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Archive for June, 2003

|| June 20, 2003 || 1:13 pm || Comments (8) ||

I am Jack’s reader mail:

I realize that it is more than likely a faux pas to gibber over a random reader e-mail more than once every few months, but as they say in France where the faux pas is concerned, ‘Oh fucking well!’ Jack is a fucking cutie. Yes, I said the ‘c’ word, and I am unashamed in the face of it.

From: Jack

To: amazingjettgrrrl@hotmail.com

Subject: What?

I often find myself asking that very thing, Jacky.

Date: Tue, 17 Jun 2003 16:42:50 -0700

Yes, I realize it is only three days later. Just yesterday I answered Guy’s emails from nine days ago. The three-month window for response is shrinking! I, apparently, am getting better at this e-correspondence shit. That, or I’m woefully underemployed.

Hmmmm. I’ve visited your site a few times because I did a search on the name “Beth Clary”– a girl I dated in high school (too many years ago)– and there I was in the clutches of your insanity. Why do I go back? Somebody stop me!

Firstly, I can’t believe you dated that bitch; what an icy-blooded whoooore she was! And you’re not over her yet?? For the love of God, man, what did she do to you? Or maybe you were looking her up for reasons of a revenge nature, which I always endorse. I may even have a few helpful hints to share, as long as you promise to be very, very careful so that the authorities don’t get involved.

Or maybe you knew an entirely different Clarygirl than I did….

And I am not insane. I’m merely two clicks to the left of ‘off’; there’s a big ole difference, you know.

You seem clever and very complex.

Not really, just pretty pissed off and slightly intoxicated. Although I could see where you could construe one as the other. Rage and tequila are pretty powerful things.

I don’t know why I’m even writing this except it’s either that or get back to work… and I’m too tired to think right now.

Lessee, you are (I’m assuming) male, so you pretty much have one of four motivations behind everything you do: You’re looking for sex, your balls itch, you have gas, or you’re hungry. Truthfully, I don’t know how any of those four could relate to you e-mailing me (you want sex? AHHHHHAHahahaaaaa!), but at least I’ve given you the keys; it’s up to you to now drive to a conclusion.

I live in Tucson, Arizona, where it’s fucking hot right now!

I must have the biggest Arizona audience of any weblog ever! And, lucky me, all my Arizona people are some cool mothereffers!

I used to live in the Seattle area where it rained all the time.

Readers in Seattle too! And I like them, as well!

Now, isn’t there someplace in this country where I don’t have to fry or drown?

I’ve heeerd tell of this place called New Jersey, but I ain’t real sure it exists….

Why am I telling you this?

Because it is so very obvious from just perusing my site that I am a friend to the common man. That, and you may have not just issues, but a whole damn subscription, as I was telling a neato friend she does a couple weeks back.

You don’t care about my problems.

Jack, you fucker, didn’t you just hear me say that I’m a fucking friend to the fucking common man??!

However, I do think you deserve the name “amazing” for some reason.

*blushes* No, really, *blushes*. And I do; it was a marvelous keg stand. The thing with the olives was pretty spiffy, too, if I do say so myveryownself.

So, there you go. Nothing of value in this email,

You let me be the judge of that, mister.

just a bunch of bits ripping across the Internet at light speed to get into a mailbox and just sit there–

Ha-HA! Fooled YOU! It’s only been three days.

only to be discarded into a digital waste basket.

Fooled! You! Agaaaaaaain! I am not called ‘Superior’ for no reason!

Poor little bits all crushed and mangled, then converted into recycled tripe.

How little did ye know? Yes. Recycled tripe is precisely what this site is. I should go register that domain rightthisveryminute. But I am broke and peering at the end of the tunnel where unemployment lies in wait, so I think I’ll save that eight bucks for something important like a cheese pizza.

Love you Jettgrrrl,


Of course you do, Jack! And your Jettgrrrl loves you too. Always glad to welcome another Superior Muffinass aboard.

|| June 19, 2003 || 2:33 pm || Comments (6) ||

“Trust not servants who mislead or misinform you.”


I left the house this morning, quite forgetting my cell phone and my slice of key lime pie.

Both of them are turning out to be necessities today. Before I go on, I’d like to say the following: Of course ‘Hollywoood Homicide’ is a horrible movie. Have you seen that Hartnett boy’s haircut??

Now, on to more pressing matters. This pisses me off more than I can say. I fully understand that you have to address things in broad terms at times because the attention span (no pun, realllly!) of the populace is next to nil in this day and age, but that little blurb is soaked through-and-through with inaccuracy and misleading statement. Here, allow me to debunk them one-by-one:

“Tourette’s disorder is a condition that causes spasms (tics) of the small muscles in the face and head (such as blinking, frowning, and head-jerking) and uncontrollable movements of the arm and shoulder.”

Actually, Tourette Syndrome is a neuro-biological disorder that causes tics, which are involuntary movements of various parts of the body that are by no means centralized. Tics can affect any part of the body. TS also results in uncontrollable vocal sounds (they run the gamut…anything from an innocuous tongue-clicking to loud huffing noises and nearly anything you can imagine in between) that are, for the most part, referred to as tics by Touretters themselves as well as those around them.

“Symptoms of Tourette’s disorder first develop during childhood.”

Not in every instance, and I’ve met Touretters that can tell you this. It does quite commonly surface in childhood, however, so a simple ‘usually’ added to that sentence would be good.

“In the teen years, Tourette’s disorder often worsens, causing the person to grunt, snort, use obscene language, and shout without being able to control these behaviors.”

Oh. Fucking. REALLY? According to all the reading (texts written, of course, by informed sources) that I’ve done, the onset of puberty causes a pretty even three-way split: The young Touretter maintains tic levels consistent with pre-puberty patterns, tics are suspended completely (this is thought to be directly correlated to the changes in brain chemistry during this time) or there is a marked worsening in the level and frequency of tics (brain chemistry changes again, natch). VERY RARELY, and allow me to repeat this for emphasis, since so many people are media-misled with regard to TS, VERY RARELY is coprolalia involved. Shouting, involving vulgarities and/or obscenities, is only present in ten to fifteen percent of Touretters.

“Tourette’s disorder can be treated with medications.”

This should read, ‘Tourette Syndrome can be treated, with varying degrees of success, with medications.’

It greatly disturbs me that this site, supposedly a medical reference tool (albeit a ‘loose’ one) is so riddled with inaccuracy. Misinformation is one of the biggest challenges to Touretters and their loved ones. Education, to sound simplistic and trite, really is the key, and it’s not like there aren’t readily-available, fact-accurate resources around to help with the simple definitions and characterizations of this disorder. Not that it’s something that is easily pigeonholed, but still….

For those of you that haven’t been around for the long term, my eldest child has TS. So does his father, my ex-husband. It’s a frustrating thing, embarrassing and even, at times, heartbreaking for them, for various reasons which I won’t go into right here because it’s just too fucking complex for this one entry to cover. I’ve written about it before, sometimes in a very raw fashion, and once in a real knee-jerk sort of way. Quite frankly, I believe education is the key and I will patiently explain to people over and over without a hint of anger in order to sate their curiousity. The latter case was where someone posted something and, at the outset, said there was no way it would change, so I responded with anger and vitriol. I’m very good at ‘Fuck You’ mode. I have to work at patience, but like anything else that I put my heart into, I am good at it as well.

So, there’s that. Anyhoo, I’m participating in the Blogathon again this year, and since the project has grown exponentially since its inception, Cat (our fearless leader, someone who is now learning the fine art of delegation) has taken on more ’staff’ and I’ve volunteered to be a monitor. I was one of the original hundred-and-one bloggers that participated and I’m proud of that fact. We were scoffed at in some circles as time-wasters and vainglorious hit-seekers. We smiled and soldiered on in spite of. I, personally, had somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty readers at the time and blogged for Second Harvest, as hunger, especially where children are concerned, is a concern of mine (funny how having your own belly stick to your spine in the past will facilitate an awareness there). We had a very modest goal collectively, something like $10K, and surpassed that goal one-hundred per. Last year, the number of webloggers involved doubled, but the dollar amounts of pledges tripled.

Also last year, seeing that several people had chosen hunger, via one organization or the other, and in light of the sudden spate of difficulty my son was having, I changed my selected charity to the Tourette Syndrome Association. I’ve been in contact with Mark Levine, my point person over there, informing him that I intend to do so again this year, and he warmly encouraged me.

So about now you all know that this is a prelude to my hand being stuck out, awaiting your charity dollars, don’t you? The Blogathon sign-ups are a handful of days away, for both participants and sponsors. I ask that, if you’ve sponsored me in the past, you do so again. I also ask that, if you are new to these parts and like what it is I do (although not even *I* have pinpointed that yet…), feel free to ask me some questions about the ‘thon, then go scrabble around the laundry room for a spare sawbuck or two. Sure, it’s free to see the monkey (me) dance on that last weekend in July, but you’ll score big points with the monkey by shelling out some change. And you know, you never know what a happy monkey’s a-gonna do.


|| June 18, 2003 || 6:22 pm || Comments (4) ||

I was driving the eighty-millionth load of boxes to the new house yesterday (we got a big-ass truck on Sunday to move all the big-ass furniture and didn’t have quite enough time to get all the cartons moved, or even packed, to tell the bitter truth, before returning it….in short, I live with four packrats and they are making me fucking nanoo-nanoo with their hoarding of shit) when I was struck with the out-of-nowhere urge to listen to some Spin Doctors. More specifically, their most commercially successful album (and a damned fine one), “Pocket Full of Kryptonite“.

The out-of-nowhere thing happens quite often, as I have somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand ceedees. To some of you this may seem excessive and you may remark, “How in the holy HELL does she listen to all those? I bet she doesn’t,” but I’m here to tell you I do. Some with more frequency than others, sure, but let’s break this down here: There are twenty-four hours in a day. At a minimum, I most generally am awake approximately seventeen of those twenty-four hours. If one ceedee, on average, takes sixty minutes from opening hum to closing howl, there is opportunity for listening to twelve to fifteen ceedees per day. At this rate, it would take me approximately three months to give the entire collection a listen-through before having to start at ‘A’ again.

Yes, I am manic. I organize my ceedees alphabetically. I used to order them according to genre, then alphabetized them within their categories, but my spouse and children kept fucking that all up, and rather than have systematic apopleptic fits about the order in which my ceedees were to be kept, I just sorted them all into ay-bee-cee order and prayed for everything that everyone had been taught in kinnygarten to be put to use.

So anyway, I was surprised that so much time had passed since my last listen-through of that album, because I really do like it quite a bit. One explanation could be that every time I load it into the changer, Maxim feels overwhelmingly compelled to tell me that the PFoK tour was the one where he smoked a spliffer with Chris and Aaron gave him his sticks. I’m usually all forshitsakesMaximI’veheardthisonefortytimesalready. It’s strange, really, Maxim gushing all fanboy over those guys; we, as a rule, typically don’t gush over anyone. Admire them crazily as fellow toolers of sound, but gush? Blecccch.

So I put the disc in the tray, hitting play, and went on to start dinner and begin beating on my thumb pointy things into the wall with a hammer and cursing like a sailor with blue balls so that I could hang pretty things (no, smarty, not the Superior children) on them.

Things were going well until ‘Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong’ came on, then I was yanked back some seven or eight years to an afternoon that found me standing in the parking lot of my then-spouse’s place of employment. We were, of course, having our forty-eleventh argument of the week. There he stood in his greasemonkey get-up, gesticulating wildly (probably spitting…he was a spitter when angry), there I stood in my sundress and boots, arms crossed and defiant, ‘I-want’ line* furrowed deeply across the bridge of my nose.

“You know what you are?” he spluttered, “You’re the girl from that song. Yep, you’re Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.”

I swear to you, dear readers, he said it just like that…verbatim from the song. I couldn’t help but do the thing he hated the most, the thing that emasculated him the quickest: I laughed loud and long and hearty in that ‘fuck-you-you’re-so-fucking-laaaame‘ kinda way. Then I got into my car and drove away.

It might surprise you to hear that Biff helped us take immensely heavy things out of a box with windows and place them onto a box with wheels before putting them into yet another box with windows for about nine hours on Sunday. He volunteered, and since I had to work, my current husband and my ex-husband spent long hours together grunting and sweating and even shared a couple of meals. Despite the fact that he and I couldn’t stay married (no matter how purty the man is, and no matter how phenomenal the sex was, he was a real headfuck to deal with when off his meds), ole Biff’s a stand-up guy, or at least tries to be, which is more than I can say for the bulk of the populace. He does right by his kids and part of doing right by his kids, to his way of thinking, is to make sure that any transitions or changes in their lives go as smoothly as possible. Suffice it to say, this was not always the case, but it is here and now and the here and now is all I’ve got to go on, you know? The man tries, period.

Plus, I think it was like a karmic thing, but I don’t want to go into all that, as all three of you are prolly throwing things at your screens and hollering, “For the love of FUCK, you certainly are a WORDY BITCH today!!”

I walked into the old house Sunday evening to find the two of them fiddling with the refrigerator, looks of perplexity on both their faces. The doors to the frig were off, and they both looked to me expectantly.

“Baby,” Maxim said, “how did you and Kandy get this thing into the kitchen when we moved in? We’re having trouble getting it out.” When we moved in, he and Mike (Kandy’s husband) had trouble also, so when they left to get another load, Kandy and I took the situation in hand and got that fucker settled and humming in the kitchen before they got back.

I looked at him levelly and said, “We just said, ‘Fucking men‘ and got to shovin’.” I shrugged. Apparently Maxim did not revel in this answer, because he muttered something under his breath and looked at Biff, saying, “See?”

Biff replied, “Hey, you don’t have to tell me, man, I was married to her,” and eyed me with appreciation.

My ex-husband eyed me with appreciation. It weirded me out, and not just because my current spouse was in the room.

*I-want line: a furrow across the bridge of my nose that is horizontal and almost exactly between my eyes; the base of the I-want triangle that appears between my brows when I am particularly vexed. Term coined by my father when I was in the neighborhood of three years old: “Ohhhh, there she goes with the I-want triangle!”

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

Been a whole lot easier since the bitch left town / Been a whole lot happier without her face around / Nobody upstairs gonna stomp and shout / Nobody at the back door gonna throw my laundry out / She hold the shotgun while you do-si-do / She want one man made of Hercules and Cyrano / Been a whole lot easier since the bitch is gone / Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong

Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Ain’t no body gonna bow no more when you sound your gong / Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Whatcha gonna do to get into another one of these here / Rock ‘n’ roll songs

Other people’s thoughts they ain’t your hand-me-downs / Would it be so bad to simply turn around / You cook so well, all nice and French / You do your brain surgery too, Mama, with a monkey wrench

Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Ain’t nobody gonna bow no more when you sound your gong / Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Whatcha gonna do to get into another one of these here / Rock ‘n’ roll songs

I hope them cigarettes are gonna make you cough / Hope you hear this song and it pisses you off / I take that back: I hope you’re doing fine / And if I had a dollar, I might give you ninety-nine

Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Ain’t nobody gonna bow no more when you sound your gong / Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Whatcha gonna do to get into another one of these here / Rock ‘n’ roll song

Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong…

// Spin Doctors, “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong”

|| June 17, 2003 || 1:23 pm || Comments (6) ||

Dave appears to be feeling a wee bit better. I just received an e-mail from him saying fuck off and die, wench, to which I responded NEVAH! I would not give you the sassifraction!

Further evidence as to why I have a straightgirl crush on Lauroid, the affectionate nod to pink notwithstanding:

I’ve always said, that if I had stupid money, rather than a Hummer or a Rolls Royce I’d get a dump truck. You know, the kind with the chrome sides. Then I’d paint the non-chrome parts pink. And drive around ramming other people who did stupid things.

How could you NOT love a person that says things like that?

Wendy now has comments. I, for one, am gladder’n hell. So many times I have read her site and just yelled at my monitor, “Wendy, you outrageously lovable bitch, getchoo some comments, for I have witty things to say in rejoinder!” It’s all about the false sense of community, man.

Apparently waistdog has been having many fine adventures while sporting the red Piggly Wiggly shirt I sent him. See? If you were one of my beloved Muffinasses I could bring joy to your lifeless existence, too. I require nothing but blind loyalty in times of crisis and a mighty sense of glee. I’m all about shining my light, people.

And oh yeah, if you ‘blog’, or if you are a regular reader of ‘blogs’ read this. It should be our manifesto.

|| June 17, 2003 || 10:54 am || Comments (1) ||

“Mama be riiiight back,” the nurse kept cooing at him, and I wanted to tell her to stop lying: Stop lying to that child!

The only people I’d seen accompanying him in the four hours at the emergency room were a lanky, dirty father and a filthy, pot-bellied brother of three. The baby kept calling to his mama and the nurse kept lying and I wanted to burst through the accordion partition in the emergency bay to scoop the infant up, to hug him close to my breast and murmur, lips on salty, feverish skin, that I was here to care for him now and not even the whole world in all its weighted misery could wedge its way between us.

I ached to hold that baby as he bobcat-wailed in terror, to place my palm protectively across the back of his head, fingers splayed, his white curls escaping between them. How many times had I held my own towheads in such a fashion, singing Irish rounds or sweet Italian love songs to them?–dispelling, if not the pain, then the fear, because what fear can stand against a mother’s embrace? What fever or infection dare creep forward?

Over and over he cried out, over and over there were periods of silent respite, over and over there was the prelude of gentle cooing and promising a mama who wasn’t showing and would they –oh, would they?– think me so very crazy if I just appeared in the doorway, silent and with arms out? Each time a sorrowed hiccuping rose into that fevered bobcat-cry I ached, wanting to abate that baby’s misery.

Even, wantonly and foolishly, wanting to take him home with me to nightly baths and a symphony of child-laughs and all the hugs he could stomach and a seemingly infinite supply of popsicles….

To a place where he could holler mama and one would always be there to look in his eyes so as to divine the trouble, who would fold him in her arms and shoo it away.

|| June 16, 2003 || 9:17 pm || Comments (1) ||

I’ve been feeling like I’m on the urge of being profound lately, but then I end up playing GTA: Vice City until all hours of the night, leaving darn little time to sleep and forcing me to consume toxic amounts of coffee to stay awake enough at my daily toils to prevent the management from noticing I’m being particularly extra-useless that day.

I’ve been thinking about “Kissing Friends” lately and have decided upon another character – a 42-year-old woman who looks 30, has a 23-year-old son, works as a translator by day and a dominatrix at night, but persists in dating nothing but abusive losers and low-lifes; seemingly helpless to exhibit any backbone in her personal life.

Yeah, she’s someone I know and she’s pissed me off and this is what happens to people who cross me: They become unwitting characters in songs and screenplays. One day, she’ll be sitting in a theatre and slowly sinking into her seat as realization comes over her like a bukakke session.

I’m sleepy and thus quite hostile. Be warned…

|| June 15, 2003 || 5:35 pm || Comments (4) ||

“I might even be put in prison! And have water DRIPPED on my head!”

~Rick, ‘The Young Ones’

Yeah. woooooo. yeah.

Fuck moving. It makes me even more homicidal than I already am.