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Archive for January, 2005

 
|| January 30, 2005 || 1:32 am || Comments (3) ||

Typing with mittens is ill-advised.

(bit fikmgerl;ess gopves so niceopu, thsnka;)

Translation: “(but fingerless gloves do nicely, thanks)”

(it’s cp;e as jer;; jefre./ P’m, ficliog FREEZXIOMG!)

Once Again, for those illiterate in Mittenese: “(it’s cold as hell here. I’m fucking FREEZING!)”

I labor under strange delusions, like “Maybe some linguist in the far-away future will base an entire language on those few little mistyped words there!”

Or even, “I may one day be the subject of some crazy cultlike group’s affections and they will adapt my posts as their life’s edicts and further imagines that one day they will all Live In The House Of Superior, AMEN.”

OR! “There could be Official Superior Conventions! Instead of some lame name like ‘Trekkie’, rabid fans o’ Superior would be the very Proud Muffinasses. They would trade and sell Licensed And Rare Superior Memorabilia and they would know the answers to crazy questions like ‘JETT’S ONE DEADLY FOOD ALLERGY?’ and “WHAT IS MITTENESE?’ Hell, those fuckers might even speak Mittenese. Holy damn. That would be wicked awesome.”

I realize that, right about now, over half of you (that would be the segment of the readership that doesn’t drool on itself while doing the daily blog-skimming) are thinking something along the lines of, “You know, I was by and large questioning that Superior gal’s grasp on reality, but this one pretty much seals the deal for me.”

Maybe so, but any one of those scenarios would be too fucking cool to fathom, wouldn’t it?

So, if you were all omnipotent and shit, which would you pick for [Abuantg.]? And –before you even ask– I most certainly have been drinking tonight.

pee ess….I missed you too, you crafty little e-mailers and callers. Sometimes life won’t shake loose of you for nothin’, not even for a great and mighty BLOG!

 
|| January 10, 2005 || 1:30 am || Comments (10) ||

meeting of the minds

Often, my husband and I have conversations that challenge me and/or sate me intellectually.

Other times there are exchanges like this:

MAXIM: HOMBREROS!

JETT: ??…Whaaa?

MAXIM: Tiny men you wear on your head!

[JETT giggles]

MAXIM: AND!

MAXIM: HOMBRESOS!

MAXIM: Tiny men you exchange for goods and services!

At times like these, I fall into maniacal laughter. Mosta the time I then ‘jump his bones’, as the kids all say nowadays.

 
|| January 9, 2005 || 1:02 am || Comments (5) ||

Answer me this one:

What the fuck is wrong with Anna Nicole’s voice in the new TrimSpa commercial?

Also, this whole ‘points equal rewards, fucktard consumer’ retail thing has spiralled way beyond control. If we’re all gonna do points, fellas, I vote that somebody bring their A game and mix it up just a little bit. Make it interesting! I would like to see points for the following:

~me visiting your store restroom, both alone and accompanying the Superior offspring

~my having to put up with a surly employee, and conversely, an over-enthusiastic employee

~my having added my purchase up in my head and having the check I’m writing totally completed before the cashier/clerk/associate/brethren-of-the-dark/employee can even get that shit rung up!

~how quickly I can get into your store and out with seventeen items (or so) marked ‘paid in full’

You know, shtuff like that.

Holy hell, brothers and sisters….everyone has their own little program and their own little fancy-dancy names for program particulars. You can’t keep that shit straight for nothin’, especially if you visit more than one store with a system per week. And THE CARDS!!! If you carried the little card (and some places give you TWO!) from every crapping store you shove a toe into, you would fall over from the weight of all that plastic. Maybe from their outgassing, too.

Not only would I like to get out-of-the-ordinary points, I would like to be able to redeem those points for unique ‘rewards’, as well: Dental work. Car washes. Ice sculptures. A shiny jumpsuit equipped with a rocket pack and lots-n-lots of velcro.

You watch. I typed it and now it will happen. When, in six to nine months, you see a sort of shift in the type of prizey goodness that points can be redeemed for, recall that you heard it here first.

That Faith Popcorn bitch (not linking, as the site makes my gorge rise) ain’t got nothin’ on me, man.

“Oh, candleinthescentof mediterranean fig, how I love you so!”
Or, “Even more praetorian in Two-Thousand Five!”

Okay, I just had this great epiphany. I was sitting here, doing my damnedest to sort of tabula rasa-fy the inside of my head, when it occurred to me that I’ve had cable for ages upon ages and I’ve not grown to love nor heartily abuse (according to past personal patterns of Yours Ever So Fucking Truly) all of its features. More specifically, the music channel portion of the service.

Not MTV (the acronym which stands solidly for ‘more turdy videos’) and its ilk. I’m talking about those stations above all the pay-per-view and obscure channels (‘Purple Asian Clowns In Finger Cuffs And Other Specific Goofy Fetishy Crap’ Porn-A-Look Channel). You know, they’ve got the combo letters-and-numbers station designation and they just sit there playing music.

Used to be that said channels showed you a blank screen and you got the music floated out to you. That was it: Sound and the illusion of infinite black seated firmly above a convenient title bar. Now they’ve got this setup where they pimp themselves heartily with a big chunk of screen, then surround that with tidbits about the current song and the artist(s) responsible for shit like ‘Living Next Door To Alice’ (by the ever-impressive and shark-bit* Smokie!)

None of the rest of that hoo-ha I just talked about is the epiphany. The epiphany deals with the realization that I’ve never moseyed on up to those channels because they fucking frighten me. I’m scared I might bypass being one of those people who (and thereby marking themselves clearly as ‘Normal and Pretty Dang Well-Adjusted’) just turn those stations on as background jabba and head straight on to being one of those people (persons?) that sit and watch the music facts spin into and out of the digital void for hours on end.

Tonight –as on many occasions in my lurid, checkered, yet rosy and delightful past– I dealt with fear head-on by immersing myself in the object of misplaced neuroses and rolling around for a little while. If I itch when I jump up from the briar patch, all the better, pard.

I scrolled through the many offerings; they weren’t as specialized and varied as the pr0n channels, but beginners can’t especially be choosers, as the ill-strung cliche goes.

Let me just say here that I cannot stand the days when I can’t decide what type of music will sit way up and holler straight into my soul. It is on those days when I feel as if I’ve got cheap polyester stuffing holding up my insides. You know which insides: My waydowninnerr insides.

I couldn’t decide what to listen to while I sat here and jackhammered the keys in pursuit of perfectly balanced consonant-vowel hookups. I was gonna put some cheese into the party with the eighties-dedicated station, but the description of the channel scared me in a mighty way:

Hear doves cry with the best pop songs of the ’80s! Prince, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Cyndi Lauper, George Michael, The Bangles.

I mean, despite the fact that I worked meticulously to learn every nuance of the vocal harmonies with regard to those Banglegirls’ remake of ‘Hazy Shade of Winter’ AND was crushed upon hearing the news that George Michael and his flaming white PopGod teeth were unequivocally homosexual, I do have a line in the sand. Right next to that line is a placard that states firmly,

“Beyond this lies some cool music, but woefully bad hair and clothing fashions will plague you. BE WARNED!”

And then there was that ‘Hear doves cry…’ line. Just had to pass on it, folks.

Besides, the most magnificent cheese lies in the seventies! Come on, a duet between Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks? Priceless, folks! That’s like, I dunno, the equivalent of John Tesh and Courtney Love climbing into a studio together nowadays. Wait. I am brilliant! Somebody arrange that! Hurry, before Love sails past the recent Bozo the Clown look and straight on into an experimental phase loosely entitled ‘wormfood’.

Poor Courtney. Heh. ‘Poor Courtney’: That should be the name of the next icky psuedopunk band to come down the pike.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Nothing quite measures up to ‘Hahhh-owwww can I hold you when you ain’t even mine???’ being pulled directly from the testicles of Maurice Gibb and being set into vinyl forever and always, or at least until it is eaten by some sort of high-fallutin’ chemical reaction. YEAH!

You know, two-thousand four was a difficult year in many ways. I’m glad it’s finally stepped out the back door. Come to think of it, every year that I’ve sported matching (versus coordinating) double-digits has been difficult. Eleven was a big deal. Twenty-two was a big, BIG deal. Thirty-three wiped me out without my conscious knowledge of it (Haha, Karen Carpenter’s ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ has only just begun on the teevee). You know, like crossing your legs and having that whole my-top-leg-just-went-dead-numb-outta-nowhere thing. You just don’t realize until it’s time to get up on that sucker and run to catch the frisbee that you’ll be gimped up for an eensy bit.

Last year I learned that one of my ex-husbands remembers me in two seperate but equal fashions: My Personal Whore and My Little Bookworm. Last year I spoke to my father for the first time in well over three years. Last year I watched in awe as my pretty clever eldest child staunchly refused to banish the newly-arrived Letter Cee from Report Card Kingdom; he chose instead to shift it around all sleight-of-handlike from subject to subject (whee! like a family game!). Last year found me putting a period at the beginning of the whole shebang and closing it with an expectant semicolon. Last year, I got to take one of my children out of her country of birth and into a new land to explore. Last year saw more people than I care to count buried physically and several dug up spiritually through letters and photographs and whispered conversations about could haves, would haves and should haves. Last year I learned that the fervency of my effort counts for the sum total of fuck-all if there is not an earnest love behind it. And compassion cannot be overlooked, even if it is sometimes terribly inconvenient.

I rang in the New Year in grand fashion. I had some good food, some hearty laughs and a couple of really solid, skin-screaming orgasms. Then a couple days later I got to press my luck with a cop.

Here’s me, chugging down the highway, gettin’ on with my get-on, deftly navigating the lovely little Saturncar. I come upon an Officer Ub Dalaw and ride merrily behind him. The speed limit on this four-lane stretch of road clearly reads 65, but he is puttering along at 55. He finally pulls to the right-hand lane and I pull contentedly forward.

OUD drops back behind me, follows me for a ways and then slaps on his lights (bastard!). I pull over, and the following conversation ensues:

OUD: Ms. Superior, do you know why I stopped you?

Friends, I love the shit outta this one. Because if I know the answer to his query, I adore being patronized before discovering his deft skill with a pen and a citation pad. Because if I don’t, I similarly love to be patronized. I also love moonlight walks in the park, fluffy kittens and chocolate-covered raisins.

I peer out from under my ballcap and squint one eye.

JETT: Ummm, no.

OUD: Let me put it to you this way:

He really does say ‘put it to you’ and that brings to mind visions of him tossing me across the hood in exaggeratedly pornographic fashion, HA!

OUD: Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?

JETT: I work for social services,

(flash him ugly badge and stretched-too-far smile)

JETT: I’m always in a big ole hurry.

He talks to me in that kindergarten teacher voice that those in mock-authority use on lesser beings.

OUD: Okay, well, am I slowing you down?

JETT: ??

OUD: You were riding my bumper so closely that I could barely see your headlights in my rear-view mirror.

JETT: Ohhh. Well, see, I was always told that the left-hand lane is for faster traffic. Is that in a manual somewhere, or is it entirely untrue?

The whole time I sent out the ‘Gimme the ticket if you must, but please shove the lecture up your butt and ensure that it stays there by chasing it with your billy club, please sir.’ vibe. Plus, I finished with a terribly bright smile.

He admonished me for being such a dirty-naughty, tailgaiting bad girl and let me off with the warning that they were ‘gonna be cracking down on this sort of thing’ in the near future.

In the midst of all this hilarity, I found my catch-phrase for two-aught-aught-fiver: I’m gonna follow a myriad of statements and observations by others with the comment, “They’re gonna be cracking down on this sort of thing in the near future.”

*Okay, I made up that shark-bit part.

 
|| January 4, 2005 || 4:51 pm || Comments (3) ||

Techical difficulties, y’all.

Back up and running soon. So sayeth the God O’ Cable.

(the local librarian is NOT friendly to webloggers! cooze.)