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Archive for July, 2004

Does Anyone Else Know The Words To “The Universe Is One Great Big Fuckola Some Days”? Because, you know, we can all sing it in round then.

There is good news and bad news.

The good news is, my hair was super-shiny and manageable today.

The bad news is, the universe is a great big ole fucker. But wait, that’s not the sum total of the bad news, only just a part of it.

The horrid, oh-so-horrid thing about a really fine vacation is that you have to come back to your ‘real‘ life at the end of it all. And you people (most of you’ns, anyway) know that my life is packed-to-the-seams and just a wee titch hectic.

I’ll give you one guess as to what percentage of the people that comprised my caseload today had a full set of teeth. Okay, you won’t have to guess; I’ll just tell you that I had reign of five people that were completely toothless today.

There I go, exaggerating again. One person, age six, actually had two of her teeth. They were the eye teeth, so she looked for all the world like a little geriatric vampire. I tried very hard to keep her from smiling at all costs, which runs directly contrary to the usual party line that I run on the four-feet-and-under set. So you can see that my day was stressful from a work standpoint.

To top it all off, one of the guys I toted hither and yon had B.O. in a big, bad (meaning, even if he had no bite, his aroma certainly did) way. After I finished my (court referral! drug testing! substance counseling! listening to him call his ex wife every name under the sun FOUR TIMES!) dealings with him, I drove a block away to the nearest gas station, popped the trunk, went fishing around in it for a bottle of Febreeze, which was sadly and alarmingly devoid of any product whatsoever.

I’d like to confess something to you people here. Those moments when someone is threatening my life or up in my face swearing at me to beat the band or doing something so unconscionable/ugly that I should just whip out my tire iron, flatten them and be done with it? Those moments are not the ones where I Wind Up And Pitch A Big Onetm. Nope, not atall. Those moments are the ones where I am calm and focused and –dare I say?– potentially deadly. It is then that I am fully zen and look upon any matters at hand with the ULSOD*. It’s the moments where I find a nail in my tire or when a light bulb burns out or I’m in a stinky sitchooayshee and lacking Febreeze that I flip WAY. THEFUCK. OUT. Somewhat irrational, I know, but I’ve not been jailed for homicide thus far, so something’s ticking along quite nicely indeedy.

So you must absolutely know that I scream-wailed in anguish and let fly the empty spray bottle toward the large-and-blessedly-empty parking lot. I vaguely remember kicking the curb a couple of times, as well. Tommy, the owner of the fine establishment, got up off the bench where he was shooting the shit with the elderly hang-abouts and sauntered toward me. He knows I am not right, as he is the father of TeenGirl GasPumper and has been selling me gas, cigarettes and Mountain Dews for nigh on six years now.

“I’ve found,” he drawled at me, “that the curb takes you a little more seriously if ya bend over and bang your head ownnit.”

Perspective regained.

I made my merry way home, the shadow of a headache seeping into my temples (fucking HOLE in the fucking OZONE or sommat) and creeping around to settle behind my eyes before undressing itself to stay for the night. As I turn in the drive, I notice the cats in the drive, the kitties frolicking on the porch.

Now yes, I am not a “cat person” per se, but my children are and some six months ago I allowed Sam and Scout to bring two kittens home from their grandma’s on the condition that they be outside critters and not be allowed betwixt the hallowed walls of No Catsville that is my home. I don’t think that my aversions to certain things should bar my children from enjoying them.

Well, Mathias has quite the fondness for the felines as well, so when grams called up a couple of weeks later to say that the remaining kitty missed, missed, missed its brother and sister oh-so-badly I begrudgingly allowed the third cat to seek the solace of our porch with the first two; it was masquerading, of course, under the guise of ‘Mathias’ Very Own Kitty’. Well, cat o’ Sam decided to become somewhat of a cavalier vagabond, leaving a big ole empty space in Sam’s pet-loving heart; imagine his delight when some three months later Cat Three (a.k.a. cat ‘o Mathias) became impregnated with Cat Two’s (a.k.a. cat ‘o Scouty) evil feline spawn. I assured Sam that he could indeed keep one of the five-piece, all-tom litter that was produced from this merry feline tumble.

Oh, mother nature, you fucking whorebitch of a trickstress.

So here were we (when I say ‘we’, I mean Maxim and me, who are persons of the Non Kitty-Loving Persuasion), hip deep in seven (magic number! MAGIC NUMMMBERRRR!) cats and feeling a certain sense of quiet despair that we shielded from our children. That is, after all, what good and kind and loving parents do to help ensure that their children do not grow up to shame the fambly by becoming serial killers and whatnot. You know.

I’se pulling into the drive, the two cats lazing around in it, kitties frolicking on the porch and whatnot, and I’m all, “Hey, Mommakitty, move your ass, will you?” because she was taking her own God-blessed time about getting the hell outta the way. Scout, who was meeting me on the porch, then announces to me as I swung my legs out of the car, “You hit it.”

“What, the mommacat? I swear she got out of the way!” and I began swinging my eyeballs this way and that to locate her.

“No, momma, the kitten.” Awww, fuck! Fuckitty fuck-fuck. Fuuuuck! I didn’t see any kitten in the drive! Stupid mothercat! What kind of mother lets her kids play in a high-traffic area??


There are two blacks, one grey tabby, one smoky grey (with amazing blue eyes which Sam has elected to replace the Great Vagabond Tom with) and one really cool-looking white tabby. It is, coincidentally, the only kitty that the kids have dubbed with a name because it was so ‘out there’ and ‘risk-taking’. It is, coincidentally, the only kitty I’m mildly enamored of, and that is because of the way that it repeatedly flops itself off of the porch to go exploring and then claws like hell to get back up there to nuzzle with its brothers. The kids have taken to calling it


“You ran over Famous. Ewww! He’s twitching! Momma!” and she had a sick look on her face, turning away, but turning compulsively back again.

And sure enough, when I reached my bumper, lying some five feet behind it there in the drive was the wee white tabby body, head turned at an awful angle, top of it kissing the driveway’s surface while the body rested on its side. Even from the strange angle (that, by the way, I was most assuredly grateful for) I could see that the kitten’s eyes had burst from its head and he was thankfully quickly expired.

I got the cat triple-bagged and Sam was kind enough to appear with soulful brown eyes and earnest goodness and shovel: “I’ll bury it for you, momma,” and I was very, very thankful.

Now the pile of cats of the porch is monochromatic and the remaining brothers are all the docile ones, not a risk-taker among them.

There are only precious few creatures, after all, with the stones it takes to become Famous.

*Ultra-Large Stare O’ Death

|| July 1, 2004 || 11:26 pm || Comments (3) ||

I, Bargain Whore

As Maxim has vegetarian leanings, and as I love a great big ole salad several times a week, we run through our share of salad fixings. I noticed this afternoon that we were out of leafy green lettuce (the real-and-proper name of it escapes me presently), so that necessitated a trip to Wal-Mart to pick some up. I didn’t begrudge this in the least, as I needed a couple of other things anyway.

And ohholycow, I’m so very glad I went, because I found four-packs of these on a rolling cart, marked down to FIFTY CENTS PER CARTON! <--Did you hear that? FIFTY. CENTS. I loaded up my poor buggy but fast.

Look, this may mean nothing to you, but I am

ay) a mother

bee) a wife

cee) a college student

dee) a full-time workingperson

ee) someone who is highly allergic to aspartame

eff) someone who despises the icky aftertaste of ‘ee’

gee) someone who isn’t big on eating breffus

aytch) someone, as illustrated by ay through dee, who has no time for a ‘real’ breffus anyhow

eye) a broke-ass motherfucker most of the time

jay) a lover of EAS products from way back before Bill lost his mind and sold the fucking company to a bunch of assraping corporate-type shirts that jacked with the pricing structure of every last product,

so it means something akin to a major holiday for me.

Mathias watched in silent curiosity as I stacked the drinks up to scary, teetering, tipping-over proportions in my cart before he asked, “MOMMY! WHY ARE YOU HOGGING UP ALL DEM DRINKS?” I bribed him with a teevee dinner (what he considers the pinnacle of no-no eating, as well he should) to get him to pipe down, but it was worth it. I have a buttload of ninety-five-percent-off drinks that will last me just about till the expiration date next June. ‘Bout time I caught a fucking break.

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

According to 20 Questions to a Better Personality, whose disclaimer loudly states “This is the personality test that leaves the rest behind. It does make judgment calls, and it does assess your role in society, so faint of heart beware,” I am:

…an SEDL–Sober Emotional Destructive Leader. This makes you a dictator. You prefer to control situations, and lack of control makes you physically sick. You feel have responsibility for everyone’s welfare, and that you will be blamed when things go wrong. Things do go wrong, and you take it harder than you should.

You rely on the validation and support of others, but you have a secret distrust for people and distaste for their habits and weaknesses that make you keep your distance from them. This makes you very difficult to be with romantically. Still, a level-headed peacemaker can keep you balanced.

Despite your fierce temper and general hot-bloodedness, you have a soft spot for animals and a surprising passion for the arts. Sometimes you would almost rather live by your wits in the wilderness somewhere, if you could bring your books and your sketchbook.

You also have a strange, undeniable sexiness to you. You may go insane.

Once again, one o’ them kooky web quizzes was dead on the money. And I’m not saying that with my tongue in my cheek, either. Frankly, it’s none of your concern where precisely my tongue is, has been, or ever will be, but you should know that it’s nowhere near the ole cheek at the present.

That quiz link was via J-Mo, as is this little link here (which made me fall over dead with laughter but come back from the spirit world so that I could watch it once again and laugh like a loon some more), though indirectly…she liked the ‘Titanic‘ one. There’s no accounting for taste, after all.

And hey, because I know you were worried about it, I found something great to do with all those extra Gmail invites I’ve got stacked up. Gmail swap has become tedious, repetitive and just generally no fun; Gmail for the Troops, however, is fully hubba-hubba in my book. You know me, any way I can service a serviceman (eyebrow wiggle goes here)…if you have any spares, I wish you’d consider dumping them into the pool, as well.

Night-night, sweet Muffinasses. I have a shitload to do tomorrow, which officially begins for me in five hours.

|| July 1, 2004 || 1:16 pm || Comments (4) ||

I Got Nobody In Arizona

Far as I know,

I got nobody in Arizona wantin’ to call me

Oh, once, sure…

There were a couple

Of no-count (no-counts is my favorite),

Belly-to-the-emotional-bar (them sorts, too)

Kind of somebodies that would

Set sail their adventures to me

Over tinny wisps of voice-wire;

Funny and wry and always discombobulated by life

(and I’ll admit for sure

that I miss shooting the shit with them),

My Arizona-people;

But numbers change or vector out

To who-knows-where

Like somebody singin’ “Why do thangs haveta change”

And the pat answer, sighed out under curl of lip

“They just do, is all.”

Yeah, I got nobody in Arizona wantin’ to call me

So why is my phone hollerin’ from the six-oh-two

Like a trapdoor to the past?