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Archive for June, 2004

|| June 30, 2004 || 6:10 pm || Comments (0) ||

Vacation Journals, part two

Friday, five twenty-five pee emm

There is a khaki-and-white clad family a dozen members deep that are here to capture photographic, beachy memories.

I am quite drunk and want to holler vile things at them.

Thus far, I’ve been a model of restraint and have not done so. I’ll watch them with a creepy look on my face instead.

pee ess…I really-really-really want to hop into frame at the last second and make rude gestures or bunny ears over the grandpa or something. I even offered my mom-in-law ten bucks to do so, and she threatened me: If I give in to my baser nature I’ll be banished to the condo for the next four days. Any takers? Ten bucks! Ten bu-uhhhcks!

pee pee ess…one of the girls stares at me. She seems, for all intents and purposes, to be Damien’s twin. She is far creepier than any eight-year-old has a right to be.

pee pee pee ess…DevilGirl en familia are headed to frolic cutely in the surf for a Spontaneous Kodak Momenttm. I think, as a show of my Evil Supremacytm over them, that I will not warn them of today’s frequent jellyfish attacks/stingings on this region o’ the beach. It is supposed to be a private beach, after all. The memory-hoarding fucks.

peepeepeepee ess…the seagulls are a nice touch. Maybe they will read my thought impressions (oh, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, where art thou whenst neededeth?) and poop on the family.

Friday, five forty-three pee emm

I just remembered!…arcade night at Orange Beach! I will fully kick Samuel’s arse at most any game(s) of his choosing! Also, Scout and I will play at Mini Go-Kart Race of Death!

(Mathias is fun with his spirited approach to Whack-A-Mole, as well)

(Maxim and I will play at whacking other things later)

Friday, ten-twenty pee emm

The kids view souvenir shopping as mandatory on these yearly beach excursions. I’ve not told them that everything stamped or embroidered with ‘Gulf Shores’ is made in China; they’ll find out on their own soon enough. They are old enough to this year, so they immediately scatter from all parental-type relations when we hit the doors to the place. I find myself separated from Maxim, lost in a sea of tee-shirts and puka shell jewelry.

It is at the very back of the store where he finds me. He is five (for some reason the fives are always drawn to me…I reckon they sense a similar mentality to theirs housed in this five-ten frame), thick as a tree trunk, sporting mussed hair.

He’s holding a foam sun visor with the front end of a turtle hanging off its brim. We are –remarkably– the only patrons for thirty square feet. He locks onto me visually and exclaims, “Hey! Whyn’tcha see how this snappin’ turtle feels on yore fanger?” He is squeezing the mouth into a wide-open yaw and closing the eight feet between us rapidly.

“No, no, little guy…I think I’ll take a pass.” He pulls up short some four feet away.

“Okay then, but c’mere.”

“What for?” I am the slightest bit cynical, five or no.

“I need to tell you something.” His voice has a dusky quality to it for him to be so young. I step within a foot of him.

He flaps his hand toward himself, “Closer.”

I bend slightly. He is starting to lose patience.

“Clohhhh-sser.” I’m gonna get the turtle, I just know it, but I bend further near him anyway. Fast as a shot, his hand darts out, finds flat purchase at the nape of my neck, yanks me further downward. He is surprisingly strong (“Help! HELLLLP! I’m being accosted by a wee one!”); I suppose most tree trunks are.

“Listen,” he begins, lips near-touching my ear, “if you go out that door there, turn, then pass the ice cream parlor, they have crabs.” I think he means sell crabs –yes, most probably he means they sell crabs– but I don’t hazard a correction.

“You should go get me one n’brang it back here.” He says hee-yur. I am in love with this bold little turd.

“Ahhhhh…I don’t think I can do that.”

His hand is still corralling me up by his face. “No really, it’s easy. I can walk you to the door and point to where.” Way-ur.

“No, I mean I can’t just up and leave. My people will lose track of me and be upset.”

“Oh yeah, I get you.” I get you! Street-savvy, ‘I get you’! I want to collapse into a heap of amused tourist.

“Hey, where’s your momma and daddy?” Why aren’t they keeping a closer eye? I’m annoyed with them, these slipshod parents; I am mildly indignant on Treetrunk’s behalf. My job has ruined me completely, made me the worst kind of suspicious and distrustful.

He thumbs toward one of the indoor kiosks. Mom is apparently in charge of ‘old-timey photos’ and is hip-deep in about thirty loudly cawing people. Oh, the humanity.

“Look, you need to be careful of who you talk to, okay?”

“Yeah, my dad tells me about them stranger-people. I think if a stranger is mean, though, they won’t like me very much and they’ll leave me alone.”

to be continued

|| June 29, 2004 || 11:12 pm || Comments (6) ||

Oh, silly me…

So yeah, I don’t know why in Pittsburgh and Purgatory that I would have expected my first husband to have suddenly done something so amazing as –oh, I dunno– become a human being in the last handful of years, but I’m nothing if not an optimist.

I dreaded the call. The very thought of it made me want to hurl all over my nicely-kept toenails. Oh, hell, let’s be honest…it made me want to gnaw my nicely-kept toenails. You ever know somebody like that, huh? Someone who drove you (zzzzip!) right on past the fingernail-chewer that you normally are and straight to razoring around on the toes with yer teefs for quite a damn while?

I just felt like it was cosmically right, however, to call him and inform him that my verybestgirlfriendEVer had died. The last thing I wanted to do was deliver this news to him, as somehow it made me vulnerable to him, but she spent so much time with us, she was the maid of honor in our wedding party, she –in supreme acts of conspiracy with him—arranged secret and wonderful surprises for me while he was devildogging it half way around the planet and ohgodOhGodOHGAAAAHD, if-I-don’t-call-then-I-will-somehow-be-remiss-and-we-can’t-have-that-now-can-weee? See, this is the way my innards work. Pretty fucking rad to be me, right?

So I pull into Subway’s parking lot, I dial information for the number, I call and a boy of fifteen or so picks up the phone. I ask for The (formerly) Young Marine and the kid hollers, “Daaaad, for youuuu….” Dad. Holy Himeny, my baby-faced first husband is helping to populate the planet. I mean, I knew this in theory, sure, but in practice it knocked me out of the ballpark for a minute (and a half). Mike picked up the phone, I said, “Hi, it’s me,” and he proceeded to have a heart attack which he described as “Man, I think I just dropped a load in m’drawers.”

He took the call in another room after asking me to hang on.

I told him that she’d died, that it was not a pretty or romantic or aesthetically wonderful passing-on, and he asked a couple of questions as to circumstances and services, gave me his I’m-so-sorry-geez-Louise spiel and then we were off and running. He peppered me with questions, most of which I answered somewhat tersely; by his own admission I had not left him with a whole lot of closure. Well duh, stupid, I believe in burning the bridge and even the whole fucking town if it sits too close to the bridge’s other side. He then spent a whole heap of my mobile minutes expounding on how pretty dang wonderful he was. He was also very forthright about how “Yep, I fucked it all up, I’ll take full credit for that one, sweetie, “ without one mention of it from me, so I began to think that he’d grown maybe just a smidge. Growth comes in small increments and is very time-consuming for some, after all.

“SO, you still love me?” he asked at one point, and there was no hesitation, no untruth in the firm ‘no’ that I offered back.

“Awww, come on…you still love me!”

“No, honestly, Mike….I really, really don’t.

“I mean, I did at one time, then there was pity, then there was this marked lack of feeling. I could give a damn, Michael.” My insides beamed heavenly as I said it.

It was shortly thereafter –after I’d inquired about the welfare of his brother, whom I truly, truly had always adored—that he began to tick off our sexual exploits in a random fashion and with a great deal of glee he told me that he was proud of those moments with me (proud, I tells ye!)…so proud, in fact, that every single driver he’d hired to date (he now owns a trucking company in Florida) had heard of at least one of our dalliances, if not many.

So the next several sentences were framed up thusly:

“Hey, you remember the time in the stairwell?” Yes, that would be Stairwell Seventeen, Tower A of the Twin Towers, Pearl City, Hawaii, United States, Planet Earth.

“Oh maaaaan, the glass elevator in Memphis, that one still gets me hot.” Apparently we had a thing for upward conveyances, I dunno.

And the barbeque pit and the Millington softball park and my Camaro (yeah, I fucking owned a Camaro in high school, shutthefuck UP, because I did not have those goofy-assed, sprayed-beyond-all-comprehension wings on the side of my HEAD) and interstate whateveritwas in south Florida and leaning up against his parents’ patio door and on and on and on before he finally paused in the midst of his gleeful little hump down memory lane to ask, yet again, “Surely you still love me?”

By then I was so put off that I did what I’d said I wouldn’t do and that was to lessen myself by winding up solid, letting fly the words, and punching him square in the emotional guts.

“No Michael, I surely don’t, but I’ma tell you something….the only time I’ve felt any sort of pang whatsoever was when you found me again and e-mailed me outta the blue a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, “the only reason I joined Classmates at all was so I could e-mail you.”

“And, I’m gonna be honest here, that pang was for all intents and purposes blood-red anger, because you went out of your way to tell me how well you were doing for yourself and all I could think was, ‘Whatthefuck? So?’ until I reached the part about your boys. When I read about those three sons of yours it made me sick and it made me furious, because all I could think was, ‘Those boys shoulda been mine. All I ever wanted to do was be a good wife to that man, to love him for always, and for us to fill the rest of that always with a whole blessed ballteam’s-worth of boys and the raising of ‘em.’”

Fuuuuck, girl, that just made my stomach go all funny.”

“Well, I’m about to hang up now, so that’ll give you plenty of time to get that shit all sorted out before your wife gets home.”

He lies awake nights thinking of me. I knew it, damnit, and the thought of it does not bring me as much sadistic pleasure as I once thought it would.

|| June 29, 2004 || 5:04 pm || Comments (2) ||

And, oh yeah!

Season two of theDane’s vidblogging genius commenced today.

It’s like I was telling him the other day: It makes me laugh to read articles (feh..not linking. NOT!) touting vidblogging as the revolutionary new!hot!thing, when he’s been doing it for over a year*, with style, panache and humor aplenty. He puts out a well-crafted product, and has had people tuning in with regularity to see the weekly installments because they’re simply golden.

Hat tip here to Adrian Miles, who says, “Any good blogger knows that words don’t come cheap. Neither should video.” Hear-hear, sir, and right the fuck on.

*at, by the way, the behest of your very own JettGrrrl

|| June 29, 2004 || 4:52 pm || Comments (1) ||

Everbodee do dat Gmail daints!

I still have a veritable assload of Gmail invites, so if you people

ay) want one or

bee) want one, have already asked and I’ve seemingly not responded (there are issues with certain -AHEM- Gmail competitors bouncing and/or shucking invites to the side)

then just drop me a line and I’ll send you one. You don’t even have to do anything stupid, nice, or stupid-nice for me. HOWEVER, I have no aversions whatsoever to unmarked bills in a brown paper sack. Or a fifth of likker. Or new musics. Or a modest donation to the charity of my choice.

Alrighty then. More beach babblings later. Must…arrrgh…write…papers…and…study…

|| June 28, 2004 || 9:26 pm || Comments (11) ||

Vacation Journals, part one

//Thursday, four twenty-eight pee emm

Statement of Goals for this, My Beachy Excursion:

~Endeavor to make the bracelet of pale skin surrounding my wrist (where my watch generally sits) disappear.

~Forget, by whatever means necessary, that my very best friend ever died horribly a mere two weeks ago and I won’t be able to make the memorial. Just for this weekend. Forget, forget, forget.

~Do damn near whatever the kids want. They have been really patient while I endeavor to go to skoo.

~Buy one last pack of smokes, as I am too young to die of cancer.

//Friday, ten-oh-two ay emm

It seems that a child has left behind a pale blue Dora the Explorer bandaid. It’s wiggling up from the sand next to my blanky. Gross, man.

//Friday, twelve-fourteen pee emm

I seek comfort in the arts –literature, music– constantly. I adulate over the works of painters, poets, sculptors.

Sitting here watching my children dance through roiling surf, examine the intricacies of a tiny shell, build elaborate tunnel systems and turrets out of sand brings forth a quiet epiphany…I no longer seek comfort as I once did in the greatest display of art on the planet: Nature.

(note to self: fix that shit, girl)

Maybe this is part of the reason why, nowadays, I sometimes am tugged by the phantom sense of being incomplete somehow. I used to find renewal in the alone times when I’d set off into parts pristine and (mostly) untamed. There was me and a notebook in a field full of wildflowers on a spring day back when bugs weren’t an annoyance; rather, they were things to be examined as they’d light on my leg or trundle their way up my arm. There was driving waaaay out into little-of-nowhere to set up a lawnchair at the edge of an old wood plank bridge; I could be still and watch the water eddy and bubble for six solid hours without being disturbed by a car or truck passing by. Even then, they’d crawl at 15 MPH or so, driver nodding and me responding with a lazy smile.

Here I am thinking; something –for many reasons– I’d vowed not to do on this trip.

Must start drinking.

Friday, one-ten pee emm

So, I’m scribbling away in this here notebook and a fiftyish woman to my right (her brilliant green eyes and white blaze of hair make a startling combination; but then again, I’ve always had a thing for the green eyes) calls to me, “So you’re a writer, eh?”

I ponder this for a moment.

“Yes ma’am,” I squint toward her, “Yeah I am.”

Of course, the only appropriate response to this is for her to interrupt the threading-together of thoughts I’m taking a running stab at. She begins an attempt at engaging me in conversation. At first I cringe inwardly, but then I forgive her and carry on with an exchange because she is a Yankee and more than likely knows no better and also because ‘Hey, I’m here to experience things, and sometimes very marvelous things are born of one solitary conversation with one unlikely person.’

We talk of this (Groton, Connecticut) and of that (how delicious the American Movie Classics channel can be) and also a little of t’other (hard to find a good Sidecar –even in classy joints– these days). Before she settles back into her towel, I remember to ask here how she divined my Official PenPusher status.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she says to me, beautifully nasal and flapping one hand, “My husband used to bend over the page and frown intently, writing away furiously. Then he’d stretch back and take in some point in the far-off for a while. You do that, too.

“He was a writer of some merit.”

She is gone still and quiet –presumably dozing– before I think to ask her if maybe I’ve heard of him.

I think I’ll go have some tuna salad. Maybe she’ll be here when I get back. I’ll bring a double batch of mugaritas, just in case.

Friday, two forty-two pee emm

Mixing up my double batch before leaving the condo: I set a bowl of ice, the margarita mix and tequila on the counter (there is no triple sec, as my husband and in-laws did the supplies shopping and they do not know Margarrrrita As Art Form like yours truly). Chuck in a double-handful of ice. The tequila is next, and Maxim stands quietly to the left, observing, as I do spinny magic tricks with the cap. I lift and pour generously. As I’m putting the bottle down, I hesitate and pour yet again. I place the bottle back on the counter, appraise the blender pitcher and the tequila bottle for a brief moment before again splashing more tequila over the ice.

“There,” I grin contentedly before replacing the alcohol’s cap.

‘Rita mix, chop-blend, chop-blend, yesss.

I remove the eensy measuring cup portion of the blender’s lid and peek in, one-eye style. Then I remove the lid, lifting the pitcher to my lips for a delicate sniff and dainty sip.

Maxim, previously silent, begins to guffaw.

“What?” I exclaim, “I’m checking to see if it needs more takillya.”

“What that concoction is lacking is NOT tequila.”

Satisfied, I pour the divinely-crafted blend into the hefty, insulated MugO’Doom (so named because it is emblazoned –quite aptly– with the frenetic, randomly-placed stars that its contents will have me seeing in a coupla hours’ time).

Green-eyed Lady, Ocean Lady is not there when I return. My Gracious Southern Hostessing Duties are derailed; such a damn disappointment to drink her share, you know.

Friday, three forty-four pee emm:

MAXIM: Put a fancy dress on you, and you’d be Boozarella.

JETT: Shut up, bitch.

MAXIM: “Does this shoe fit you?” “I’th never sheennat shoe in my ligh-uffth.

JETT: The only reason you’re getting away with your mockery is because I have consumed a significant portion of the MugO’Doom’s contents.

to be continued

|| June 24, 2004 || 10:47 am || Comments (7) ||

My plans for world domination, part two.

Look, everyone knows that a good despot can’t overthrow all the world superpowers simultaneously and assume absolute control without a decent vacation.

So that’s why, after one-plus years of full-time work, full-time skoo and full-time fambly, I’m heading out to the coastline for the next five days. While there –with cold jigger after cold jigger of tequila in hand– I plan to flop down on the beach, bronze my peachy skin and get sand in my crack.

Brett, by virtue of the fact that he’d written a way-out-of-time song for me within hours of my return to blogging, is the meaningless figurehead of this tin-pot quasi-democracy until I get back. In the meantime, you can poke around the newly-restored archives some. They’ve been gone, by my best estimation, for nigh on three years now.

See all y’all on Tuesday, prolly with some good stories to tell. The Redneck Riviera is a funny place populated with amusing people. Ciao!

Sweet Grandmomma’s gravy…you’re still here??

I once had a boyfriend that told me I smoked a cigarette like I was sucking a dick. I asked him if he was jealous.

Welcome to my newly-improved weblog! All you fuckers (especially you and you, ya delinking heretical bastidges) that bugged the crap outta me to hurry up and come back had BETTER put up a link to this place hollering “HALLELUJAH! She hath returnethed!” damn quick.

Aight then.

pe ess…have some pokey-fun with the sidebar. Not everything is linked up there yet; all in good time, sweet little Muffinasses.