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Archive for April, 2003

|| April 30, 2003 || 10:59 pm || Comments (8) ||

So, tonight while Your Heroine (that’s me!) was working late my pal AmyBeth came strolling in, smiling like the devil himself had goosed her. She whipped a bag of Nestle’s Coconut Treasures out from behind her back, singsonging, “Because I looo-oooove yooooou…”

I’m on my period and was trying to avoid the whole ravenous salt-sugar-SALTFUCKINGSUGAR-snarf-snort-gnosh-binge cycle.

Now, Nestle’s Coconut Treasures are chocolatey, toasted coconutty kryptonite (stunning overpowering weakness ensues, fair reader) wrapped up in a purrrrdy shiny teal wrapper and, damnit all to fuck, I cannot be held responsible for Refusing To Deny Self when I am biologically/physiologically impaired! Cannot and will not!*

*but I only ate two**
**…tonight, anyway.

|| April 29, 2003 || 7:17 pm || Comments (10) ||

“We scammed our way in / Everybody had long hair”

// Propellerheads, “Velvet Pants”

The Propellerheads are rocking my skirt consistently the last few days, because the sounds of ‘Decksanddrumsandrockandroll‘ seem to suit the frenetic, exuberant pace of my life as of late. It’s a very concentrated, swirling mass of good music, driving like a railroad spike into the meat of the matter. ‘Let’s get to it,’ the album says, ‘with no time-wasting.’

I am losing my job.

Nobody panic! I’ve known for some time that this was a possibility. I’ve known for a short time that it is an actuality. In a nutshell, I’m relieved and happy about it. So many times in situations like this, people are devastated, trying to shake their heads clear and look for the proverbial door that we’re told is going to open.

In short, I’ve had all these doors banging open, just waiting for me to wander through, bathing the place in light and promise for some two months now. It’s been remarkably easy and I’m thankful, because I’m having to shore myself up mentally and emotionally for some things that may or may not be happening in the future (that vague enough for ya?). Once again, I feel, my belief that God takes care of those who are earnest in their endeavors is being underscored. And highlighted. With little arrow-shaped sticky notes that say ‘RIGHT HERE!’ pointing to the heart of things.

I’m blessed. I fully acknowledge that. I’m immensely thankful for it.

Starting with the second summer term in July, I’ll be working toward my Bachelor’s in Nursing. If all goes well (I started to say ‘according to plan’, but that is a sure way to screw myself, because plans never unspool as neatly they are supposed to), then two and a half years from now I’ll graduate with my second degree. I derive a great deal of amusement out of the fact that one of them is music-related and one is medicine-related. HA!

Maybe soon after that I can finally get the fuck out of Hellabama, Lord willin’.

In the interim, I have been offered primo employment by some people I was associated with via my current position. It is a mother-slash-student’s dream job….insane amounts of flexibility (in essence I set my own hours) and I can make the same money as I’m making now in one quarter of the time each week. All that, plus it’s contract employment, so the government will be giving me lots and lots of dough-re-mi back at the end of the year. Woo! Woo for me and woo for you and wooowooowoooooo, whole world!

AND, I’ve come to the very concious decision to do all this without regard to donuts (tel and the very astute Angel) or purses (Jane and Angel) or any other descriptive term which blankets some vague-to-the-masses mystery goings-on. I’m doing this with ME in mind, with my ultimate health and sanity and well-being occupying the box labelled ‘These Things Are Paramount’. I’m not being maliciously selfish, I’m growing as a person. That’s the new-age catchphrase this will all be caught up under. I arrived at these conclusions (many which were already firmly seated in my oh-so-stubborn head, but not yet fully cemented) over a couple days’ worth of conversation with Melly, who used words like ‘exceptional’ and ‘phenomenal’ without my having to bribe her. She, as wonderful and wise people are prone to do, told me those things which I already knew but was hesitant to put any voice to aside from the one reverberating in my head and heart. It doesn’t really count, after all, unless you open your mouth and send the words out into the ether. Then –and only then– you’re fully beholden to them.

Today I sat in the financial aid office, trading paper with the woman behind the desk. She was about my age, but very brusque and businesslike. As she turned sideways to enter some information into her computer, I glanced at a xeroxed sheet of paper hanging behind her on the cubicle wall. It contained the phrase, “If it is to be, it is up to me.” and that just rolled over me like a dumptruck.

It’s what my mother used to tell my sister and me after my father bailed and living most every day seemed like a buffet lined with shit sandwiches. There was any kind of shit sandwich you could dream up, but when dealing with shit sandwiches, variety is NOT the spice of life.

Quiet Resolve–my mother had it in spades and sometimes the saying was chirped pleasantly, sometimes forced from behind gritting teeth. “IF IT. IS TO BE. IT IS. UPTOME.” She wanted us to keep this mantra in front of us so badly that she even had a box of multicolored pencils (which, frankly, she could ill afford) printed up so that we could be reminded, right there in sparkling gold leaf embossing, every time we were in need of a pencil. My mother is no dummy; she knew that with Fred’s penchant for drawing and mine for scribbling, that we’d be reminded constantly of those words, a little gold beacon to fix on in an otherwise very dark time.

I kept one of those pencils, unsharpened and new as the day it came out of the box; I have it tucked back in my hope chest somewhere. I’ve considered mounting it and framing it to pass down from generation to generation like a magical family chalice.

Before today, I’ve not seen or heard that quote in (quite literally) years. It sprang forth from that wall, grabbing ahold of my insides and squeezing not unpleasantly. So much so that tears welled up and I was thankful for my low-slung ballcap.

“That quote on your wall there…” I said to Ms. Allbusiness behind the desk, “my mom used to chant it to my sister and I when we were kids and things were really bad.”

Her face grew tender then, and she said, “He gives us what we need. He never forgets us. He knows.

“Yes, He sure does,” I agreed and the tears spilled over then, no longer willing to be hidden. She went in search of a kleenex for me.

I’m padding off to pull my high school pompons and tight letter sweater out of the keepsake chest (maybe I’ll dig for the pencil and admire it while I’m there…), so while I’m away you can think of something good that is occurring in your life right now and tell me about it. When I get back, you’ll get a custom-designed cheer just for you and you alone. I’m all about sharing the enthusiasm, you know.

|| April 29, 2003 || 12:04 am || Comments (7) ||

My God, it’s finally happened. I’m number nine in the search for “learn the ropes”+sex. I can die a happy woman, knowing that I contributed to the greater good. Knowing that I am memorable in such a profound way.

Knowing that I have connotations of one who could teach you how to get your grrroob on but good.

|| April 28, 2003 || 8:08 am || Comments (21) ||

You know, I just came to the realization that, despite the fact that you come here regularly (and mayhap I visit *your* site, too…), I don’t know jack shit about a good percentage of you.

So here’s your chance! Tell me something about you that I (and preferably nobody else on the InterWeb) don’t know.<--Did that sentence even make sense?? This snippet of something can be serious, self-revealing, sanguine, silly or a combination of them all. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it is true and it accurately depicts some aspect of you.

In return, you may ask me one question which I will feel somewhat beholden to answer. I’ll post any questions with their respective answers sometime later in the week.

No multi-parters, you cheating so-and-sos….you know who you are.

|| April 27, 2003 || 9:24 am || Comments (3) ||

four ay emm lonely music should find me drunk and despairing, but it does not. in fact, i feel more centered than I have in a long fucking time. so much so that i feel as if i should dance and say, “welcome back to you, dear elizAbeth…”

things are as they should be. i am growing, progressing, learning, knowing what it is to be okay despite all else. fucking right.

|| April 27, 2003 || 12:26 am || Comments (5) ||

Some things:

// I keep forgetting to mention how much I like batgrl’sOut Of Context‘ webthing, as I am a Pop Culture Vulture of the highest order and totally groove on soundbi(y)tes and punchy phrasings and the like. There’s some really great stuff there (I, dear readery-type people, was the proud contributor of the word ‘fuckpuddle’ to this project back in February). Batty is coool, if for no other reason than the fact that she is in the know regarding the Sleestak.

// I like Daily’s Green Demon Margarita Mix because it has no directions on the bottle, despite ample labelspace for same. This says two things to me: It’s as if the folks at Daily’s are loathe to tell me how to mix a margarita, opting instead to let me concoct the drink of my preference and/or strength and/or taste. Our drinkers are smart, they know how they like to imbibe. They don’t need us to tell them that the coffee can burn you or not to hop into the shower with a running hair dryer.

It’s also as if they’re snubbing those that don’t have the wherewithal or knowledge to mix a proper (or, barring that, a suitable) margarita. The Daily’s drinkerperson is hip like that. We know they know and they know they know and that’s all anybody needs to know. Fucking right, boys. I raise my mugarita, complete with purdy-flaky turquoise salt rim and rocks-only-please deliciousness, to you. I heartily dig the fact that you simply put your site addy on the bottle….marketing geared toward the technology-savvy drunkard is sexy, no lie. The recipes, such as the one for brownies (nudge-nudge) and the one for smoked turkey wraps (can you just YELL sexual innuendo, can you??) are quite the fine touch, as well.

// More perplexing than this is the fact that people are moved to comment on it.

// Sick of hiding my light under a bushel. You too?

// I was in Subway earlier tonight, ordering a turkey sandwich (‘No cheese, heavy on the cucumber, baby girl. No, no chips with that, thanks.’) when ‘Pure Moods‘ I own and put it on. Laugh all you must, but it was a gift and I am never one to turn down free music. Unless it’s something along the lines of Jay-Z or some shit (gimmegimmegimme old skool, baybeeee, heavy on the backbeat and the clever twist of rhyme, hold the ‘I’ze a gangsta’ bullshit unless it’s –Rest In Peace, shinytooth man– Eazy E. Okay, and Ice Cube. I’m a fool for that partikalah round man. Him and Method. And maybe a couple others. I’ll stop with the asides now. Really.). So here I sit, cheesing on Ethereal Lite For The Masses. I’m okay with that, despite however it may tarnish your high musical regard of me. And I listen to Little River Band with a great deal of glee.

// You know what I miss? I had a cassette copy of Art of Noise’s self-titled on cassette and in 1996 my friend McCree smashed it in my truck door on accident. I very nearly crumpled there on the pavement, shedding tears. You can’t get that particular album anymore (although I’ve not researched just quite why it was a catalog delete), so if any of you has a line on where I can snag one, even a burned copy, I’d be most grateful. MOST. GRATEFUL.

// You know what else? I’m fucking tired of seeing Norah Jones billed as ‘a Nina Simone’. For phlegm and phuck, there was only one damn Nina Simone (*sniff* restinpeace, Doctor…) and while Norah is talented and I’m sure wonderful as the day is long, she ain’t no Nina.

// Tonight is one of those nights that will most likely culminate in me dancing, prick-tease and sultry, in front of the mirror. For the record, that particular endeavor will end in me touching myself about the naughty bits and sighing.

// Pretzels are damn tasty, stale or not.

// I just found one of my many infamous slips of paper with some sort of notes on it. Thing is, though, I can’t fucking decipher those notes for the life of me.

Here, mebbe you can help. The slip of paper says the following:

-pinholes in tubes
-ok gs murders
wall appliques

The last one was in thick black sharpie marker.&nbsp&nbsp…The hell?

// I wonder how much longer I can soldier on under the guise of Disgruntled White Girltm.

// I have one of those tube-shaped ice trays. I like to use these rodlike ice cubes in my Mugaritastm and pretend that I am inserting sticks of plutonium into my alcohol so that I may be one of the Original Shiny (Shining? All work and no play makes Jack a dull fucking boy.) Happy People.

// In a fabulous trip to Selloutsville, I bought Pledge wipes the other day. The furniture STILL has not magically dusted itself. I were gypped.

// I am so sympatico with my (painfully outdated, short-bus) ‘puter, even in my technotardism, that I can sense when it’s about to go belly-up without any warning. *note to self: bookmark! save!*

And, in closing, I’d like to pose the following question:

Do you really wanna know?

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

Oh, She’s an eight ball / She’s a’rollin’ faster than a white wall / She’s got an avalanche packed in a snowball / She’s a losin all the leeches / Like a stone wall / She’s loaded up

She’s the underdog / Gonna take a mighty swipe / At the high hog / While’a sippin on her tricks / In a pitfall / Makin eyes at the girls like bullfrogs / I’m telling you, sir

She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

You’d like her hanging / Like a sneaker on a live wire, dangling / While your Wall Street pockets are jangling / With the hollow jackpot of your rich kid games

It’s a longshot / She’s got the truth and a tongue for a slingshot / But she’s takin’ steady aim / At the bigshots / It’s hard to miss the rolling bullies / On the blacktop / You better watch your turf

She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

You had her hanging / Like a sneaker on a live wire, dangling / While your golden-lined pockets were jangling / With the hollow jackpot of your wicked games

She caught your sick lie / It’s creepin’ in the shadow of your white smile / Lurking underneath the cover of your bedroom eyes / Well, you’re greasin’ up the lance for your small-fry

You wanna talk it up, do you? / Well you’re floatin’ like a royal balloon — oh / Your ego’s swollen to the size of the moon, well / I think you found somebody to cut you down to size / Well well

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from behind / She’s comin’ up from behind

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from behind / She’s comin’ up from behind…

// Marcy Playground, “Comin’ Up From Behind”

|| April 25, 2003 || 4:54 pm || Comments (11) ||

I once worked delivering pizzas. One of the other drivers, this guy named Mark, was a little ‘off’, and not in a fun way. In a creepy Deliverance sort of way. Eric could tell you. He was a nice enough guy, but there were certain things, things that mashed on my buttons long and hard until I was all wailings and seething gnashes of teeth.

Things like, “I’m not doing the pans at the end of the night. That’s woman’s work, Beth.” He wasn’t kidding in the slightest. I wasn’t either, when I threatened to make him eat those pans. That or beat him fucking senseless(er) with them. Same with mopping. In his simple countryfucked way, he warn’t goh-na mawp. I told him he were goh-na mawp if he wanted to continue living his life without the cumbersome annoyance of having a mophandle splintered and broken off in his ass.

You know, the rectal part. Of the ass, not the floor-scrubbing implement. To my knowledge, there is no assigned rectal part to a mop.

But then again, I’m not as pedigreed in this type of knowledge as some of you may be are. Correct me if you must.

Anyway, the thing I most remember about Mark is this: I used to drive a truck. It was a kickass little truck and it enabled me to navigate over curbs and people and the like with ease. I was a fool for selling that truck, but that is neither here nor there in relation to this story.

So I drove this truck, and every time I went to work I’d notice a coke can here, a candy wrapper there thrown into the bed. Always when Mark and I shared a shift.

So I warned him not to be doing that foolish shit; it was ridiculous to expect me to clean up his messes (oh, the rich irony of it all is that his day job was working for the city as a garbage man some days, a random litter-picker-upper-in-medians-and-ditches on others), especially in light of the fact that there were no less than four huge trash cans in the store and a gigunda, never-full dumpster right next to where our vehicles idled between runs. I warned him not once, not twice, but in an uncharacteristic display of restraint and patience, I warned that sumbitch three times. That third time held the standard “Okay, I’m gonna fuck you up if this continues. Really.” disclaimer.

That amounted to the square root of fuck all.

One afternoon found me with not only a couple of Coke cans (fucking COKE! I hate CoCola!!) glinting there in the truckbed, but a napkin or two and an empty pizza box. That dastardly bastard had taken lunch out in the bed of my truck so that he could crank up his car stereo and listen to Paul Harvey (his obsessive daily habit), which we quite cruelly and not-at-all unusually would not let him partake of in the cinderblock building.

“Okay. Okay,” thought I, “let’s fix this shit here, ole girl.”

I volunteered to take the cans out for a midday wash. This is where you drag those fifty-five gallon Rubbermaid monstrosities out to the dumpster, empty them, generously douse them in bleach and scrub rather bitterly and haphazardly (while cursing your very existence before God and All The Saints) before rinsing.

I dumped the contents of two out of the four into Mark’s car before I determined that roughly the equivalent amount of trash relative to what he’d pitched in my truck (an approximate five to one ratio, as I recall) had been gifted back to him. ‘Twas marvelous, the way it draped in a lovely fashion across the bucket seats in the front of the car.

The day was hot. The deliveries were slow. The mess cooked for a couple hours before its new owner came across it.

I’ll have my revenge, thank you. Don’t gimme no garbage if you don’t want no garbage back. And I’ll quintuple that shit if it is at all in my power to do so.