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Archive for July, 2003

|| July 21, 2003 || 1:03 am || Comments (8) ||

Fuuuuuck I’m tired. I feel like my face is going to fall off. I’ve been going around telling people that all day, because it’s true.

You know that Pringles-as-duckbill thing? I’m doing that, right now, as I type. Yeah, I’ve fallen off the wagon: I’ve been hitting the Pringles and (loverly, glawwwrious) Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCo) pretty hard and pretty regularly as of recent. Conventionally, we can blame this. I never realized a project, even one this relatively small, entailed so much work! And bless me, I had help here and there and a couple more places in-between.

JettSuperior: cal, my fucking face is going to fall off

writtenonthesky: aww

JettSuperior: how do you people do this for a living?

JettSuperior: or, for shitsakes, FUN?

writtenonthesky: rofl

writtenonthesky: yeah lol

JettSuperior: what genetic anomaly exists within you
to make you want to have a thick face and burning
eyeballs and crunkled neck?

writtenonthesky: lmao

writtenonthesky: don’t know

writtenonthesky: sometimes i wonder

Writers hate coding, and developers hate writing.‘ Booyyyyy, ain’t that the truth.

So anyway, I present thee with ‘Parts of the Whole’, and I invite you to play along on the day of the ‘thon. My prizes are notoriously good. Just ask anyone who’s ever been gifted with a TackyPacktm.

You can still sponsor me, too. Wouldn’t hurt my feelings one bit.

Won’t you sponsor me?

|| July 19, 2003 || 8:00 pm || Comments (4) ||

I laughed like a crazy woman when reading the results (originally typed as ‘resluts’, natch) of this quiz (found over at gnome-girl’s):


Your Hottest Body Part is Your Hair!

A beauty salon is your mothership, and it’s always calling you home.

Your hairstylist is your best friend.

You don’t know how people lived with moose and no mousse.

You make men growl with that fabulous mane.

You can work it by swinging it on the dance floor or mussing it in bed during hot sex.

If they’re looking for the next Jennifer Aniston hair craze, they need look no further than you.

Celebs who work their hair as hard as you do include: Anna Kournikova, Nicole Kidman, Beyoncé Knowles, and of course, Jennifer Aniston.

Want to play up your hair even more?

Wear simple makeup and tops, so that your flowing hair is the main attraction.

Spruce your hair up even more with a little shine, glitter, or highlights.

What’s Your Hottest Body Part??

More Great Quizzes from Quiz Diva

Or maybe it’s just all the wiiiine and the (face-in-the-)computer time I’ve put in on my Blogathon project (soon to be officially unveiled). The project has really been more work than I’d previously imagined, but now that the pictures are rolling in and the temporary ‘thon page is nearly tweaked as much as it’s gonna be twuk and the prizes I’m giving away are assembled, I’m getting a tad giddy and gleeful. This year’s Blogathon promises to be lots of fun.

Still, were Miss April Love here, she’d tell me I have ‘computer face’, I’m sure of it.

You know, there really should be a function that allows you to highlight text by clicking the start point and end point and a button withafucking ‘h’ or sommat on it. Is there something like that, and I, in my doddering technotarditudityation, am unaware of it? Or did I just have a really great idea for functionality that some wayward, codes-like-a-fucking-ninja,-maaaan poothead will totally run off and make a million dollars with?

In short, I cain’t highlight text for shit when I’ve got some Merlot sittin’ on my belly and having a hey-day on the other side of the blood-brain barrier. Dropkick Me, Jesus, Through the Goalposts of Life.

|| July 19, 2003 || 1:17 am || Comments (1) ||

“Bachelor party: When you hear those two words doesn’t it conjure up a thousand wild images, a cornucopia of ribaldry and misplaced genitalia?”

Joe got screwed, but Joe didn’t get screwed. Read all about the bachelor-party-turned-tent-revival here (oops, archive link broken, scroll to the 16 July entry).

“Where is Adrian Zmed when you need him? Where was the wild titties and ass shaking? Why do I feel like I’ve been let down?”

This guy makes me laugh every time I read him, I swear. What did they do, just decide to corral all the cool kids out in Arizona? Lots of my favorite Cyberians are there. Is it some strange work-release thing? WHAT?

I want to have beers with Joe and the lovely Josie someday; there’s NO TELLING what would happen.

|| July 18, 2003 || 11:50 pm || Comments (4) ||

Hey, remember these little cats?



::click images to enlarge::

The dashing young lad is Jake, and his charming companion is his little sister, Gianna. They were the youngest sponsors in the history of the Blogathon (ages eight and two, respectively) last year, and the same will probably ring true this year. I noticed this week that they’re back on board again, which means that Jakers is probably watching the buildup to the ‘thon. From what I understand, he had a pretty fine time surfing the ring until he absolutely passed out last year. We even spoke via AIM for a short bit. He is a very engaging little fellow, and quite the Romeo, according to his mother. Apparently there was some mention of me taking him on as my boyfriend one day.

I was pushing pretty hard last year for at least five-hundred dollars in sponsorships for my charity, The Tourette Syndrome Association, Inc. When Jake’s mom e-mailed me with his contribution and the backstory, all I could do was take a deep breath and let the tears roll. An excerpt from last year’s ‘thon post about it:

I just got a messaged on AIM by the mother of an 8-year-old little boy named Jake. It seems that she and Jake are following the ‘thon, and she explained to him that there are some kids will illnesses that just can’t be fixed with antibiotics or a band-aid. She told him that things like the Blogathon are necessary, because money must be raised to combat illnesses and disorders, to find cures for them, to enlighten the public.

I am still crying as I write this, because Jake went into his room, hauled his piggy bank out, counted his money, and then insisted that a pledge be made in his and his 2-year-old sister’s (Gianna….lovely) names. When his mother told him that she would add two dollars to his twenty-eight to make it an even thirty, Jake said “No way”, intent on doing it himself.

He also added that his mom should send word to me: “Tell her son that we have a cool river behind our house…he can come fishing with me sometime.”

Sounds like there may be hope for the future running around out there.

My own son, now eleven, has Tourette Syndrome. We have a whole lotta good days in comparison to many, but the bad days are really bad, like being underwater and not knowing when you’ll be allowed to come up for breath. You just hold on, lungs burning, and hold on some more. The TSA does some really great work in the fields of neurological research and in educating the masses about this shifting, perplexing disorder.

It was a difficult thing for me to write about my son’s experiences for the first time in May of 2002: How much is too much? How little is not enough? How do I frame up our experiences –his experiences– in a way that won’t evoke pity, or horror (the wrong kind of horror, anyway…), or disgust? How do I tell this great big thing in an honest but ungrody way? Well, I started with permission from my kid. Then I just scribbled, hesitant and furiously in turns, until it felt finished. The remarkable thing to me about that piece was that it was the first time in ages that I’d picked up a pencil instead of a pen to write with. That’s how unsure of my subject matter that I was, but it was symbolic of something else, as well: When I was just learning, just coming to grips with the idea of communicating via written word, when I was learning the shapes and forms and sounds of the letters and how to seat them together comfortably alongside one another in order to convey meaning and ideas, it was with a pencil.

So, in a larger sense, the fact that I not-too-consciously grabbed up the lead again when writing about this thing with my beloved firstborn, the boy I read to every night while he was in utero, the boy who held his head up on his own, wide-blinking and blind-watching, within the first few minutes after he made it here into The Real, the boy whose spark still causes people to stop us in public so that they can comment to me on how he seems somehow magic, well….it doesn’t seem so odd. I was, once again, just coming to grips, learning shapes and forms and sounds, learning to comfortably seat things together alongside one another in my brain so as to ascertain meaning (in?) and ideas.

My goal this year is one-thousand dollars for the TSA coffers. I’m about halfway there as I type this. I’d really be obliged if you could (and would) help that along.


Won’t you sponsor me?

|| July 18, 2003 || 2:23 am || Comments (3) ||

Sometimes I catch myself remembering the time that we took the leap past ‘One Night Stand’, fingering it absently and in a quietly agitated way with my mind; it’s fucking
amazing, the way that it all comes right back if give myself over to the
moment even a little. The room was pitch black as we came together, and at
first I wished madly that there were some little bit of light that would
allow me to drink you in as you moved inside of me, that would allow me to
see the expression on your face, the way you looked at me; some tiny bit of starshine or streetlamp glow finding a sliver of opening in the drapes that would
telegraph your movements, your hands sliding across my bare flesh.

out that light was not necessary; everything was communicated fully there
in the dark…. it was an exquisite dance, really, the way we navigated
only by touch, a light ether soft and electric between us. You were
soundless; I know this because I listened with every sinew in my body for
anything you might give me as acknowledgement that you were occupying the
same moment and frame of being that I was. I think that night is when I grew
to love you, when you put in me a burning I’d not known before and haven’t
quite laid hands on since.

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

I hear the drizzle of the rain / Like a memory it falls / Soft and warm continuing / Tapping on my roof and walls.

And from the shelter of my mind / Through the window of my eyes / I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets / To England where my heart lies.

My mind’s distracted and diffused / My thoughts are many miles away / They lie with you when you’re asleep / And kiss you when you start your day.

And as a song I was writing is left undone / I don’t know why I spend my time / Writing songs I can’t believe / With words that tear and strain to rhyme.

And so you see I have come to doubt / All that I once held as true / I stand alone without beliefs / The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain / Weave their weary paths and die / I know that I am like the rain / There but for the grace of you go I.

// Simon and Garfunkel, ‘Kathy’s Song’

Won’t you sponsor me?

|| July 16, 2003 || 8:55 pm || Comments (8) ||

(I scribbled this out some time ago and just keep forgetting to post it. Here you are.)

one-hundred things:

1. if you buy me pretty candles, I will burn them; that’s what they’re for.

2. green vegetables, mmmm.

3. red sauce. spicy, not sweet.

4. rabidly loyal to those to whom I take a shine.

5. terrible liar.

6. therefore, don’t waste my time trying.

7. I have a thing for sevens.

8. it’s not sexual.

9. it’s just a number that has reverberated strongly in my life the last few years.

10. it’s commonly accepted that going on a first impression is bad, but I can usually draw a pretty accurate bead on newcomers.

11. I do it disconcertingly fast. Again, accurate.

12. I dislike people.

13. …but am very social.

14. I will size up a room before being drawn into it.

15. Will be drawn into it, no problem.

16. do not will not sit with my back to a crowd.

17. ….or a door.

18. prefer booths to tables, round/square tables to oblong/rectangle.

19. I like to see the people I’m talking to.

20. therefore, don’t yell to me from another room.

21. …or lean back at a crowded table.

22. protein bars: necessity.

23. I prefer ‘cool’ to ‘hottie’.

24. my chiropractor: YAY!

25. I am the only chick I know who doesn’t want to fuck him.

26. I don’t ’see him that way’.

27. I only run when chased.

28. and then it depends on who’s doing the chasing.

29. ivory, then orange, then a deep bluegreen gray.

30. I am an appreciator of the unique.

31. I have nice feet.

32. boy, am I glad, because I like the hell outta some shoes, let me tell you.

33. I have an entire repertoire of faces that I don’t even realize I’m making.

34. I need to work on being more conscious of that.

35. maybe even controlling it more.

36. all my poker skills are just fancy luck with a flourish (see thirty-three).

37. I give all my friends (and most acquaintances) their own nickname.

38. I will only share it with them, though, if I feel a particular kinship there.

39. I once had sex with a man named ‘Cody’.

40. I found it ludicrous, having sex with someone having that name.

41. I called him ‘Larry’, which he responded well to.

42. when I was in first grade there was a bus shed with live gas pump next to it beside the school building.

43. I used to take deep, gulping breaths when I got within five feet of it.

44. my future as a substance abuser was written (or at least, sketched out) in those days, I’m sure of it.

45. I was a music major.

46. I would take a tape recorder into the soundproof practice rooms at school and make all sorts of odd noises to play back and examine later.

47. I would still do that if I had ample access to that space.

48. I was going to buy a motorcycle when I was nineteen.

49. I didn’t because my mother begged me not to.

50. she cited me as ‘reckless’ and professed her fear of me laying it down.

51. while driving it too fast.

52. speed thrills.

53. I’m not even half as smart as I’d like to be.

54. but I’m surrounding myself with intelligent folk so as to stretch.

55. I fear aging growing old.

56. …but not death.

57. I always sleep with some sort of blanket.

58. talk in my sleep.

59. sometimes wish I equipped people with pee emm tape recorders.

60. then I could check out the unconscious ramblings.

61. maybe there’s poetry there.

62. maybe there’s a few laughs.

63. I like to think I’m a giver.

64. but I can’t help but feel selfish.

65. what do I do with praise?

66. actions first and foremost.

67. ….but the words are very, very important, too.

68. do not brush your teeth while I’m in the bathroom.

69. that will make me retch just about as quick as a body can.

70. happy drunk. Happy, happy!

71. don’t understand mean, aggressive, vexing drunks. Why drink then?

72. I like your smile.

73. use it in an un-cocky manner.

74. yes, genuine. Genuine thrills. Genuine draws me in.

75. let me see the you that you withdraw/withhold from the world.

76. I will ask your name a minimum of three times.

77. this has something to do with the stroke I had when I was twenty.

78. once I get something, though, it sticks.

79. I ask questions.

80. they often don’t feel like questions.

81. allergic to most alcohol.

82. two glasses of wine leave me all blotchy and biting my lip.

83. I can drink tequila with the best of ‘em and nevah suffah.

84. matter of fact, I once drank it heavily for about sixteen hours.

85. I peed brown (not dark yellow, brown) for about four days afterward.

86. you need to know your limits.

87. whether or not you intend to respect them, you need to know them.

88. I laugh loud and long and unencumbered.

89. I want you to, as well.

90. Doc Martens, I love thee.

91. all manner of acoustic guitar, you too. Poetry on strings.

92. fine china and bare feet and Nina Simone at the dinner table.

93. grainy black-and-white photos of ancestors, livin’ and pushin’ daisies, scattered liberally about my space.

94. the infinite is scary and exciting, like a roller coaster.

95. I remember looking out of the nursery window at my father and grandfather. Really.

96. to this day I can tell you details like where they were standing and what they wore.

97. I am Southern and proud of it.

98. if you respond to that last one in knee-jerk fashion, you’re not worthy of wasting breath on.

99. I have known much love in my lifetime.

100. I can’t help but feel blessed because of it.

|| July 15, 2003 || 10:14 pm || Comments (5) ||

I really wanted to do something else with this space tonight, but c’est la vie, c’est la guerre…say, let’s have another beer!

Since he posted our first couple e-mails as weblog fodder over four days ago, and since he neglected to include the (what I assume to be) final correspondence (wonder why, hmmm?), penned by me, I’ll go to it.

You know, in the interest of fairness and all.

Sent by eedle ole me on 11 July:

Line-by-line, as I am The Great Princess Strokebrain and would lose my tenuously-held train of thought were I to scroll back and forth trying to make a cohesive reply….

You seem like a great lady and I am certain that you and I would be wonderful friends over a pot of coffee.

Actually, a jigger of tequila, but I see that will not work for you. Mountain Dew is an adequate substitute.

I am no ogre,

Of course you’re not….that was not my implication nor my statement.

“… but I do stand beside my right to find humor in the name ‘Tourette’s’ and in the condition itself.”

Really, it’s one of the least humorous disorders I’ve ever seen. What’s funny about fucked-up brain chemistry that makes your body betray you in such a way, that makes it difficult to function at times, that is largely uncontrollable and unpredictable? What’s funny about clacking your jaw shut over and over and over for three days straight so that your head hurts and you don’t even want to eat because your teeth and face ache so badly? What is funny about having your speech blocked for hours or days at a time, inexplicably? What’s humorous in arm tics that make your arms jerk uncontrollably so that someone has to feed you even though you are neither mentally nor *truly* physically incapacitated? Where is the humor in feeling that everywhere you turn –when you are experiencing behaviors beyond your control that others don’t understand– people are mocking and staring and laughing at you? Really, I see no humor from your standpoint. You’ve not lived this disorder, Chris. You haven’t earned the right to poke fun.

There was a (wonderful) short article in Esquire a year or so ago by a guy with Tourette’s who recounted some of his experiences with shouting vegetable names (‘potato’, etc) in public that
was hysterical.

Yeah, some tics are funnier than others. Most aren’t any fun, however.

Tourette’s is a funny thing, Elizabeth, and so are midgets, effeminate homosexuals, people who stutter (you didn’t laugh during A Fish Called Wanda, not even once?), fat people (I am one – and, yes, I think Mike Myers movies are funny), people with ‘lazy’ eyes (are you looking at me?), Indians (I never tire of asking my friend Anoop What Would Ganesh Do?), Jewish women who really are shrill and hysterical, butch lesbians (Hey! The Indigo Girls are on Letterman!), rednecks (inbred or non), drunks (I am one of those, too, and there is no shortage of AA jokes), guilt-ridden Catholics, slutty stewardesses (God bless ‘em one and all), young anorexic girls, the list just goes on and on...”

God bless America, and God bless our right to disagree. And boy howdy do I disagree. Please don’t mistake me for some humorless, tight-assed bitch. I have a riotous sense of humor. Ask any of my regular readers; they’ll tell you that they keep coming back and back again because I make them laugh like hell all the time. I find this sort of humor –the sort bred of ignorance– somewhat….distasteful. Rednecks ARE funny, as are guilt-ridden Catholics and slutty stewardesses. ANY woman who is shrill and hysterical, heritage/faith notwithstanding, is not funny; they are annoying as all-fuck and should be bound and gagged.

I am not your child’s parent

I’ll have to agree. There were only two of us there when he was conceived. I’m pretty sure of that because I just so happened to have been sober that night! WOO!

“… but here’s what I’d tell any kid about growing up ‘different’ (I weighed almost 200 pounds by 5th grade): Learn to laugh at it or you will get eaten alive.

Funny how people ALWAYS tend to skip over that part where I discuss how we feel that humor is a necessity. Why IS that? This entry here (yes, that one there) is mostly serious, but there are a couple flashes of our goofiness in it. My weblog is for discussing the adult side of the house about this thing, about *not* having to put on the brave and humorous face for my kid. Maybe it doesn’t ring heavy on the giddy irreverence side of the house when I’m writing about the TS very often, but we have lots of those moments, I assure you. We Superiors are two notches shy of gibbering and insane. It makes for great family portraits and much gleeful abandon, even in times of distress.

That whole ‘educate for tolerance’ shtick goes over like a lead balloon with kids and if they ever smell weakness on another child or a ‘yearning for acceptance’ it will be like blood to sharks.

In our case, and in the cases of many others, I’ve found this not to be so. Kids oftentimes ridicule and scapegoat other kids out of fear. Hell, lots of adults do it, too. The kids at my son’s school have been GREAT, even locked in a room with my son rat-tat-tatting for hours on end, for the most part. The rest, well, that’s just hard knocks and we all get them. We learn to deal, or we sink. I do not coddle my boy. I’m pragmatic, I’m a realist, and I want my children (all of ‘em, not just the eldest) to be hardy and well-adjusted. Following behind them, cooing and wiping their noses, will not accomplish this.

The boy is really centered. He doesn’t do whiny, ‘yearning for acceptance’ –not beyond your average pre-teen angst– hooha because I will not tolerate it. The other kids like him. He’s got tons of pals. He’s funny and creative and smart as all hell. Girls chase after him, despite the fact that he reminds them they still have cooties.

What ‘growing up different’ makes you is tough, compassionate, quick witted, sharp tongued, and a little mean.

Hell, honey, he comes by that naturally. I am, after all, his mother.

And if I had my life to live over again I’d choose to be the fat kid again and I’d choose tough, compassionate, quick witted, sharp tongued, and mean.

Believe it or don’t, I’ve never wished this away. *shrug* We all have our ‘things’. This thing is his. I am teaching him to own it and go from there.

I do – sincerely – understand your pain and your anger and your rage over how the world is treating your son and his condition.

It’s not the world. We’re not martyrs like that. I will say, though, that most of people’s behavior (in a negative sense, and that includes the pity bullshit) is based on lack of knowledge. An EXTREME lack of knowledge and BOATLOADS of misinformation. I’m here to enlighten. Yep, me an’ Jesus. Hold on, I have to go plug in my halo…it needs a recharge.

That makes you a good mother.”

Well, you do what you can with what ya got.

I’d be willing to wager that in a few years you will be much more sensitive to this subject than your son ever thought about being.”

You may be right, but I hope not. I’m striving to raise compassionate individuals. And you know what? He’ll NEVER get wind of my sensitivity. Number one, that’s not my way, and number two (haaaaaahahaha, number two), the LAST thing the world needs is another emotionally crippled over-protected adult.

Ps – I love your blog and plan to add it to my blogroll if that doesn’t bother you too much.”

Thanks…it’s public domain, you link away if you so desire. Feel free to take part in the discussions and the raucous one-upsmanship that goes on in the comments.

I like your blog, too. I peeked around yesterday, and you’ve got some good stuff there. If you ever decide to re-title it, let me know. I’d like to return the link. I hope that you understand why I just can’t bring myself to do so in the interim.

All the best,


So much for taking the ‘diplomatic’ tack. And you people wonder why I prefer a sledgehammer delivery??

Won’t you sponsor me?