains in the peak of their formulative years were being exposed to a seedy grossness that (yes, exists but) they should not have to know anything about for some years to come. The thing that kills me is that there are no laws safeguarding children from this sort of recklessness on a parent’s behalf. You can make the mind’s eye blink, but you cannot wipe it clean.

It was a really good flick. You should go see it. Preferably with other adults.

*Not a pun!! NOT!

 
|| October 15, 2002 || 10:38 am || Comments (5) ||

Toys!!

Every year I am seasonal help at a toy store. Basically, I am lead person on the Christmas season stock crew. I’ve done this every year for 6 years now, not because the money is great, but because the discount is and because it is so. dang. funnnn. FUN, I tell you! For fifteen hours a week, two months solid, I get to open boxes and pull out toys. If you can’t see the fun in that, you are beyond the grasp of any help I can give a body.

One year, a little girl of about four, all unsure but curiosity-bold, tugged on my jeans. I squatted down, taking in the wide-eyed dog-eared delicious cuteness of her, to get on her level and hear what she had to ask. Which was,

” ‘Scuse me, my mommy says you are an elf; is that so? Are you really??”

“Oh darlin’,” I replied, “I certainly wish I was an elf, but I’m not.” I broke into a huge grin.

“What I am, though,” I continued, “is one of Santa’s Helpers…and, myyyy, is it fun!” She went away, satisfied, after hugging my neck and thanking me and her mother winked, nodding in my direction.

Yep, it sure is fun to work in a toy store, because despite the inconsiderate mess I have to clean up, constantly rearranging and replacing, there are shiny dress-up jackets and painted metal soldiers and bright nylon kites and baby dolls in fuzzy sleepers and iron pedal cars that are so yummy red that they look good enough to eat (and make you long to be three so that you could slide down in and conquer the nearest hill…).

And there are the children, who still believe in the magic that I’ve never let go of, even to this day.

 
|| October 11, 2002 || 7:28 pm || Comments (8) ||

You know, it really creeps me out when a person says that they ‘need’ someone in their life: “I need someone in my life.”

My first reaction to this statement is a knee-jerk one (but of course…); I recoil and say, “You need someone? You need someone?? There, honey chile, is your problem…not that you are non-coupled, but that you feel you need to be.” I have this white tee shirt that says “FUCK ME” in big (we’re talkin’ HUGE) black letters on the front. The back says, “THEN LEAVE ME” in the same bold black text. I want to have a boxful of them printed up for times when I hear the person who ‘needs’ someone say so.

“Here,” I’d say, “wear this boldly and proudly. In all your extreme codependency, that’s essentially what you’re saying: take the physical me, because that’s all I have. When that’s tiring or passe to you then feel free to move on…” Because, you see, if you are of the belief that you need somebody, then you are in a place where you are wholly unprepared for an adult relationship. If you feel as if you are not enough on your own (i.e. you need somebody versus wanting somebody), then you are driving the wrong way down Relationship Boulevard with no seatbelt on and the headlights shut off. After chugging a pint of daddy’s fine corn likker.

In a nutshell, if you are feeling incomplete as a result of not having a Significant Other, then all signs point to “Je ne suis pas entier.” Period. You will be no more fulfilled with someone than you are without someone. What you will be, dear sad clown, is dispensible.

Dispensable, or part of a very, very fucked-up dynamic, or both.

And they will leave you after the fun’s been wrung out, trust me. If they don’t, then they are even more fucked up than you and you’ll both be gnawing on the Misery Sandwich day in and day out, one (or both) of you fantasizing about throwing a running hair dryer into the bath while the other plays with the bubbles and sings ‘Rubber Duckie’. And you’ll get a little more incomplete as a result.

So many people need to experience life and its’ riches, in all their wonder before even attempting to dip their toes into the you-me conglomerate. They need to (at risk of you people throwing eggs and hissing here, I’ll use a tired cliche) find themselves, to give themselves room to grow as a person, to be able to sit comfy in their own skins. Embarking on something so fragile and big and wonderful as settling in with a life partner (even if just a ‘for-a-little-part-of-my-life’ partner) requires effort and attention and a solid grounding–a foundation of self, if you will. While you’re losing yourself in someone, it’s important not to lose yourself in them, you dig?

Look, how many times can I say it? I repeat: “A partner should compliment the you that you already are, rather than complete the you that you are not/have not yet become.” I know that it takes an entire lifetime to truly ‘become’, but if you have half a whit of intelligence in that noggin there, then you catch my drift. Someone shouldn’t be expected to take you on if you haven’t even taken yourself on yet.

People make me sad, man. I know that not everyone can see things from the same perspective, and I’m not naive or foolish or fascist enough to expect them to. But Christonacrackedwheatbun, some things are so fucking obvious that I just don’t see how people don’t get them. Or even why someone who cares for them doesn’t rattle said people’s teeth until they do.

So that’s it…..after infuriating the piss out of me, people just make me fucking saaaad, not unlike Lisa’s bad dancing. Maybe that’s why I stay so angry so much of the time. It’s much easier and much less taxing to be overwhelmingly angry than morbidly sad. At least when I’m angry I can still laugh.

Although mocking and derisive, it’s still fucking laughter, after all.

 
|| October 10, 2002 || 5:46 am || Comments (1) ||

Scout* has started her first scrapbook! I am so very excited!

She came to me last evening wanting ribbons and doo-dads and fancy scissors and dried flowers and handmade papers and Sharpie markers. I drew the line at the hot-glue gun, however. I gave her double-sided tape instead.

In other pressing news, I went to bed last night horribly hungry for a tuna fish sandwich and guess what?? I woke up starving for one. Remember the strep throat incident? The one where I felt like I was gonna die four times over before I got better. Silly me! Of course you don’t, because I was too busy writhing in feverish agony and praying for a bolt of lightning to the heart or something to blog about it.

Anyway, the doctor’s office called a couple days later.

They called to tell me that my bloodwork was back and my iron was horribly low. With a youmusttakeactionquickbecauseweareexceedingly-
-concerned tone to her voice, the nurse told me that I needed to be taking iron supplements, 30 mg twice a day, “then come back in two weeks for more bloodwork.”

I felt that this was odd. While I have always had low blood pressure, I have never been anemic in any way, shape or form. I eats my veggies, consumes my meat, takes an excellent multi on a daily basis. Okay, I had been off the multi for a couple months and then restarted about two weeks ago.

So I told her, “Funny, but I have felt really excellent for the past couple of weeks”. And I have. I started taking my multi again and added an Arginine/Ornithine/Lysine stack with a little L-Carnitine thrown in for good measure. I told her all this.

Her response: “Wellllll….your may be raising your iron level back up then. It was probably even lower,” to which she added, “Frankly, we were all amazed that you could even get out of bed in the morning….”

To this I laughed long and loud and hearty. Honey, you have no idea. Are you living in the same world that I am??

So she was urgent and verbally strong-arming me on the iron tip. I really hate to take iron; oddly enough, it makes me feel like shit….all draggy and lethargic. I told her that I would wait until after that next blood test and see if I hadn’t raised it anymore, and she sounded near-panicked, like they would come hogtie my ass and force-feed me some ferrous gluconate if I didn’t acquiesce via phone right now.

So of course, I told her I would take the iron so that her conscience would be salved (I was crossing my fingers at the time) and I just tripled my protein intake.

Which is all a long way to tell you that the more protein I take in, the more I want. Thus, tuna sandwich cravings at eleven pee emm that bleed on over into early ay emm hours.

Now I’m off to make tuna salad, alright??*

NEW FEATURE, NEW FEATURE!! I slapped up this page because the familiar way I refer to key participants in my life may be a tad confusing for newcomers….‘Who the hell is this Maxim person, anyway??’….now I just have to figure out that magical little ‘#’ anchor-thingy that sends you directly to someone’s description, rather than forcing you to scroll down the page. Okay then.

 
|| October 10, 2002 || 5:11 am || Comments (1) ||

Maxim and Jett are travelling I-59 in the lovely SaturnCar. Jett is tickling Maxim’s face with her hair.

MAXIM: Baby, I’m driving.
JETT: Baby, I’m flirting.
JETT: You want me to find someone else to do it with?
MAXIM: While I’m driving, yes.
MAXIM: Will your hair reach that car over there?

 
|| October 8, 2002 || 11:41 pm || Comments (0) ||

Laughing so mothereffing hard that I can’t see straight:

I also don’t recommend Macs for people who tie their self-worth to their computers’ megahertz rating. These folks will never be satisfied with a Mac, because the Mhz rating looks so small, pink, floppy, and short. The Mhz rating for Intel and AMD machines looks big, black, hard, and full of huge blue veins, all throbbing with big sexy tumescence. Remember folks, everyone likes a long thick beefy clock rating.

His name is Unxmaal, and his next show’s at 10, thanks!