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Archive for March, 2005

 
|| March 31, 2005 || 1:28 pm || Comments (2) ||

for alla you what’s been axing.

Look! I have one of those site feed thingies!

We here at Superior Industries just need to know one thing: Now what the hell do we do with it?

My day was a short one, and now I am drinking my lunch.

Dear Social Services job:
I love you like a fat kid loves cake.
No, really.
Fondest,
Jett

Today I got to meet two of the most stunningly wonderful-looking little boys. So much so that I thought I might gnaw on their cheeks upon the sight of them. Then I remembered that I have a job because people actually do shit like that, and I reined myself in. I made do with merely beaming like a big ole idiot at them.

They had shocky white-blonde hair and the coolest electric green eyes you’ve ever seen. There was a smattering of pale freckles and blocky, oversized dungarees with hands shoved deep in pockets. Baby-cool. The oldest was five, his little brother (who was three) looked like he’d been sprouted from Five’s bone marrow or some shit. Identical save for six, seven inches in height.

I kneeled to greet them on their level, as is my custom.

“‘Sup, sweet thang?” is how Five greeted me. Oh boy.

Some four hours later, after a visit with gramma had been pounded out, I nestled Three in his carseat for the impending ride.

“Lean back, little guy, so I can get you all buckled in,” I said.

“Suck it, bitch,” was his reply. Yes indeedally-doo, they are both charmers.

 
|| March 29, 2005 || 11:15 pm || Comments (4) ||

When I was four….

(so, I mentioned to y’all that I’m having to do that life story thing. it’s now approximately two weeks past due. it was proving to be rather intimidating, so I came up with the simplistically brilliant plan to break it into years. here, for your reading pleasure and general mockery, is one of them)

1975

I started tap and ballet lessons. I loved the notion of dress-up and the one of being presented to other folks, of performing for their delight. Plus, Mrs. Gianconni had come straight from the old country and had that thick-as-a-rare-sirloin accent. She smelled spicy-sweet like my Nuna. I adored the weekly hour in her third-floor studio, with the five o’clock light slanting in the windows, dust motes pirouetting all lazy through the rays.

Always with family, my father’s in the far reaches of Arkansas soybean fields, with a quarter-mile of driveway and a willow-lined creek out back. My Pop was leathery and rained love down on us like the gentlest of summer showers, all warm and refreshing, while pressing silver dollars into palms and shushing us lest my grandmother and cousins find out. My grandmother was the inverse of everything Pop was to us: Cold, remote, witholding, disapproving. She was a mighty disappointment, because you could never please or delight her.

Mostly, though, we spent time with maternal relatives, as my paternal family had not just issues, but an entire subscription or two. I always marvelled at how my father’s family took their hardships and buried them in their collective gut like a cancer to eat away at them while my mother’s family, faced with the same withouts and have-to’s, were close-knit, laughing, raucous people who loved so hard it might scare any newcomers or passers-by. My Memaw was an angel who happened to wield a rolling pin. My Papaw was a hard man, predisposed to drinking and doling out beatings to whomever crossed him on an ill day. He and I were crossways from day one. Out of thirty-eight grandkids, I was his least favorite. My sister was his most favorite. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t much care, either. I was pretty secure in myself.

One day, we were in the dooryard at my Memaw’s. I don’t remember where my parents were, but I know they weren’t there. There were a couple of aunts, a handful of cousins, the stray uncle or two, and my Memaw. I was wearing brown polyester pants. Flared below the knee. In a word, hideous. I was standing and talking to my Uncle Lonzo and my older cousin Barrett, who sat in fiberglass chairs under a huge oak. Out of nowhere, Lonzo reached out, did some fancy fingerwork with his Zippo and set those brown polyesters ablaze at the hem of the left leg. I began screaming my head off. My Aunt Myrna burst from the house, screaming herself. She scooped me up, ran me into the kitchen and deposited me in a sink of dishwater, effectively putting out the blaze. Remarkably, I was physically unscathed, but I cried and cried because my saddle oxfords were ruined; they were my favorite shoes. Old drunk Lonzo did me a favor, however, by destroying those pants. I hated them with a fierce passion.

Lonzo was gone by the time my parents came back to hear the tale. My father went hunting for him, white-faced and thin-lipped, that night. He took a gun with him. Luckily, Lonzo was laid up in some whore’s house and not at one of the local juke joints he haunted. My daddy was aiming to put a bullet hole in his head that night and a nail in his coffin the next day. Had he found Lonzo, he would’ve; Mother could talk no sense into him.

To this day, if someone flicks a lighter too closely to me, my clothing, my hair, I flip right the fuck out. It’s very Pavlovian, I know, but I can’t seem to recover from the startle of it enough to not react.

I wrote my first book in ‘75. It was about pirates and glowing treasure. I illustrated it. I think I could draw pretty proficiently back then. I don’t know what happened to that particular talent.

 
|| March 19, 2005 || 1:13 pm || Comments (3) ||

A Saturday Story

by skillzy

I had originally planned to write something here about Internet friendships and relationships, but never really came up with anything cohesive after kicking it around all week. Then, this morning, as I was searching for a hammer to fix some damage the little fartknockers next door had done, I remembered a story, and thought I’d share it with y’all.

This happened sometime while I was in high school. We were making a float at school for some kinda parade, homecoming I guess, and I needed a hammer. So I went into my Dad’s little workshop and picked out a hammer. There were two there – an old wooden one and one with a fiberglass handle. Since the fiberglass one looked a little newer and nicer, I took the wooden one. Spent the afternoon banging on the stupid float, and got ready to head home. Couldn’t find the hammer. Looked all over the place, under, over, around, no hammer. Asked around, no hammer. I finally gave up and headed home.

I don’t remember how the news of the disappearance got passed on to my family, but I do remember my Mom talking to me. Daddy was either so pissed or so upset that he didn’t talk to me for a while after I lost that hammer. Because that wasn’t just any old beat-up hammer, it had belonged to Pop. And now it was gone.

Remember in Ava’s Man when Charlie dies, and all he has to leave to his family is his toolbelt and roofing tools? Well my grandparents, Big Mama and Pop, weren’t a whole lot different than Charlie and Ava Bundrum. They were a little better off, because Big Mama had steady work at the mill, and Pop worked as a carpenter. See, that hammer wasn’t something that sat in a shed, occasionally coming out to build a birdhouse, or hang a picture. That hammer helped to feed and clothe a family that was coming out of the Depression. That hammer was worth way too much to be so easily lost by a stupid kid.

So if, someday, God comes to see me and says, “You know what? I’m feeling magnanimous today. How’d you like a couple of do-overs?”, I’d settle for just one.

 
|| March 8, 2005 || 7:12 pm || Comments (1) ||

(pee ess)

If you are still registered to post to this blog, knock yourself out. Somebody oughtta be getting use out of it.

 
|| March 8, 2005 || 7:04 pm || Comments (15) ||

tha illest

This last month has been very, very challenging for me. I never-ever-ever get sick. When it happens that I do, I rebound quickly and thoroughly. Even when I am horribly, terribly sick, I’m not needy and I’m certainly not a whiner. I simply want to be left alone in a dark place and looked in on, pulse checked, etc. every now and again. Low-key. Not at all demanding. Self-sufficient to the bitter last. I never go to the doctor, preferring instead to handle things naturo- and/or homeopathically. I’ve been on antibiotics a total of maybe eight, nine times in my entire life, which is testament to the success of my personal philosophy (three of those times were routine, pre-surgical rounds of preventive antibiotics). I don’t care much for the docs, as I’ve been witness to a lot of slipshod medicine in my life. Not to mention that hospitals are largely unpleasant places. Even when my children were born, I was chomping at the bit to not let the doors of the place hit me in the ass.

All that having been said, I went to the doctor today. Not only did I go to the doctor…while I was splayed out all over the table (weak beyond belief, so the limbs fell where they would), I cried like an ultra-large tit.

Um, guys? I’m not really big on tears. Especially in public places. But I hurt so bad today that I want to die, really, and tears were a way to vent the yuck and the pain going on in my body at present.

I started getting sick just before Valentine’s Day and it seems I’ve picked up everything under the sun since then. This bothers me, and is worrisome, because (as stated before) I’m not prone to sickness. I think it’s got my husband, bless his heart, in a bit of a tizzy. In the last twenty-four hours, he has said the following to me:

“Sheesh, you must feel shitty. I’ve never seen you whine like this!”
and
“I’m concerned about your being sick all the time. It’s just not like you.”

He’s not being the King Of All Understatement; he simply doesn’t want to appear alarmist. Just like I am a no-whiner, he is a no-panicker. When I’ve reached the point of tears, it’s baaaaad, and when he’s reached the point of voicing concern, he’s freaked out. Rightly so, I guess, because by his reports I was lying in the bed talking crazytalk last night. Delerium is fun for outside observers; not so much for participants.

Out of the last four weeks, I’ve lost approximately two weeks of work. I cannot afford to be sick, but I can’t possibly do my job while sick, as it is both physically and emotionally taxing. Continue to ‘press through’ and work=more sickness and more time out of work. Catch-22’s are so ugly.

Because I’m fully about laying it all out there, I’m going to use this moment right here to be very brutally honest with some of you: You suck as friends. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, as people keep yelling, “THESE ARE INTERNET PEOPLE, THEY AREN’T REAL.” I’m tired of being the person who invests self and emotions only to find that there is no reciprocity. Call me foolish, but I thought friendships, no matter the medium in which they were formed, were made up of a big ole two-way street. I disappear from your life, for whatever reason, and I’d have thought you’d make an effort to reach out and find out why. Or instead of calling at your convenience, you’d call when you know I’d most likely be available. I select friends carefully, but I guess I’ll have to be even more stringent than I’ve been.

Which fully fucking sucks. Maybe I’ll just stick to the IRL people.

To those of you that come here merely as readers, as voyeurs, I appreciate your patience with me in times of little to no content. I know the frustration of clicking through to one of your favorite interwebnet ‘personalities’ and finding either laughable content or stale, half-assed entries. There are so many things going on in my life to write about, but I lack the energy or focus to do so right now because I have been so sick (times of wellness are to play catch-up with familial and work obligations). Ditto for e-mails, which I am pitifully bad at anyway. I’d much rather hear someone’s voice, but I know that this is not plausable or advisable in all situations. I may be stone crazy, but I do have a family to think about and therefore cannot wantonly fling the digits about.

This is all just a really wordy way to request that you all please be patient and don’t give up on me; I’ll be back and swinging just as quick as I can.

Maxim is home now, so I can go collapse back into the cozy nest of comforters scrambled about on my bed (being sick is doubly hard on me, as I’m not a lie in bed kinda gal….massive boredom sets in terribly quickly).

Before I go, I want to post what I originally came here to post. Initially, I wanted to scan it so that you could fully appreciate it, but I am too wiped out for even that; a transcription will have to do.

Late last week, Mathias wrote his first-ever note to somebody. That somebody happened to be me.

I NEED ChANJ FOR THE booK STOR. So I CAN GiT A booK FOR OUR CLASS.

MATHiAsS

I never cease being amazed at their growth, these babies of mine. Holy cow.

 
|| March 2, 2005 || 10:12 pm || Comments (2) ||

Stand back, she’s gonna blow!

THE WORLD HAS BEEN VERY UNKIND; I’VE HAD A VERY! STRESSFUL!! DAYYYYY!!!! AND AM PRESENTLY GORGING MYSELF ON TAQUITOS.

REMORSELESSLY.

SO, when I am marinating in the angst induced by Cosmos Fuckingtm what does that mean, precious Muffinasses? (ebbody all together, now)

“IT MEANS THERE WILL BE A FLURRY OF HIGH-FALUTIN’, NINETY-DOLLAR WORDS MAKING AN APPEARANCE IN THIS SPACE QUITE SOON, JETTAROOSKI!”

Very good, boys and girls. In the meantime, because I have always wondered and that must certainly mean that you have, as well:

Why would I die in a horror movie?
by toxicninja
Name
Age
Gender
Killed by broken in half
Killed because you skinny dipped
Quiz created with MemeGen!

Must…go….I have the sudden urge to put on ‘Strokin‘ by Doctah Cahtah and flail wildly about the living room. There will be lots of arm motion and exaggerated facial expressions.