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Archive for October, 2004

|| October 20, 2004 || 9:31 am || Comments (7) ||

schoolbus girls adult videos

Look, I fully understand how people get to me using search strings like

monologue uses silver spiders in my grave

but I just don’t grok the ones that are all ’schoolbus girls adult videos’.

|| October 20, 2004 || 12:10 am || Comments (0) ||

Letter rip!

Dear Fake Tan Girl:

Your skin is orange….orange, you hear me?

You may not be able to help your yellowed (clashing) teeth, but you can sure cut that orange nonsense out.

Here’s to a healthy skin tone and complexion,

Jett ‘Just Here To Help, Ma’am’ Superior

|| October 18, 2004 || 10:06 pm || Comments (5) ||

Don’t Ask….
and stop saying things like that.

You inquire as to what I’d prefer:

I’d prefer to glisten with anticipation~

Waiting for your head to clear the door jamb

And for your shoulders to shrug off their epaulets,

Ready arms ringing my yielding torso;

Your voice a low rumble flaming down to my pelvis.

You inquire as to what I’d prefer:

I’d prefer to know that I’ll see you tomorrow~

That the luxury of casual touch be ours;

The bending down of your head to meet my lips,

Careful fingertips tracing tendons and heartbeat,

My thighs pressed –greedily– against your own.

You inquire as to what I’d prefer:

I’d prefer to answer you dismissively~

Remembering none of the details of soul shared;

My heart not seizing upon your deeds of passion,

Nor my brain echoing your words:

“I remember your smell. Even now I dream about your eyes.”

|| October 18, 2004 || 12:42 am || Comments (15) ||

Hi; I have news.

I was going to let this one lie for a while before sharing it with the lot of you, but all I can think with regard to telling you is, ‘How could I not?’ You pocket people, you acquaintances, you quiet voyeurs alike have shared just about every kind of emotion here with me, and it’s about time you got a taste of the one I’m experiencing now.

A few weeks back, I got a letter from my school, effectively informing me that my financial aid was cut off. Where they used to not count your transfer-in hours toward the financial aid cap, it seems they have suddenly decided to dick me unmercifully and change all that. Effective this semester. Y’know: The last semester I’d need to go to their piddly little skoo (and here, the choir sing-shouts, “On-ly! Fourrrr! Claaah-sezzz….”) before transferring to the bigger, more expensive and further-away one.

Actually, the lady in the financial aid orifice wryly informed me that I was indeed three credit hours over and if they wanted to be butts about it, they could technically try and recoup funds; they, however, in their infinite mercy and kindheartedfuckingness, were not gonna do that. [Here was the part where I was supposed to grovel gratefully. I did not.] I was given an appeal letter, but it was to be turned in on the first day of classes, and that would never do, as I only need four specific classes; any of you that have attended some sort of institute of higher learning know that trying to get four specific classes situated at the last minute is a task something akin to hauling the stars around the sky and repositioning them, just….so. And where would I come up with the money up front anyway, huh?

So, I hitched up my britches and hollered, “UNIVERSITY X! HERE I COMMMMME!” I got all the financial aid (plus the highly sought-after student loan of last year, thankyouverymuch) squared away and happily sat in front of the computer to get registered for classes. You know, a full two-and-a-half months before classes were to start.

Not one of those four classes was available. Not one. Not a single one, not in any section, not even the chintzy-bastard distance learning video or internet ones. How is it possible that every last fucking class I need is full? my head screamed, but then I settled down a little as the voices in my head tried to reason with me.

You know, girl, they said to me, you know, it could be that you’re supposed to take this semester off.

Yeah? Yeah, you think?

*inner voice nods sagely*

You bet I do, babe.

Okay, that’s all well and good for you, but can I get a little raison de tels?

Look, practical knowledge should tell you that in the past, when you’ve encountered roadblocks, they are not truly roadblocks; they’re merely redirects.

Okay, again with the ‘all well and good for you’ thing, but I’m running short on time and tequila here. Fuck with you later, Inner Voices.

And I did what my momma taught me to do (and what so many other mothers skipped in the raising up of their children), which is To Think. I thought about all the reasons I might be being redirected away from skoo temporarily: I need a break? I’m tired? I have this mission trip upcoming, and I was worried about how my math-based courses would suffer? WHAAAAAT? I shrugged it off, but with an itch at the back of my brain. The mission trip, yes. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else, as well…..

It was one week later that I sat up with Memaw Bernie as she struggled through her last hours. It was two days more when we learned that we were to have her house.

Just like that. The cosmic wonder of a mom-in-law simply said, “Hey, you did without a lot growing up; I wasn’t able to do all for you that I’m able to do for your sister, so have the house. Buy my sister and brother-in-law outta their half, build onto it as need be to suit the fam, and there you have it.” Hellooooo, flabbergast.

And there was my answer: Because –despite the fact I am a marvel of modern womanhood– even I cannot possibly work full-time, go to school full-time, manage to keep up with all three of my children (meaning: keep them out of crackhouses and detention) and remodel a house. Like, nofuckingway.

We had a very good friend of ours (who also happens to be a contractor-slash-master builder) come out to look at the house with us. As we stood in the living room, we outlined for him all the rooms we would need; we followed those things up with the features we’d want, as well. He looked around, cocked one eyebrow, measured some shit, and drove away with the promise that he’d call us by the next morning with the financial and physical probabilities of our requests. He must’ve gotten into the truck and immediately started praying.

I went on to work. When I was a couple of counties away, Maxim phoned to ask me how quickly I could make my way back to our place of residence. It seems he’d gone home, gotten on the internet and on a whim started searching out homes for sale locally. His backup plan was to sell the little house and just buy another. He hit paydirt less than a mile away from where we lived now; there was a house, it was cheap, in need of loving repair and there was a sense of urgency in his request for me to come look at it.

So I did go look, and I was absolutely blown slap away. It was impossibly inexpensive compared to surrounding property values and it had oodles and oodles of space, oh-so-rambly space; like a little castle, around every corner there was tucked a surprise room or cubby and I fell in love with it almost immediately, though I tried my best not to be overly hopeful. Things don’t always work out, and if you throw all your wishes into one bucket, well….sometimes you don’t see the holes the pail is riddled with until too late.

There was lots of work to be done, but most of it was by and large cosmetic in nature. The thing that was astounding to the point of being encouraging was the fact that it not only had what we’d hours before said we’d need in terms of room and such, but it boasted everything we wanted, besides. Rooms for each of the kids. Large master bedroom for Maxim and myself. Living room, family room, large dining room (I’m a wop, and family gatherings centered around a groaning table-load of food are paramount), utility room, spacious kitchen, couple-three baths, CLOSETS APLENTY, music studio, office-slash-art studio, fenced backyard for the dog. Even, my friends, down to tentatively-spoken details: “You know, we don’t just have to build out. Ideally, I’d like the two older ones to have rooms upstairs. A bathroom sandwiched between them would be GREAT.”

In this house was an upstairs with –you guessed it– three rooms: Two roomy bedrooms with a full bath in the middle. Holy, holy cow. And calves. Grazing in a rolly green pasture.

So we discussed matters, and what I said to my spouse was this: “I’m for it, but I will go with whatever you ultimately decide.”

We shaved a good eight percent off of the already-criminally low asking price and offered that as our bid. Amazingly, it was immediately accepted. We consulted our contractor-friend and he grinned large as he gave us a hearty thumbs up. We pursued financing in the form of a construction loan and held our collective breath. Typically, lenders don’t like to bankroll fifty percent over the asking price for any reason. I prayed.

“God, if this is what you’d have us do, make the red tape go *poof*.”

We closed –with only one minor, brief hiccup– one week after I returned from Scotland. We have a home of our very own, and we’ve spent a goodly amount of time blaring loud techno and punk, sledgehammers and/or crowbars in hand, ripping and tearing out the old, making way for the new. There were roomsful of thrown-off belongings and dilapidated cabinetry and trim and fixtures to be done away with. The children have donned their little Dickies work gloves and diligently carried load after load of crrrrap to the curb to be picked up by the local Street Department.

And though I am tired and have the typical fall backlog of orders to deal with as well as the tedium of work and the rush-rush of childrens’ activities and just the general racket of being, my heart is humming, dipping and soaring in my chest like some wanton, silly, three-dollar plastic kite.

So as I lie there in the dark this morning, I savored the way Maxim’s arm wrapped snugly around my torso, big ole paw finding purchase on my ribcage just below my breast. He placed his lips on my shoulderblade as the tops of his knees kissed the backs of mine, the bottoms of my feet perched on the tops of his. I had no choice but –for the moment, at least, and isn’t that all we have anyway?– to be decidedly, unreservedly happy.

Christmas at my house this year. You won’t be able to miss it. It’s the second one from the corner, the one overflowing with laughter and family (both blood and chosen) and delightful smells, the one near-bursting with lives being lived –really and truly lived– and memories being created. See you there; I cannot wait.

|| October 17, 2004 || 4:36 pm || Comments (2) ||


“I’ll take ‘AUDBLOGS’ for five-hundred, Alex.”

|| October 13, 2004 || 9:02 pm || Comments (1) ||

This girl I know needs a computer

She don’t believe anyone could mute her

She’s doing so much harm, doing so little bloggage

But you don’t want to get involved

You tell her she can manage

And you can’t change the way she types

But you could put your arms around her

I know you want to blog yourself

But could you forgive yourself

If you left her just the way

You found her

I stand in front of you

I’ll take the force of the blog


I stand in front of you

I’ll take the force of the blog


You’re a blog and I’m a mog

But you know you can lean on me

And I don’t have no fear

I’ll take on any blog here

Who says that’s not the way it should be

I stand in front of you

I’ll take the force of the blog


Laser-Shooting Eyeballs: Tops On My List of Wants Absolute Needs

I’m nearing the end of the fourth day into my conscious decision to quit smoking (yes, I’ve gone without a smoke for more than four days in the past, but it was not a concentrated effort*).

I’m not yet at the point where I want to hack all of you up into bits and then swear at the little pieces, but I think that place is not at all very far off. I dunno, I just have this really, really huge feeling that the day in question will somehow magically coincide with the day I plan on delving into the computer repairs.

So if I’m not blogging again by the middle of next week, send funds for a new machine. My lack of patience, skills and nicotine may culminate in a scenario that will likely mirror the actions of a drunkard toting around a nitro cocktail.

*Save for the whole ‘three pregnancies’ thing. We don’t count those, because I was not doing that for my own personal good. Plus, I kept starting back up after the babies were weaned.