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Archive for July, 2004

 
|| July 31, 2004 || 11:52 pm || Comments (4) ||

I always miss all the good shit!

(I win all the pun points for the day, as you might well have guessed.)

 
|| July 30, 2004 || 10:06 pm || Comments (6) ||

Um, a question.

When reading someone’s comments and coming across something like

“Vent on, sister woman.”

do any of the rest of you cringe so hard that it makes your kidneys hurt?

Just curious. You know me and my inappropriate reactions, so I’m gauging the average person’s response.

And then there is this….

Maxim and Mathias are playing street hockey:

MATHIAS: But I want to take the shot from up heeeere, Daddy!

Maxim waggles his stick at the wee boy.

MAXIM: Okay, but if you miss, I get to hit you in the head.

It’s one thing if I can’t find my pantses; the lack of a camera, however, sucks large.

Exciting things were afoot in the Cove O’ Superiortm this afternoon!

It was around five-thirty pee emm, give or take, and I was doing laundry in the back of the house while Mathias was watching cartoons in the front room. I heard the unmistakable sound of a crash on (what I thought was) the next street over; it was less than a minute later when I heard sirens screaming all around.

“Wow,” says I to myownself, “how on earth are they responding that quickly? Wow.”

I live in a land of Barney Fifes. This was indeed heady, impressive stuff.

I sort of said, ‘awwww, poor people inna crash’ and went on downloading clown pr0n for melly about my business. Thirty seconds later, here comes Mathias, eyes wide.

“Mommy, come and see da ting what it crashed outside.”

“The crash was out front?” I asked dumbly.

“Yeah,” he nodded sagely, “come look,” and he grabbed me by the hand, pulling me toward him. He led me toward the front of the house, and out of the front windows and partially-opened front door I saw cruisers lining both sides of the street on our cul-de-sac.

This is a quiet neighborhood. As we’ve had a couple meth lab explosions on the outskirts of town recently, that was the first thing that flitted across my brainscape, but I quickly dismissed it. We know all the neighbors on the entire block, converse with them, have been in their homes. When we stepped out onto the porch, Mathias began eagerly pointing to his right.

“See? See, right dere! A crash!” He was gesturing to the turn-around that backs up onto another neighborhood, into two backyards.

“Right there, Monkus? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, momma, I see him.”

It was then that I noticed the cop cars were from the neighboring city. We wandered across the lawn, out into the jam-packed street, out in front of a parked SUV clearly marked with DEU insignia, and some thirty feet down the street. Sure enough, someone had been fleeing the coppers and took too long to figure out (that, or they didn’t give a diddly-damn) that the street ended, a makeshift ‘crete barrier began and a sharp drop would put them airborne for about twenty or so feet.

There were deep gouges in the grass where the car had landed and kept on keepin’ on. At first I thought the neighbor had parked her car in the side yard, but then I noticed the path of the tracks and came to understand that the vehicle resting neatly on three wheels between two large oaks was indeed the one that had Dukes of Hazzarded off our street. That dumb sonofabitch got hella, hella lucky: The space between the trees could accomodate a car and not much else.

Thinking of you, divine readership, I Sparked An Idear.

I will take pictures! the inside of my head said, I will take pictures of yon foolishness and the resultant DEA convention! I am nothing if not a kind Mistress to the Muffinass Population.

I explained my plan to Mathias and we went back inside. At first I couldna find the digital camera, then I discovered its rechargeable batteries were dead. No prob, I would just take the other set out of the flash unit on Maxim’s camera, right?

Wrong. The NAMM show was this past weekend, and Maxim still had the Nikon with him in his vehicle. DAMN! DOUBLE-DAMN WITH A CHERRY ON TOP (and lots of ooey fudge…sprinkles, too)!

Of course, with you all knowing that I have three wee people in the house, you know there’s not a matched set of working double-A’s within four fucking miles.

SO, I was unable to snap any photographic evidence, and now you are all skeptically thinking that this was just one more crap entry in this already-leaning pile of what is surely fiction.

pee ess….after Maxim got home and heard the entire tale, he said, “Thank God that Sam was at his father’s for the day; he’d've been right out in the middle of the street (cul-de-sac=little to no traffic) practicing his jumps.” My heart flared in my chest: I hadn’t even thought of that. Sam, resident King Of All Things Four-Wheeled, Namely Skateboards, would have been out there jumping and grinding and spilling the late afternoon away as he is wont to do on a daily basis. Wanton cliche: There but for the Grace of God….

Also, Maxim thought of one other thing: “Be sure and keep the deadbolt locked always. What if that jackass had run this way (oops, forgot to tell you he’d bailed and fled on foot after the great Vehicular Air Assault On The Pretty Sod) and felt like taking a couple hostages?” Good point. He’d gone over fifteen miles being chased by six or seven cops; he could’ve attempted anything and I don’t know how much opportunity I’d have had to respond.

Especially with a five-year-old present. *shudder*

 
|| July 29, 2004 || 9:46 am || Comments (2) ||

The Name Game

One of the more ‘interesting’ aspects of my job is being paid to listen to conversations during supervised visits with various families. Sometimes I am amused, sometimes I’m outraged (and if someone says something to a child that outrages me, it is generally grounds to terminate the visit post-haste), sometimes I’m agog.

Yesterday I was supervising a lengthy visit between a fourteen-year-old and her extended family, who drove in from about three hours away to see her. There was a great-gramma, a great-grandpa, a gramma and an aunt. The aunt is three months pregnant, and while we were at a mexican restaurant –me at one booth and them all piled into another– the subject of baby names came up.

“Heh,” says the aunt, “Heh-heh,” and then she began to tell the table about how the babydaddy thought it would be clever to call the child ‘Mary Jane’ because, you know, marijuana was a factor in its conception.

Allow me to illustrate the silliness of this notion by sharing with you what my own children’s names might be if everyone adhered to this practice:

Sam: Red Handprint* On The Wall So As Not To Overbalance

Scout: Hot Recliner Action

Mathias: Everybody Upstairs Heard Us Loud and Clear

So yes, you can see the impracticality of such a thing.

*Cherry body paints. Eh, we were in an ‘ezperimental’ phase. *shrug*

 
|| July 27, 2004 || 4:39 pm || Comments (4) ||

Outgassing: It’s what’s for dinner.

To those of you wondering about the feasibility of a microwave oven and a styrofoam carryout container* getting together and making a little hot dinner action, I say ‘Nay! Nay, dear Muffinasses!’

Yeah, um, don’t do that. Don’t put styrofoam in the nuker.

I do, in fact, live dangerously so that none of you are forced to. Your well-being is obviously paramount to me.

*Shut up. Just shut the living fuck up. I’d not eaten since ten this morning and was all headachey and crabby and was blinded by my overwhelming desire for those leftover Szechuan vegetables.

Now I’m just blinded. And overwhelmed. And yes, there’s headachey still, as well. Plus some burgeoning upper-respiratory thing that may or may not be the precursor to fatal lung cancer. And I think I seared the contacts to my eyeballs, but I can’t be entirely sure, as after the first onslaught of painful, stinging fumes, I could not longer actually feel the eyes.

But no worries; I looked in the mirror and they are still there. Plus, there’s that whole ’sense of sight’ thing (which in truth was never all that fucking stupendous in the first place).

Stelllaaaaaaaahhhh!

 
|| July 26, 2004 || 11:23 pm || Comments (3) ||

Encounter

I sat in the grey chair,

The overstuffed one and

Leaned back, my hair

Cinched loose with a hank

Of ugly red ribbon;

Lips parting, my brow glistened

As your one hand settled on

My hip and the fingers of the

Other danced between my

Thighs.

My eyes fluttered,

Your own gleamed, your lips

Brushing my ear, “Now.”

I said “thankyouseeyoulater.”

And ~leaning against the door~

Bit my cheek, then shot the bolt.

 
|| July 24, 2004 || 11:24 pm || Comments (13) ||

Tips on parenting (you’re welcome)

When confronted with the awkward situation of having a child ask what your beverage is* before they are of an age to explain ‘responsible drinking’ to comprehensibly, you should maybe learn to flex and be ‘creative’ with the truth.

That’s right, I’m asking you to employ critical thinking skills here. For example:

~ Wine magically transforms to *zzzzzing! (that was the sound of a magic wand, thanks)
Grown-up Grape Juice

~ You in possession of a mugarita (what we call a margarita around these parts, because a margarita glass doesn’t hold near as much magical agave kool-aid as a frosty, friendly mug does) becomes you holding fiercely on to some

Grown-up Lemonade

….and so on and so forth. You folks get the picture.

I’d like to personally thank my cousin Drop (as in ‘good to the last, then lick the outside of the glass’, but lately more like, ‘catch me, I’m about ta’) for being so polluted at the family gathering recently, thereby necessitating a session of the really fun game known as Rename The Inexplicable No-No Liquid Quickly-Quickly-QUICKLY between me and Maxim. Can’t drink keep a good man down, Drop ole sport.

*Note: also applies to ‘can I have a sip of that, mommy?’ and any and all other potentially sticky queries.