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Archive for March, 2003

|| March 30, 2003 || 8:22 pm || Comments (12) ||


Listed on BlogShares

I found this over at the Pie Queen’s place. I’m-a likin’ it. Come play with me!

Own your very own share(s) of Jett!

UPDATE: Thus far I’ve bought shares of GI Party, Angie, Melly, Jodi and Chey. Those’re my five free trades for the day. More to be added later.

Also, you don’t have to be a blog owner to register and play. Hurry up! What’re you waiting for?

|| March 30, 2003 || 1:18 pm || Comments (14) ||

I am here because I will say the shameful things. I will speak the words of love and regret and burning, rapacious want that all women feel but are hesitant to put a voice to.

All my life, every last day of it, there has been a tickling at the back of my psyche and the threat of a soul coughing has loomed large. The tickle has grown in intensity and insistence in the last handful of years, threatening to explode me like a vigorous sneeze in a hushed theater. It, in a nutshell, will move me to action, flailing and precise and not looking back, or eat me from the inside, leaving me an old, regretful woman (for the record, I’ve never pictured myself getting old, so laying bets on the former rather than the latter would be in your best interests if you’re looking for a windfall).

The problem, my dears, with a lifelong lack of regret is that eventually it will catch up to you and there will be either more regrets than you can name or one so big that it squashes the breath out of you when it seats itself squarely upon shoulders.

I have gone on record before, and will again here now, as stating that I love men. I love them unabashedly, exuberantly, fully. I find them fun and witty, achingly complex in their simplicity, fascinating and full of false bravado and on and on and onnnnnn. You could ask me why I love men and I could sit, espousing on the topic all day (here a funny thought occurred to me: “I mostly love men because they are not women…”). Then I’d be moved to hug the next fella that crossed my path.

I spoke at length yesterday with two men that I really, really like, but who couldn’t be more different from a personality standpoint. Each had his own view to a kill and each had very valid points to make on the situation I shared with them. I was moved to dump it in their laps because they’ve both been in the situation I’ve come to cradle in my arms, not wanting it to slip through even as it squirms and makes me fret, as of late.

Lately I have been morally challeged from a ‘conventional morality’ standpoint, but I’ve been assured by outside parties that from a ‘universal morality’ perspective, I’m right on track. In the end, what does it matter? If I’ve erred, I’ve erred and I will be married to the consequences. Likewise, if I’ve done something greater than myself and anyone else involved, then I’ve opened the door for all sorts of wonderful eventualities for all parties.

God bless us, every one.

The one thing that I would tell all those men out there that I love so very much, love for their smells –all of ‘em– and their laughter and the timbre of their voices and their sinew and their knuckley hands and their not-long-forgotten-momma’s boy ways, is that we women spend a lot of time shaking on the inside from the very concentrated wealth of emotion that God in his merciful(less) wisdom has bestowed upon us. We burn with it while blinking nearly all outward traces of it away so that we might function in this world, one that does not favor the richness and strength and fierceness of what is contained below our sternums. To be a woman is to own an ever-present ache. To be a woman is to be torn to bits on the inside, a constant re-building that waxes and wanes, a perpetual state of weighted flux. To be a woman is to both love and despise your condition, to be firmly and lovingly anchored in all that you possess yet wanting to flee it all for what possesses you.

We are charged as women, quite silently, to never voice these things. That is the curse handed down from the Sins of Edentimes, not childbirth as you have so erringly been told. The angel with the flaming sword may still stand watch at the entrance, but he buried the sword deep within the belly of womankind. Pause to remember that on occasion, you menfolk, and rock your woman to sleep, stroking her eyelids and murmuring to the too-full heart and kissing the belly that holds all man’s sins so that you do not have to know the heat and the burden of them.

I am a traitor to the task: I am here because I will say the shameful things. I will speak the words of love and regret and burning, rapacious want that all women feel but are hesitant to put a voice to.

|| March 30, 2003 || 1:55 am || Comments (2) ||

You know, the more tequila I consume, the more clothes come off.

Funny how that happens.

The accent gets thicker, too, but that’s neither (NYE-thurr) here nor there.

|| March 28, 2003 || 7:35 pm || Comments (2) ||

Mathias is busy acting out the most moving moments from his favorite cartoons. He, of course, is Tweety (“Feel the bird! Feel him! In order to be the bird, you must feeeeel the bird!”). In between acts, he is kissing my the tip of my nose, my forehead, my left ear.

He intrinsically knows what besides liquor and black tar heroin and dirty, diiiiiirty illicit sex makes momma feel better.

Mathias, at the tender age of four, is a fella that knows how to treat a woman. Let’s hope he can hang on to that.

|| March 28, 2003 || 4:47 pm || Comments (5) ||

So I, briefcased and cell phoned and ten miles o’ hair cinched snugly back, marched into Miss April Love’s place of employ around three this afternoon and declared, “Let’s go drink liquids that make us forget our Christian names, April Love.” I said it in bold type just like that: It was more a demand than a declaration, if you must know. Unbeknownst to me, Miss Leslie Makinababy leaned over and said, “It must be real bad, if she wants you to forget your name, too…”

No Miss Leslie, ‘real bad’ means turpentine. I was just talkin’ tequila.

My only regret thus far is that it was not more. If you need me, I’ll be over here rending my garments and cursing the darkness in my head.

Side note for Lord McG: Without a coat once again, man, without a coat. Motherfucketyfuck. Dreaming is for when you’re asleep, after all; damn me for being a fool.

|| March 27, 2003 || 1:00 pm || Comments (1) ||

I am everso glad that today is today and not yesterday or the day before. Yesterday and the day before were possessed of a great deal of suckitude. I could’ve started a bullshit farm with all of it that was heaped upon my enfeebled, dizzy head for those two days.

And, for the record, not all of it was heaped upon me by outside parties. Yep, bullshit is resplendent in the way it begets more bullshit, and my head is a busy fucking place.

So I breathe, and I let things fall away, and today is a sunshiney, birdsongy day.

I have taken enough ‘meetings’ via phone and in person the last three days to last me a couple lifetimes. People are so very tiresome. Working in HR would be like being condemned to one of the many circles of hell for me.

Today, though, I have a raise and a new staff and damn it, it’s time to get all the pistons firing around this fucking place. Viva la progress!

|| March 27, 2003 || 12:27 pm || Comments (2) ||


You have green hair. You are creative, observant,
and a lover of nature. You are also a very
sexual person, and freely speak your mind. You
are passionate and sometimes hasty.

What is your inner anime hair color?
brought to you by Quizilla

Quiz stolen right out from under CJ’s (whosepostsreallyreallymakemesmiiiiile) nose.