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Archive for June, 2003

|| June 30, 2003 || 4:10 pm || Comments (4) ||

salad fixings
dog food

That’s what my shopping list today consisted of. Make what you will of it.

I do not care how old I get; it will always be funny to hear some yay-hoo dial into the intercom system of the Local Emporium of Retail Everythingness (today, Wal-Mart) and holler something inane and/or irreverent across it.

Somewhat reminiscent of my Phone Loser days. God love the jerkoffs, for without us, how would the rest of you be entertained?

Won’t you sponsor me?

|| June 30, 2003 || 12:15 am || Comments (3) ||

Okay, lemme tell you something here. If you are the owner of a vehicle that is painted white, washing it with bleach will not get it any fucking cleaner, shinier or repel bugs and birdshit any better. Okay?


Everyone tumbled out of the car this evening, still smelling wonderfully of the Gulf coast, into my open and waiting arms. Sam looked terrible, and had been complaining with an earache for twenty-four hours. The pain was sharp, and he was very draggy. I debated for a short bit after dinner whether or not to take him to the ER or to hit him with the Oticaine drops to alleviate some of the pain and wait to see the doctor tomorrow.

The internal debate didn’t last long, as his glands were swelling. I didn’t want to take the chance of his lymph glands going full-tilt puffy, because when his immune system is supressed, it tends to exacerbate his tics. He’s been virtually tic-free for so many weeks now that I hated to risk anything that would ramp them up again; off to the hospital we went, Scouty in tow (Scout wants to be a medicine-practicing astronaut one day, and she craves knowledge….she scoops it up in whatever manner she can, but most especially via observation. She is a visual learner, like me.).

When we got there the place was slap empty. Just in time, it seems, because a wave of people followed us in short fashion (we’re trend-setters, what can I say?). We got to the back in record time –ten minutes or so– and were seen by the doctor a short ten minutes later. As we were waiting for him to go write a scrip and for the nurse to bring meds for Sam, they ushered an older man and woman into the other side of the semi-private room. The doctor breezed in, going behind the curtain, and I heard the following exchange:

YOUNG HOTDOC: You know, Mister Flimmityflammity, huffing is very dangerous, and there are easier ways to get a buzz….
(hearty Doctor laughter)
MISTERFLIMMITYFLAMMITY (hereinafter referred to as BIGOLE DUMMY): Ayuh, ah guess…
YOUNG HOTDOC: Can you tell me what happened?
BIGOLE DUMMY: Wayull, Ah gotta white car, and Ah was goin’ ta warsh it
BIGOLE DUMMY: An’ since it’s white, Ah poured about a half-gallon’a bleach inta the bucket, then poured the car warsh soap innair
BIGOLE DUMMY: An’ Ah started warshin. Mah eyes burned at first, but Ah dint thank nothin’ uhvit.
BIGOLE DUMMY: Then Ah got ta coughin’ up brown stuff an’ ain’t stopped ever since.

Jeez criminy. It was all I could do not to rip back that curtain and leer at him, creepy and mocking.

Completely unrelated note: I just heard that Katherine Hepburn died.

“Ethel Thayer; thoundth like I’m lithping, doethn’t it?”
~ Henry Fonda in ‘On Golden Pond’

Rest in peace, graceful lady.

Won’t you sponsor me?

|| June 29, 2003 || 11:14 pm || Comments (4) ||


Michael is one hell

Of a guy

Hat-ley! Hat-ley!

Gratitude and kudos to Michael, who is my first Blogathon sponsor. Goes to show you how two people that meet via a heated debate in someone’s comments (and have wildly differing opinions and matching big egos/hot heads) can bounce differing opinions off one another, disagree and walk away friends, shaking hands. I’ve called him a hermaphrodite, he’s insinuated that I have a scalding case of herpes…

And I’d buy that boy a beery-beer in a heartbeat. He takes purty pitchers, even for a liberal do-gooding mucky-muck. He is great for conversation. You should check him out.

Just so you know, if you sponsor a blogger (hopefully me, wheee!), your pledge is not collected until the end of the ‘thon. So, if you are hesitant because of purse strings, you can pledge now and save for the next month! GO! SPONSOR! YAY TEAM!

pee ess….Lisa has a gorgeous site, and she’s a sassy momma who won’t tolerate disrespectful kids (she put tobasco sauce on her fifteen-year-old son’s friend’s tongue, don’t you love it?). You can peek in on her here.

|| June 29, 2003 || 6:39 pm || Comments (3) ||


Sign-ups for Blogathon 2003 are officially underway! Get yourself on over there and sponsor me! You can sponsor other people, as well, but most importantly, sponsor me! Your momma will be so proud! Crowds will part in the streets, out of awe and respect! Your breath will be minty-fresh! You will understand all sorts of words that you had no comprehension of before!

This year, because I am on the Blogathon Team (check out the Yellow Darts’ blolg, where a particularly LOVELY photo of me is featured…), I will not be adhering to the self-imposed ‘no prewriting’ rule that I’ve held to in the past. I will be much busier during the ‘thon, and there will just be no way that I can juggle everything and write off-the-cuff, as well.

SO, this year I have a project, and I’m excited about it. It’s entitled ‘Parts of the Whole’, and will feature, in lieu of a written post each half-hour, photos of various body parts from forty-six different webloggers. There will be a list of URLs along with each photo so that readers can attempt to correctly identify which part belongs to which blogger.

There will be PRIZES, of course!

Hey, you know what? You can sponsor me. No, really, you can. And I will love you forever and ever and ever. I will!

|| June 29, 2003 || 12:14 am || Comments (5) ||

Elton John songs always remind me of him.

Always make me want to fall on my face and sob, no matter where I am. No matter who sees.

Too much wine, not enough truth. Don’t get me wrong, enough truth in all but that one arena. Some people you never shake.

Fucking Elton John, man. Flat palm on peachy-bronze belly. Devilish grins. Furrowed brows. Dancing along the edge. Perfecting stupidity as well as passion. We were harder on each other than bodies have a right to be.

But no one could ever say that there wasn’t love.

And tonight, ohhhh, tonight, there’s wine and Elton John and an ache in my chest that I’ll never shake no matter how long and far I run from it.

|| June 28, 2003 || 10:15 pm || Comments (5) ||

So, today in a phone conversation, I told my mother about everything that’s going on around here. You know, marriage-wise. Apparently, my dad said not a word, which is really unusual. They tell each other everything. My mother and I talked for awhile, with me assuring her that Maxim is a good man and there’s not anything going on ‘behind the scenes’, as it were; no mental or physical abuse like in prior marriage endeavors.

There’s something real liberating about talking with your momma from an adult perspective and having her do you the favor of not resorting to trite, not-purposely-but-still-demeaning language.

“Dad and I really love Maxim, you know.”

“Yeah, mom, so do I. And he loves you, too.”

We spoke for a while in quiet, easy tones; my mother has a warm, rich voice and I love hearing her speak, especially when she abandons her sharp wit for just plain deep, full-hearted wisdom. My mother is a lady marinated in sagacity and sometimes says more in three sentences than most folks say in a month.

“You know,” she said to me, “you just may not have been meant to be married, dollin.”

“I know, Mom, and if that’s the way it is, I’m okay with that….I really am. I’m just so….ready for what comes next…” and I sent my free arm sailing in a gesture that I knew that she could feel even though she could not see it.

“Just don’t become a party girl, Elizabeth. You’re gettin’ a bit too old for that.” My mother, ever-practical. My mom, she knows her offspring.

“Please, woman, my life is a zoo. I’ve never heard of a party in a zoo, have you?” And we both laughed. Conspiratorially. Like two grown women, not like mother and daughter. It is not something I would wish for all the time, but it was nice today. It was appropriate today. It’s what my mother does: She anticipates needs and she meets them, cleanly and without fanfare. She’s a hip lady.

I told her about this weblog today. I may live to regret that, but I doubt it. I told her that for the last three years I have been tap-tapping away at this keyboard, setting down all of the silliness and stubborness and hopefullness and anger and wistfullness in my head and my heart. She asked to see it and I said no and she did not press the matter because I explained to her that it was for me, a way to not lose myself in being everything to everybody: Wife, Mother, Friend. I told her that there were people that come here each and every day to read about things that they should by all rights and means not give two fiddler’s-fucks about, but they seem to anyway. That they e-mail me and tell me how I made them smile or think or cry or reflect on their own being. That they ask me, why oh why haven’t you written a book, girl?

“And my readers? They loooove you, momma.”

“Wait. You write about me??

“Yeah, I do. I write about everybody important to me. I use a psuedonym and you all have them, too. And my readers like you people. They like you a lot.”

We spoke for a short time more, then my aunt and uncle showed up to take my parents to a gallery showing somewhere. Dinner, art, laughter. My family. They are spitfire and they are sweet. They are country and they are cultured. They are everything that I am strung out over fifty some-odd people and I am one of the luckiest people in the world by ten miles because I was dropped into the middle of them by some miraculous combination of genetics and good fortune. She and I said our good-byes, said our I love yous, embraced there for a moment across the miles, over the wires, past time and space and reason, nestled deeply into one another’s hearts. She hesitated one last time before we hung up and I said, “Yes?”

“So your readers like me, huh?”

“Yes, momma…they adore you. How could they not?”

|| June 28, 2003 || 7:25 pm || Comments (5) ||

HEY! My lovely pal Keith has submitted a photo to Jones Soda.

In case you are wondering why he might do such a goofy thing, Jones uses photos by everyday feebs like you and me on their labels. I, for one, think Keith’s photo is a fine one and deserves to be wrapped around the next cream soda I purchase. Won’t you go vote for it?

Rate honestly, please. Certain unnamed fuckjobbers have been undercutting the vote. I feel particularly driven to beat those fucking vote-stacking Beckers and their Macaroni Crayon.