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Archive for October, 2004

|| October 30, 2004 || 12:28 am || Comments (5) ||

Cereal Repercussions

Dear Person Who Hogged Up Damn Near All The Frosted Mini-Wheats, Thereby Leaving Me Approximately Five In The Bag For My One Ay Emm Post-Phonehilarity Snackfest:

Please recall who jockeys the allowance reins around these parts. And also, coincidentally, has effective control over your social calendar for AT LEAST the next six or so years.

Earnestly Seeking My Calcium and Grain Products Fix,

The One What Gaved You Birth Long About Twelve Years Ago, You Cute Little Mop-Haired Bottomless Stomach

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

Dear Person Who Revealed Momma’s Tried-and-True ‘Special Groceries’ Hiding Spot:

Look, I don’t advocate using sex as a weapon, but we’re talking Frosted Mini-Wheats here.

You bastard.


The One What Brings The Bells And Whistles (and bungee cords and cleverly-used Altoids, to boot!)

|| October 29, 2004 || 12:55 am || Comments (9) ||

movie house

“They’re going without us.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I want to go.”

“Then fucking go, Cree.” I was incredulous. What the??

“I can’t leave you here like this!”

The ‘like this’ referred to was me, supine on the curb, bootsoles flat to the street’s asphalt, knees (remarkably) primly together. Demure While Drunk In Public Settings is a course that all Southern young women are required to take, even if they never plan to touch a drop in their lives (also paramount is the early-learning regimen of both How To Tell A Bald-Faced Lie Earnestly and Looking Sweet And Only Cutely Flustered In Moments of Discomfort*).

Also, I should mention, I took a painstaking twenty-five minutes –while everyone else was shooting the breeze or talking shit (which really are only slightly different…it’s all in the set of your mouth as you are doing it) –-arranging my hair, braided and at right angles, behind my head. When you’re the right shade of pickled everything’s an artistic moment: I Am Living Sculpture, Hear Me Roar.

Everything else residing between the boots and the hair, well….let’s just say those things were sort of left to their own devices. The knees were on autopilot, performing quite nicely and according to their ritualistic training.

I was becoming one with the stars, motherfucker, and just wanted to be left alone. My senses were so keen that I could smell the mineral content of the concrete beneath my back, feel the thrumming of a miles-away textile plant on my leaden arms.

“There was a ‘don’t’ and then there was a ‘care’. I think I said them together, but I can’t be sure because I am very, very polluted at present.

“Yes,” I lifted my head so that I could fuzzily eyeball his face, “I’m almost positive that I told you I don’t care.”

“I’ll just stay here with you,” he said, exasperated beyond typical levels.

“You know what, Cree? I really can take care of myself.” He opened his mouth to speak again, and I halted him.

“If you are going to stay, then at least shut the fuck up. You can babysit me in silence, can’t you?” His response? He waved the other four on and leaned inside the car to turn on some music

while the merry band of tricksters headed toward a grocery store to stuff cold slabs of plastic-encased beef in their shirts for a little two ay emm breakfast feast. I remember hearing about this later and thinking, “I should be doubly jealous; they got both steak and erect nipples on their outing.”

After an indeterminate amount of time (thirty seconds? forty-eight weeks?), I surmised that it might be best if I explored the whole ‘being vertical’ thing for a little while. I managed to nearly raise myself erect when, whoops, overbalance kicked in on the deal and I stumbled forward into Cree’s magically-waiting arms.

As much magic, anyway, as can exist when said arms are stringing you up by your pits and saving you from violently kissing some ‘crete.

But when I extracted myself somewhat, I noticed that those arms were gooshfleshed, hair on them standing aloft. I remember being suddenly moved by his body betraying his manner and wanting to kiss him because of it. I drew him gently -–my hands clasped on his forearms and his on mine—- toward me, backing into the corner where the ticket booth and front doors met up to do whatever business involves doors and ticket booths.

And when I was suitably pinned in that swooping corner, I pulled him in to me. Our lips were inches apart; we could have breathed in each other’s expelled air had we bothered drawing breath, but we did not. He placed his right hand on my sternum, fingertips lightly resting on my neck, thumb below my chin. That particular move buckles my resolve damn near every time and suddenly here we were, boots jockeying for position and limbs clumsily (in their haste) searching for purchase.

I bit my cheek and he drew my earlobe between his lips, hands working the denim at my waist, pushing and opening all at the same time, damn the physics of it all. I maneuvered his head further downward so I could get my hands in that mass of black hair.

Everything in us both was screaming ‘GIMME!’ and we let fly on one another, the moon above witness to him bringing me to an arching, gasping place where I wanted to both run away from the intensity and stay forever awash in it.

Though we were still running buddies after that, we regarded one another with the keen distaste of ‘conquest’ and eventually the group we hung with shifted, then dissolved altogether.

Every now and again, I will see him in the grocery store, and he eyes me with appreciation and something akin to subtle want. I’ve now become a fondness in his memory; I can see him wishing away my spouse, the years, our mutual dismissiveness after that groping, fevered coupling.

It makes me uncomfortable.

*Of course I failed both of these miserably

|| October 28, 2004 || 12:37 am || Comments (16) ||

perteckters of the innersent

Friends, I have shiny red toenails and my hair is bouncy and manageable at the moment. What more could a girl ask for??

Social Services Networking, Part the First:

Wanna know what happens when you meet a chick from the AIDS Action Coalition when you’ve both had too many tequilas? Why, you end up trading horror stories, of course. If you’re me, you also end up with a cute little brown kraft bag full of these:

Charm at its finest: ‘See Dick with an erection / See Dick with no protection / See Dick with an infection. DON’T BE A DICK.’

….and, of course, they come in a rainbow of fruity fun hues! I’ve not done a TACKY PACKtm in, I dunno, A MILLION YEARS, so as penance for my bad behavior, I’ll send one to the first ten of you to hit the commentseses (address, of course, can be sent privately via the mighty, mighty Gmail). The first three even get their choice of colors.

I seem to have an assload* of green ones, how cute. Go figure.

*pun absolutely, unflinchingly intended.

|| October 25, 2004 || 8:17 pm || Comments (8) ||


I’m the number two search overall for the phrase ‘nowhere to go’.

That is wicked-cool, because you just know some person out there in the great sea of Cyberians is typing in the phrase ‘nowhere to go’ because they really and truly have nowhere to go on a random Friday or Saturday (or even the lesser Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday nights; maybe not even a Tuesday night, yo…the very least of them all) night and are seeing what the World Wild InterWeb can do to combat, remedy and/or take their mind off that little tidbit.

Welcome, fellow interwebnet dork. I have big boobs and can sometimes knock a phrase –whizzing and arcing– right on outta the literary ballpark. You are home.

|| October 24, 2004 || 12:44 am || Comments (1) ||

The whole lice thing

As mentioned before, sometimes in the course of my job-related duties I end up with a carload of kidlets that have contracted The Cooties.

I’ve yet to ever, ever have picked up and/or had a dalliance with lice in my entire life, even in these near sure-bet situations. HOWEVER, I’m still all goofy about it and tend to spend the days following a lice discovery on one or more of my clientele clawing away at any spot on my body that has even the slightest downy fluff of hair*.
For the record, I do indeed suppress the mad urge to give my crotch a vigorous scratching.

Anyway, after giving the head a good solid scratch or ten-thousand over the course of seventy-two hours, things tend to start falling from the depths of ones mane. Never mind the fact that these things are merely eensy plugs of scalp that have just cried out in misery and pain before finally succumbing to my vigorous fingerwork, screaming, “THAT’S IT! I’M JUMPING! HAD ENOUUUUGH!” Yes, you never mind that at all, because I will sit and stare at them for absolute ages, trying to see whether or not those things are not eensy plugs of scalp but instead are lice that have suddenly become super-intelligent enough to play a rousing game of possum with me. I look for them to start unfolding their wee little legs (with a creepy horror-movie sound effect akin to a verra, verra creaky door slowly and agonizingly opening to reveal the half-devoured corpse of your sixth-grade advanced algebra teacher who has finally figured out that it was an incredible sham, your being placed in that class, because you were indeed a mathtard all along and were faking your way through that shit. And boy-oh-boy, is he pissed and ready to gnaw on your brain all the way down to the bastardized math facts you’ve badly stored somewhere in there, because that’s The Source of All His Evil Power, Motherfucker) and scampering –or burrowing, whatever the fuck it is that lice do in their spare time—amongst the rib knit of my rust-colored tank top.

All this is just a drunken, breathy way of saying that I’ve spent the better part of two days digging away at my head because I saw a fucking sign on Thursday afternoon –a mere SIGN, people –taped to the door of one of the visitation rooms at the office:

LICE, 10/21/04

I realize how essentially brain-damaged and freakish this makes me seem to most of you, but I have a solid rebuttal to that: COOTIES! We’re dealing with COOTIES here. You know?

Today the itch-scratch-itch cycle was so relentless and uninterrupted that I finally came home this evening, plopped down in front of the sofa where my lovely Maxim was seated, and beseeched him to dig through my pile of keratin to see if it was the site of a major infestation. He surmised that I’ve a little more than a touch of the hypochondriac in me, but placated me with a thorough ‘lock-picking’ anyway.

He passed me with a clean bill of health, asked me coyly if I would like to see his extra-special ‘tongue depressor’ and I’ve not itched one farging bit since.

This is starting to be nowhere near as funny as it initially was.

*Even, friends, the eyebrows.

|| October 23, 2004 || 12:09 am || Comments (0) ||

purdy effing ohhhhkay

(Just before I sat down to write this, I said to myself, “Cheese, smoked turkey, pickles: I must have these things.”

I set about procuring them, only to find that the pickles had gone missing via the digestive system of a twelve-year-old, seemingly constantly-famished boy. Isn’t that always the way?

So I substituted with some Jalapeno-flavored Dirty Chips. But they’re not at all spicy, and therefore have been tried in the High Court of the Almighty Snack Tray and found wholly unsatisfying.)

She dropped the dime down the wishing well

Wanted to fall in after it

Sometimes every tissue in her listens

As it still calls after her,

Beckoning her even now to dive in

So yeah, 1983 was unkind to so many.

~Staring at my fingertips, seeing a microscopic me walking amongst the whorls of my prints like some sunny-day labyrinth.

~A piece of wallpaper, garlanded with green and very happy to be, kept telling me so over and over until I patiently walked up to it and instructed it to shut the living fuck up.

~Smiling deeply into a mug of soup that my hands stayed glued to long after both my smile and the warmth of the broth disappeared….no really, I thought my hands were glued to it.

These are all things I did at one time or another, so astounded by reality that seeing/doing shit like that was preferable. Ludicrous to me now, but tinged with that strange sort of bittersweetness that those who’ve not been there would never in a million years begin to understand. Alcoholics astound me. Cutters astound me. In a way that is not at all prude, hookers astound me. It is with this same sort of shell-shocked lack of understanding that I imagine some people regard the junkie.

After nearly taking matters into my own hands one well-lit spring afternoon, I promised God that I would never, ever try to kill myself again. I meant that promise, and I’ve kept it mostly well, I think. I spent a goodly amount of time roughly eighteen months later praying for him to strike me with some incurable malady, some terminal something that would have me wasting away in no time flat.

“I promised,” I’d cry, “I can’t, so you do it for me!”

And then I wised up and lived happily ever after. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

In the past, a mere twenty-four hours could find me going from feeling as if my bones were made of air (abundant, cool, circulating and soothing) to wanting to remove my eyeballs so that the dull-lead thudding behind them could be free, Free, FREEEEE to fly (away). It got exhausting, and I gave up before I got given up on. When you get tired, it is left to you to choose to do one of two things; you resolve to move ahead to a place in which you can find sweet-smelling, comfortable rest, or you fall into the heap of shit you’ve made and you simply don’t get up. I have no idea what genetic predeterminer announces which of these camps a person will be assigned to. I won the lottery, I suppose.

I can’t count the ways that I have been foolish in my life, but I can peg each one of them with a calendar, a song, a scent. Funny how the memory banks cache sheepishness.

But I’m still around, and if sheepishness is the greatest of my worries, well then…. I’m doing pretty fucking okay, okay?

|| October 21, 2004 || 10:53 pm || Comments (6) ||


Almost –nearly without exception– always the things I write start out as an entirely different something than what they end up being; but then the sentiment evolves so quickly that it could be tagged ‘mutant’ quite legitimately. And ba-boom-ba, here are this group of words that really and truly intended to be something Altogether Not What They Indeed Are, but got distracted by the stunning grace of a different emotion entirely.

Is it the themes that change, while the elements don’t ever…or vice-versa, that one always fucks me up. Themes change, the elements never do….or is it the other way around? Do the themes change, but the elements remain static, or have I got it all backwards?

Three different manners in which to ask the same question. That, my friends, is brilliant. Smashing that we have this string of characters we speak or pen and they are so powerful that they could either draw someone closer in toward us (yes, that ‘us’…The Us.) or shove them roughly further away.

There was this girl in my first grade class (the teacher of which was Mrs. Cox, oh She Of The Beige Polyester Couture, may worms eat her eyeballs with great disgust) who pushed my buttons. Her name was Karen, and there was not one thing on God’s Creation that she didn’t know something about. She was a preschool teacher in the making, the way she overexplained everything to the rest of us, who were obviously reasoning-challenged Cromagnon Kids. I didn’t know the term ‘pseudointellectual’ at the time, but I sure as fuck-all felt that fifty-dollar word for ‘sham’ when it ran all up on me in the shape of a crisply-dressed and braided seven-year-old snot.

I had a sense about her, and she stepped all up in it and confirmed her dumb-smartkid status one day when she pronounced ‘etc.’ as ee-TEK. I was all over her in a hopskip second. This was, of course, because I wasn’t quite seven myself and not yet versed in the rule about correcting others’ grammar in a public forum. Oopsies.

I guess Karen weathered my barrage of mockery in heated, embarrassed-kid fashion. We all did it at one time or another, and it is a generational curse: Every wee one that comes down the pike will have that one awful, blazing place in time where they realize that they’re the Ass Of The Moment; hopefully it’ll turn out that that moment will not be a consistent thing in their lives.

I heard a couple of years back that Karen committed suicide amidst the hallowed halls of some Ivy League school that could sue me (in a vigorous fashion) for reparations were they to discover their name perched here. She couldn’t run with the big dogs.

Okay, that last bit was a lie, but maybe you get the message: we never quite know where our words land when we hurl them forth, especially weighted with some form of passion. Careful how you aim.