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Archive for December, 2002

|| December 25, 2002 || 7:15 pm || Comments (17) ||

(see you in the New Year…)

|| December 25, 2002 || 7:10 pm || Comments (1) ||

Here there are two thoughts

One foregone conclusion

And three smoke rings about my head

Tomorrow never will forget yesterday

And yesterday promised more than what tomorrow held

I tried to whistle yesterday

Then remembered:

I hate it when people whistle

It feels like gum on shoe

“Get…off. I can’t touch you, ever.”

I made the quackquack joke

Then you wore the duck shirt

A comedic duck, he was

You were the best one-up

I ever laid heart and mouth upon….

Dully overwhelming;

Truncheon-to-the-brain style

“I am too giddy for this”

My heart said even as I

Spelled it all out in blue sharpie

Thighs and scars

Both magnificent in the draw

Double-timing the kidnap

The putt-putt piggyback

The swingset march beneath the sun

Not enough malls

Not enough motels

Not enough continents

Not enough time

To contain us together

Random digits and words parried

I should haves

I could haves

I want tos and I dids

Instead of numbers and dashes

I’d rather it have been

I love you now, tonight

This is the start of something

Swirling and powerful

This blue writing is testament:

It is written;

Same Auld Lang Syne

|| December 25, 2002 || 2:03 am || Comments (6) ||

It is Christmas Eve, right on the cusp of Early Christmas Morning and in the Superior household Maxim and Jett are busy removing the price stickers from a variety of random crap trinkets before stuffing them into three stockings that three delighted children will discover in eight hours or (more likely) less. Maxim pulls a new set of headphones from a plastic bag, gasps in mock surprise and delight, hugs them to his chest, then retreats to the music area of the Superior home. When he returns, it is with an older set of headphones, which he matter-of-factly throws into the bag designated for ‘gobbidge’.

JETT: Whatcha throwin’ those away for, babe?
MAXIM: Because they’re ten years old and suck dick.
JETT: Well, when I’m ten years old and suck dick, you gonna throw me away, too?
Maxim’s eyebrows shoot up as Jett realizes what she has just said.
JETT: Oh, wait…..

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

We here at Superior Industries pride ourselves on being open-minded and supportive in regard to belief systems. We don’t wish to leave out those of you that turn a dubious and/or doubtful eye toward what we Christians deem ‘the meaning’ at the heart of Christmas festivities. In that spirit of equal opportunity belief and tolerance with regard to the beliefs of Godless Heathernstm, we present to you the atheist’s nativity.

Inclusion is grand, no?

|| December 22, 2002 || 1:02 am || Comments (7) ||

This is Christmas: Your mother walking in the door, having just driven in from Memphis, with a sly look in her eyes and a smile on her mouth, carrying a medium-sized box. “Guesssss whhaaaatt IIIII haaaaaave,” she near-trills, and when you open the box, dusty with attic, you find your Fisher-Price Schoolhouse in there. All these emotions you never knew you had (or simply didn’t remember so much) for this toy, this one you received on a Christmas morning twenty-nine years past come welling up as you open the doors and ding the teeny bell on top and touch each one of the little peg people lovingly as the old friends they are: here is the little black boy with the shiny brown head, here is the little white boy with squiggles for hair, here is the teacher with the molded plastic ponytailed hair and thick-lashed eyes. You have a moment of sorrow as you realize the little girl with the brown pigtails is No Longer With Us, but then recall that she may have been a Goer and not a Stayer (just like your ownself) and you are at peace about it. Besides, there are the yellow plastic pegpeople desks to consider, the kelly green teacher’s desk, the chartreuse merry-go-round and swingset, the little scalloped-canopy bus with perpetual passengers and driver. You always wondered why they were glued in there while the other peg people were free to roam, but all worlds have injustice, even plastic-and-paper ones gilded with painted-on smiles. You lovingly clean the years off the schoolhouse and its furniture and people and wonder how much little magnetic letters cost nowadays, because that magnetized roof looks somehow barren without all the vowels and consonants and limited punctuation that you arranged and re-arranged painstakingly, creating wonderful multi-colored nouns and adjectives and verbs that meant a whole new world at your fingertips when you were a mere two and had things of import scrambling for purchase in your brain’s filter, waiting to escape into the airspace beyond.

This is Christmas: Amongst ribbons and bows and discarded paper you take in a roomful of warm, happy faces atop full bellies and wassail-fuzzy heads. There are teary eyes as the money-pricey gifts are nearly ignored in favor of the heart-pricey gifts; photographs of young babies (you are one of those young babies, your spouse is another) and middling children (this cousin and that cousin arm-in-arm) and relatives long gone but still felt (grandfather and all his brothers) have been enlarged and encased behind glass to be hung and placed in places of import in each home. Suspended in moments of time: Five generations on baby’s first Christmas, two knobbly girls of five in matching swimsuits, grim-suited yet kind-faced men (five of them). They are passed around, fingers grazing the glass, stories of rememberance told, laughter and bittersweet tears mingle in milliseconds. A room hugs without ever leaving their seats or making physical contact. We are rich, is the unspoken phrase that hangs on every molecule in the room, whether or not there are presents to give and groaning table to be partaken from. We are simply fortunate that this is so. We are fortunate to have one another, this family.

This is Christmas: You are on the phone, talking with an oldnew friend, trading stories of statues and trains even-handedly, making up newold inside jokes as you go along, speaking of psychic-Kerouac things as you paint things and bake things and tend to the business of busyness. Conversation turns to the ‘idea’ of Christmas and you are told that you have meaning to someone, that your Clinging To The Innate Joy that this time of year (or at the very least, trying to with all you have) should stand for, should mean, (“Don’t you remember the absolute MAGIC that Christmas was to you as a kid? I so do! I want to keep that and I want to teach my kids to keep it, too….”) helps oldnew friend swing back to center when oldnew friend is wafting along on the Christmas Cynicism that is so omnipresent nowadays, helps oldnew friend renew Christmas Spirit. How immensely flattered you feel, how astounded that such a simple (though important) and matter-of-fact thing to you takes on a meaning greater than yourself. And that’s what it’s really all about, as we –all of us– are just the vessels which the Cosmos works through to get certain (wild and varied) messages to those who need said messages at ‘x’ time in their day/year/lifetime.

“But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
// Luke 2:19 (NIV)

Merry Christmas, you guys. And I mean that. I mean it. I wish you warm toes and full hearts and an overflowing sense of contentment. God bless you in the coming year!

|| December 20, 2002 || 5:28 pm || Comments (1) ||

Did anyone have any doubts?

You are BEEF. The studly meat.
What Lunch Meat Are You?

(Link found at Chapel Perilous)

|| December 20, 2002 || 2:02 am || Comments (8) ||

Beginning at six ay emm yesterday (approximately twenty hours ago), I:

-Made a last-minute run to the grocery store for school Christmas party chocolates

-cooked biscuits and gravy and sausage for five

-ironed three pairs of pants and two shirts to put on waiting bodies (mine included)

-dropped three children off at appropriate school-type places

-did three loads of laundry

-swore at the dog after discovering the front door wide open and realizing that the dog now knows how to turn the knob to the front door, so we are officially screwed

-made a mental note to neuter that fucking dog as soon as humanly possible

-chased the dog, attempting to get him back into the house

-got muddy chasing the dog and swore at him some more

-played ball with the dog, cajoling him to come inside

-showered, put on fresh clothing

-stripped all the beds, re-made them with clean linens

-went to the photo shop to pick up copies and enlargements

-bought a shameful amount of baking supplies at the grocery (enough, in fact, to take care of a small third world country should they need almond biscotti and delicately-iced teacakes)

-clocked in enough minutes on my mobile phone before eleven ay emm to meet half my plan’s requirements for the month (which, by the way, does not roll over until the eleventh of next month….I’m screwed)

-wrapped six gifts

-shipped niece’s birthday gift and three purses to various regions of the country

-mailed two dozen Christmas cards

-ate a turkey on rye, spicy mustard-laden

-went into the ‘real’ job

-did requisite ‘real’ job stuff, to include choking back frustration and the pressing want to bang my head on the keyboard until my brains spewed, moist and steaming, all over the fucking thing

-fielded afternoon calls and subsequent requests from offsprings one and two

-went to bread store

-picked up littlest of brood from preschool

-ordered pizza for Sam and best friend, whose mother Sam was being picked up by for a sleepover

-put in that stupid fucking ‘Ice Age’ movie (which Mathias refers to as ‘Icy Cage’) upon request

-put in another load of laundry

-listened to Scout regale me with tales of her day as I cooked dinner

-made spaghetti, salad, and crusty french bread

-downed a glass of wine and, as an afterthought, said a couple of Hail Marys and Our Fathers so that I could call it communion

-had another glass

-served dinner

-cleaned up kitchen (second time for the day)

-scooted Scouty into her basketball uniform

-attended basketball game, yelled epithets at refs (okay, that part wasn’t out loud, just in my head)

-dropped Scout at friend Katherine’s for a sleepover, made requisite chit-chat with K’s mom

-went to the grocery for smokes and Mathias’ Christmas party stuff

-put Mathias in the bath, then in the bed

-contemplated my existence, got a little afraid, put clothes into the dryer

-made ten pounds of peanut butter fudge while listening to Bob Dylan (’tis the season)

-hand-tinted the fourteen photos picked up earlier in the day, to include two nerve-wracking sixteen-by-twenties

-swore at whomever forgot to chain the front door

-swore at the dog, then SLAMMED the front door

-felt bad and apologized, dog came back in (only because it was cold, that fucker)

-mopped a couple floors

-scrubbed a couple toilets

-felt dizzy and nauseous

-got all cynical and negative, thinking a bout of Christmassy flu is at hand, when God and everybody are coming to my house for Christmas week

-nursed my hot peanut butter fudge-induced finger injuries (splash burns SUCK)

-cleaned the kitchen (third time’s a charm)

-gave up on the day, blogged some shit, read some other blogs

….and now I am heading for bed. I’m so fucking tired, man….and I didn’t get half of what I wanted to get done accomplished.

I’ll paint a nice, healthy target on if somebody will just shoot me now.

|| December 20, 2002 || 1:15 am || Comments (3) ||

Wastrel never leaves me hangin’ on important things like whether or not Our Lord and Savior grin and bore it. Or whether or not I can open such information in front of my boss or my mother (forget perteckin’ the kids…they all already know more at age seven than we did by twenty-five, anyway…).

Wastrel is a web surfin’ crazy person. Wastrel must never fucking sleep. Or bathe.


Quirkiness, as you well know, is a major plus in my book. WASTREL IS QUIRKY, MY LITTLE MUFFINASSES. Oh yes, ’tis so.

UPDATE: I’ve never paid attention to the sidebar at Wastrel’s place until just…now; apparently he is a Scot. *shameless swoon* If you people know anything about me, it’s that two sorts of accents simply DO IT for me: Massachusetts and Scottish, but not in that order. Wastrel, do you have a sporran? Do you go commando, like real men should? I must know these things!