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Archive for November, 2004

 
|| November 30, 2004 || 11:58 pm || Comments (2) ||

Mmmm, eggroll.

Sometimes, when the wasabi paste is not where it’s supposed to be, I flip out a little (just for effect).

Keeps everybody around here on their toes.

 
|| November 26, 2004 || 5:48 pm || Comments (2) ||

(in which I ponder)

It’s amazing, really, the level of rage a subcontractor can raise you to without even raising a fist or saying a cross word.

It’s truly, truly baffling how these beasts manage to torture someone by just promising (over and over in the course of ten days’ time) that ’so-and-so will be done and installed by today’ and then not following through.

I just may end up running my head through the divine, freshly-stripped and -exposed brick (thanks to ME! and okay, to SAM!) in the kitchen. You’ll know it if you see it: It’s the kitchen that has not seen the first cabinet, nor even the first hint of one.

Kindly be patient, loyal Muffinasses, for there are words a-brewin’. I just haven’t the energy (nor the uncramped fingers due to various drilly, painty, sandy, spackly, caulky activities) at present to smack ‘em up, flip ‘em and write ‘em down.

 
|| November 23, 2004 || 1:53 am || Comments (1) ||

(And I’m not sorry. NOT! SORRY!)

I called my spouse an Irredeemable Fuckface today. I meant it.

“You, sir, are an Irredeemable Fuckface. If, at the present, you were pinned face-down and helplessly beneath something Very Large and Excrutiatingly Heavy, I would kick you over and over in the assal region until my anger was sated!”

(I would indeed –for the record– dig him out after that)

I love that d00d beyond the motherfucking-made-of-green-cheese moon and back, but he better start listening a little better or ten kinds of hell is going to break free and run all down over the top of his thick-assed head.

Gutting and remodeling a home on a time crunch is a bit of a, ummm, strain.

 
|| November 21, 2004 || 10:16 pm || Comments (3) ||

All in an afternoon’s work, m’friend.

[Skateboard shop. JETT SUPERIOR. SAM SUPERIOR. One of the foster kids that JETT hauls around to various and sundry places on various and sundry occasions. FOSTER GIRL is female, fourteen, and VERRRRY Drew Barrymore both in appearance and attitude, i.e., exceptionally cute, witty and fun.]

FOSTER GIRL: Hey Sam, you finished? I think we’re ready to go.

[RANDOM SKATE PUNK that was conversating with Sam turns and makes a flippant remark to our heroine FG.]

JETT: Feel free to pick up any ole thing and bust him in the head with it, FG.

[The eyes of several surrounding skatophiles grow large. Dinner-platish, even.]

JETT: Funny how these little dudes think that shoving four wheels up under their feet gives them license to let any ole smart-aleck crrrrap fall outta their mouths.

[A handful of skate kids, FG and SAM chuckle. There are skate kids mocking RANDOM SKATE PUNK from all directions.]

SK1: Oooooh, she burned yo’ bacon!

SK2: D’OH!

SK3: AHHHHH-hahaha!

RANDOM SKATE PUNK: Maaaan, Sam, your mom is harsh.

[Sam nods sagely while smirking]

SAM: My momma don’t play.

 
|| November 17, 2004 || 11:31 pm || Comments (4) ||

In defense of the strong ones.

“Who counsels the counselor,

And who even cares?”

I wrote those lines some time ago; they are a snippet of song lyric that my muse gave me one night in November when I was feeling pretty fucking spent and empty and useless to everyone (not the least of whom was myself).

I want you all to do something. Say ‘oooohhhhmmmm’ and tickle yourself on the inner thigh. I want you to think of someone you know or are acquainted with that makes you think, “Maaaaan, he/she can deal with shit. When bullets whiz past him/her, he/she is standing bold, trying like hell to catch those fuckers between his/her teeth so he’ll/she’ll have something solid to chaw on.”

To clarify: Not necessarily someone with all their junk together, mind you, because a) that person is likely living a lie with everyone else in mind and b) the best heroes are always tragically –almost unapologetically– flawed.

Now I want you to shift the gears lightly and swiftly so that you’re ruminating on this: “How in the world can I be of some relief or help to that person?” Because, you know what? Nobody ever really thinks such things when presented with someone they view as strong. The prevailing sentiment, sadly enough, is that since certain folks can handle shit, they don’t ever need a break from it. They are solid, steady, they have spines of steel and souls on fire and iron wills and laser-shooting eyeballs. Surely to God people with a handle on shit (and laser-shooting eyeballs, yo) don’t need to put it down, right?

Wrong. Everyone needs a reprieve to go wash their hands. And maybe even a luxury moment to fluff their hair.

In defense of the strong ones, they need to be allowed to be weak sometimes. They need to be scooped up to someone’s bosom, cradled and nurtured, for a resting season. That season is likely remarkable in its brevity, but so, so very valuable to them. They shouldn’t have to ask. They shouldn’t be allowed to collapse under the weight of everything and everyone around them without someone noticing, without someone saying, “Hi, I’m here, and while I think you’re way hip and bitchin’, I think I might have something you need, if it’s only a willing ear you can pitch your troubles into for a time.”

You will catch them off guard, these bold, capable ones; you will catch them off guard and you will likely renew them just on sentiment alone. They will go, ‘Holymothero’God,who’dathought??’ and they will be shoving you into their heartspace so fucking fast that you will get a cramp.

Go on, little Muffinasses, shine up your touchstone, whether or not they’ve let on that some polish is needed. Pay attention; look and really see. Go counsel your counselor. Care.

“Peggy Sue’s still hung up on Treble Without A Cause.”

The first time I saw that series of looping grooves in your belly, I wasn’t horrified or disgusted.

Not at all.

My first instinct was to want to put my fingertips to them and draw out all the hurt and the suffering that they surely represented. I think I knew then –as infuriating and annoying as you could be, even on that first night– that I would end up loving you like nobody else.

I went to Memphis last weekend…there’s no trace of the places where we were ‘us’; everything’s been either boarded up or altered beyond all recognition. It left me soul-winded to learn this.

Yeah, everything’s changed.

Except the park. You remember ~ the night before I married him you pulled the car up alongside that park –locking the doors, turning it off– and asked me to run away with you.

“Everything,” you said, “It will cost me my family, my career, everything, but I don’t care.”

Sometimes I wonder if I’d have answered differently, not been so fearful of the havoc you’d wreak on me, if you’d have just said “I love you” somewhere in the middle of all that beseeching. Three words to break the house.

I mean, I knew you loved me, but the fact that you were either too stubborn or too prideful (or too both) to be just vulnerable enough to tell me…well, it was far too unsettling a thing to allow me to hitch up my boots and holler, “Let’s go!!!”

Someday you will gather to the courage to contact me again…know that I will receive you warmly when you finally do.

I hope the knowledge of that comforts you.

I miss you so, so much.

 
|| November 10, 2004 || 8:35 pm || Comments (4) ||

Readery Lovin’, oh yeaaahhhhh.

Look-look-looooook what a charming reader sent me for Dia de los Muertos!


Each one is hand-decorated and unique; when the giver asked me what mine looks like, he made fun of me for not opening it yet (“I’m saving it!” says I). So, pally, it’s got orange swirls for hair, a rose on its forehead and RED EYES. It couldn’t be more perfect for the recipient. >:o)

The very attractive, sideways girl is Mish (they’s nothin’ purdier than a laughing, sideways gal, is thur?). If you were wondering as to my whereabouts, well….then she’s to blame. She’s commissioned me to make purses for her and her entire wedding party, so I’ve been busy with that order (SO MUCH FUN!). Can’t entirely blame it on her, however. There were a couple days of back home in Memphis, drinking-slash-carousing (Elizabeth, you are the best! waitress! ever! I heart you!) thrown in there.

Speaking of Memphis drinking-slash-carousing, here’re Butch’s hands:


Butch, apparently, was on top of a car in Memphis, showing the aftereffects of alcohol. I don’t know Butch, per se, but he makes pretty art and he’s got great-looking hands. Please recall that your hostess is a Hand Girl from way back.

I found Butch via Hana, who I am equally fascinated with. She’s from ‘over yonder’ and is here in little ole Hellabama working on a Really Cool Thing. She, for all intents and purposes, has an especially dreamy life right now. Well, from an ‘experiences’ standpoint, anyway. Please, Hana, know that the South you are experiencing is wildly different from most of the rest of what’s below the Mason-Dixon. Seems like you are keeping fine company, though, and that’s a good bit of anything, really.

Side nod: Hana has Project Row Houses in her links list. I came across this site some months ago and saved it to my ‘To Be Blogged As Really Awesome Shit’ file. Needless to say (so I’m typing it, ar-ar), I forgot totally about it until seeing it over at virtualhana.

So while I’m throwing out willy-nilly links to boys with beautiful hands, if you’ve never listened to Peter before (or read his precious words, natch), you should scurry on over and do so. He and I have talked about meeting on the road somewhere in middle America one day. He’ll bring a guitar, I’ll leave mine at home and bring some angst and maybe, just maybe, one of us will remember to shlep along a recording device of some sort to catch all the flying music with. I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly convinced that there will be beer and clever lyrics aplenty, as well.

Okay, wondrous Muffinasses, I believe that’ll be it just now. Tune in tomorrow for some trucked-up, whiskey-inflated passionate sorrow. Then come back the next day for Official Interactive Reader Funtime! Promise. Cross my heart.

With a shabby shoelace and some Liquid Nails.