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Archive for May, 2005

|| May 13, 2005 || 4:30 am || Comments (7) ||

Pardon my lack of lucidity.

Made the mistake of not waking intentionally and taking pain meds last night; now the leg and ankle are screaming fire. Maxim didn’t wake me because I seemed to be resting soundly and I’d slept so poorly night before last. Basically, I am just killing time and distracting myself (the pain is the kind that makes you vomitty) so as not to sick all over the place.

We leave in thirty minutes so as to be in Huntsville by seven ay emm. There they will put me under and make me hurt some more so as to make me all better.

Specifics: I came over a hill and hit a tractor (ohhhh, the irony and humor in THAT! I will make light of it later; I don’t have the energy or focus to right now). My fifty-five should have trumped his twenty or so, but it didn’t. I’m glad it didn’t, because the paramedics told my husband I kept asking “Did I kill him? Did I kill that man on the tractor??” and weeping bitterly after each query. Apparently he was indeed more than fine, and back out working in his chicken houses that afternoon, while I lay screaming, having my shit put somewhat back into place.

(I’m not being all bitter, even though it sounds like it)

I knocked the whole left wheel well off of that tractor –swerving, don’tcha know– and impressed the two truck drivers, six paramedics, three passersby, two county deputies and one state trooper on the scene: “Why boys, I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen such.” and the rest concurred: They hadn’t, either. At that point I was calm and lucid enough to raise my arms in v-for-victory and managed a weak, “woo! go big or go home!”

I know those fellas thought I was touched in the head, because I kept trying to make conversation to distract myself from everything and I kept getting uncomfortable (?) looks.

I have all the tendons ripped from the interior side of my ankle/foot, so those will have to be tacked back on today. My ankle was severely dislocated; they took care of that in the ER. My distal fibula (lower end of the smallest leg bone) is broken clean through and jammed sort of in and down. This will be corrected surgically as well. My orthopedist is a prince and very kind; I’m thankful that I was relegated to his care. My family is amazing in their tenderness toward me and willingness to help.

Maxim and I don’t have health insurance, and I will be out of work for at least a month, probably more. I won’t lie and say I am not worried, but I am fully trusting in God to help us in the gap, because that’s what he does when you are doing the very best you’re able. Our auto policy will cover about 5K worth of med stuff, so I imagine that will be sucked up by ten ay emm today. :o )

If any of you wants to contact me and have the digits, feel free. My momma and daddy are here looking after the kids and will be fielding calls. Or, you could call my mobile and I’ll get back to you when I’m sufficiently conscious. My doped-up ramblings may prove amusing to you.

I don’t know when I’ll be up to posting again, as this exercise has literally exhausted me. I ache everywhere still, and I have bruises as big as Texas on my arms and chest. What makes me laugh is the little tiny sandpaper of a scrape just below my chin. Skillzy will keep you posted (see entry below).

I am alive, and so, so glad to be, no matter the hurt at present. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

|| May 12, 2005 || 10:21 am || Comments (9) ||

Hi, Skillzy here. I know y’all aren’t used to me being serious around here, but I am today. I just got off the phone with Jett a few minutes ago, and I could tell when I picked up the phone that she didn’t sound right. You know all those trials and tribulations she listed a couple of posts down? Well, there was another one yesterday.

She asked me to tell you guys that she won’t be posting for a while, and to pray for her. She was in an accident yesterday, luckily no one was critically injured, but her leg is messed up, and now she has no car, and she’s having surgery on her leg tomorrow.

She promised to keep me updated, and I’ll update you as soon as I hear anything. Does someone have the link to her birthday wish list? If so, put it in the comments so that people can send get well gifts. HOWEVER, save your pennies, cause what she’s really gonna need is cash money. If any of you can help me set up some way to pass the hat, please get in touch with me, so we can do that.

Leave your good karma in the comments section, or send her an e-mail (jettsuperior-at-gmail.com). If you’d like to get ahold of me, mail me at (skillzy-at-gmail.com). That’s all for now.

|| May 10, 2005 || 11:02 pm || Comments (3) ||

You can blame her.

Not big on memes or pre-scripted sorts of things, but this one had character, so bang on!

1) My uncle once:
rode over two state lines with me in order to teach me how to drive a stick shift.

2) Never in my life:
have I bungee jumped. No way, nuh-UH, bullshit on that noise.

3) When I was five:
I used to sing ‘Dixie’ every single morning at my snotty little elitist-bastard preparatory kindergarten. I loved that place, for real.

4) High School was:
an interesting social experiment. And the place where I was the best heroine and villian I could possibly be.

5) I will never forget:
the first time a man struck me in anger.

6) I once met:
(not a name-dropper)

7) There’s this girl I know who:
I woulda married had she been a man. Plus, there is this other girl who would rather give you her whole bag of chips rather than allow you to pluck one from the bag.

8 ) Once, at a bar:
I ended up dancing all night with this Jarhead grunt instead of a cute flyboy that was trying like hell to charm my ankle socks off, because the Marine bribed this other little guy to run interference (a.k.a., the ‘cockblock’) on the two of us and distract ole boy long enough for the mighty leatherneck to birddog the situation. This, for those of you unfamiliar to USMC ways, is an illustration of the phrase “ADAPT AND OVERCOME, OORAH!”

9) By noon I’m usually:
dealing with my third or fourth family of the day. The type of family depends on the day of the week. All my paper-crazies are stacked up like cordwood on Mondays, so never call me on a Monday unless you want to be ‘dealt with’.

10) Last night:
some interesting things happened. There is a post about that coming later on down the line.

11) If I only had:
more money than sense, honeychile.

12) Next time I go to church:
I will feel welcome and loved. Our church is great, and I fully mean that in the Tony the Tiger sense of the word.

13) Terry Schiavo:
fucking ay. And bee, and cee, all the way through eff. That whole mess reminded me to reiterate to my family, even my children this time, to unplug me after twenty-one days, donate any relevant tissues and/or organs, cremate me and throw one fuck of a party where everyone laughs and talks about all the fun we had hootin’ and hollerin’.

14) What worries me most:
is the thought of one of my children disappearing or being hurt.

15) When I turn my head left, I see:
a broad expanse of living room wall.

16) When I turn my head right, I see:
a big-ass living room! Tiiiiiiight.

17) You know I’m lying when:
I say I can tolerate ill-bred assholes.

18) What I miss most about the eighties:
ballet flats, baby. I lurrrrrved me some fucking ballet flats.

19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I’d be:
Cassandra: Prophetess, Princess, Cursed.

20) By this time next year:
I would like eight hours of sleep per night. And an option for afternoon naps at my leisure.

21) A better name for me would be:
Misguided Potential.

22) I have a hard time understanding:
why people sometimes refuse to just shape the fuck up morally/emotionally/spiritually.

23) If I ever go back to school I’ll:
be in a big danged hurry to finish up.

24) You know I like you if:
I encourage you to actively do that breathing thing.

25) If I won an award, the first person I’d thank would be:
cliche and played, but my momma. Mad props to the mother unit.

26) Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro:
Mozart, Slim Pickens and I would fully throw down. There will be no Darwin nor any Geraldine Ferraro at my party. I got no love for backsliders or feminists.

27) Take my advice, never:
point to your chin when your mother politely but firmly threatens to ’slap the piss out of you, Elizabeth.’ Don’t even try to cowboy up on this one. Just tuck that tail and humbly say, “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for my smarty-pants behavior, mother.”

28) My ideal breakfast is:
turkey and fresh spinach on wheat, light mayo, BIG-ASS MOUNTAIN DEW to get the gears crankin’.

29) A song I love, but do not have is:
‘Cry, Little Sister’

30) If you visit my hometown, I suggest:
you abandon all mulitsyllabic, ethnic-sounding names. Become a Buchanan or McClendon or Lancaster or Alexander.

31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars:
I hate impressionistic, stream-of-consciousness bullshit masquerading as a ‘question’. Fuck that. If I wanted psychotherapy, I’d go on my own, and then only because I wanted a prescription for Klonopin. Biznatch.

32) Why won’t people:

33) If you spend the night at my house:
you will have the poofiest blankies and most crisp linens ever. However, I would likely forget to score you a pillow, because I travel with mine and selfishly assume that everyone else does, as well.

34) I’d stop my wedding for:
…good, if the groom had been shtupping a bridesmaid in the recent (read: engaged) past.

35) The world could do without:
Fred Durst. Would somebody shut that asshole up, already? And tell him to stop touching women. I fear the repercussions of him being able to procreate.

36) I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than:
if you crackheads think I’d ever in a million years lick the belly of a cockaderoacha, you need to step back and bring the chalkboard into focus before the exam bell rings.

37) My favorite blonde is:
soft ash with honey-gold overtones.

38) Paper clips are more useful than:

39) If I do anything well, it’s:
making pretty babies.

40) And by the way:
Lisbon is Portugal’s capital city, and someday I hope to get good and sloppy drunk there. In whose company remains to be seen.

“You’re not a human being; you’re a waltz.”

That’s a quote from one of my favorite movies. It is not one of my favorite movies because it has an exceptional story line, but rather because of the following:

1) Andy Garcia (of whom I am not typically a fan) (although sources say he is indeed a fan of yours truly) is so godblessed slick in that movie, so very textured and touchable and as close a thing to real as you will ever see onscreen, that it matters not a whit to movie purists that the plot is goofy and not in that sexy way all the kids like. He overwhelms the “HOLY HELL, WHAT A PERFORMANCE!” buttons; they get stuck on WOO!, or something akin to it. ‘Slicker’n jizz on a whore’s gold tooth’ (see Rob? I told you I’d use it one day…risk-taking is my forte!) about sums it up.

2) There are characters named things like ‘Critical Bill’. CRITICAL BILL, OH YEAH! Critical Bill sounds something not unlike the names of certain characters that, alas, did not spring out of my head, but someone’s actual loins and have peppered my life with some interesting tidbits. Read the archives if you don’t believe me, suckah.

3) Christopher Walken. Any movie containing him, a reference to him or someone speaking his name automatically gets a free pass. Christopher Walken is the cheese and we are the helplessly-drawn mice.

4) The very inspired scene in which, All Chivalried Up And Noone To Duel With At Dawn, Andy’s character walks into a boardroom meeting and begins to rather aggressively re-seat the tie that moments before hung languidly about a certain accountant’s neckmeat. The part I like best about this particular scene is not so much the fact that he strolls into this meeting, greets the accountant with a quick, “Hi there” prior to cinching him up in his own tie and then lectures like a Baptist preacher after the prom while strangling Ye Olde Beancounter with his own off-the-rack couture; it’s the fact that when one or more of the suits shakes off enough flabbergast to dial up security, security drags Andy out but Andy is crablegged to the accountant and fucking him up the entire way. I’ve always been incredibly moved (artistically and otherwise, hubba-hubba) by tenacity. Tenacity coupled with violence? Well, the only thing that could make a fella more perfect in my eyes would be the fact that he owned a winery.

Now that we have that out of our systems, on to more pressing matters. I call this segment of the post “Somethings. Or, some things.” I’m warning you: There will be subheaders. Don’t stub your toes on them, pretties.

(there are reasons for the whole not posting thing)

And there are, indeed. Read on for further details.

Scout: First surgery, minor or otherwise!

Why does this always happen during ball season? These injuries, I mean. She misses half the season, some piece or bit of her below the elbow region wrapped, splinted or sutured, preventing her from being the full-season hindcatcher she so longs to be. To answer any and all inquiries: Yes, she is fine. Yes, it was minor. Yes, we have no more bananas, we have no more bananas todaaaaaaay!

If you barf when I gush, then I’ll stand back and by all means, proceed!

I got this referral while I was away. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it firmly. What makes me look at it and go, “Awwww!”, however, is the links list. I’m seated there among some of my favorite reads, and some very finely-honed literary voices nutjobbers; I am in fabulous company! Any time I follow a link and find myself on the same lists as people I really, really admire from a pencil-pusher’s standpoint, it makes me feel goofy and fuzzy and notatall able to be thankful enough that people see me in the same league as the others listed in the near proximity. I don’t care if you people believe that. I am the dork and I declare it thus!

More proof the state views me as a fit parent

First foster kid is on the scene. One day, we’re a happy family of five, plugging along merrily despite the trials and trevails (I so want to throw in the word ‘trivet’ somewhere here, but even *I* don’t go that far) and soONsoFORTH that life wantonly flings at you. The next, it’s “Here! Have a bouncing bundle of fifteen-year-old!” and you’re off! Her name, for bloggy madness, will henceforward be Piper. Piper Superior….yes, that’s nice. I didn’t want to truly introduce her to you all until we were sure she was a fit. In the interest of confirmation, I humbly submit a tiny exchange:

JETT: While I was doing the trim in your room, I got a little bit of paint on your blue shirt.

PIPER: My favorite blue shirt? The favorite one?

JETT: That’d be about the scope of it.

PIPER: *goggles*

JETT: Hey, I told you to get your stuff out of the way so that I could finish up in there.

PIPER: Sure, blame the victim.

So yeah, ‘fits’ is an understatement. We are now an official six-pack, for three years, 60K miles, or whenever her parents get their act together. Whichever comes first, cats and kittens.

Jack Kerouac and good intentions

During the period that I would like to refer to as The Era Of The Impending Death Rattle (affectionately shortened to Whiner’s Glee, if you so choose), I actually quit smoking. I felt like such shit that I didn’t even think of things like coating a few alveoli with tar. Then, when I actually did kindasortamaybe think about it, I couldn’t find the halfpack of Marbros that were lying about before The Onset of Certain Death, I’m So Very Sure Of It. I kind of shrugged and stopped caring.

It was more difficult for me to quit smoking than it was for me to kick hard drugs, no exaggeration. It was ridiculous, as I was only lighting five sticks or so a day, and that was on heavy days. But quit I did, friend, and as much I miss it, I’ll stay quit.

See, when I was sicksosick, I couldn’t breathe. It was scary as a motherfucker. When I could in fact breathe, my lungs were still so fucked up that they weren’t getting/processing/doling out enough oxygen to my body and I felt constantly short of breath and tired. I felt like I was getting a picture of what, in thirty or forty or fifty years, I might feel like if I kept on smoking and rang in with a case of cancer or emphysema or Godknowswhat.

Hang with me as to how this ties in to not posting. Used to be, as I’d ploink out ideas and turns of phrase on my keyboard, I’d have delusions of granduer, fancying myself Kurt Vonnegut with the obligatory mouth-phallus jouncing up and down as the smoke and chemicals rousting up the cells in my body brought to life amazing words that were possessed of a certain reader-groping magic. Smoking was inexorably woven with the act of writing, which is so pleasurable to me that I could envision myself fully Sybian in nature: Just add keyboard and stir vigorously.

Therefore, blogging kicks up what little jones I do in fact have and turns it into a snarling, ravening beast. Damn the luck.

So I’ve been roughing up the old parchment with a nib of pencil and a hearty ferocity as of late. Back to my roots, as it were, and several good things are coming of it, or so I imagine. But that brings us to our next point.

Woe is me.

Also found was a very nice referral way back (and it’s just showing up now? the fuck? wha?) from thispersonhere. Apparently, she had me linked at one point and I’ve since fallen from grace in her eyes. To her I say, prime your links list for my return, baby. I’m shoring up the content, stripping down walls, punishing the brutes, making a mad mockery of formally-trained ‘writers’ everywhere. They will cry to their mommas and you will re-link me, by all that is holy!

I always said that he could grow no more stupid. Eatin’ them words, pally.

My ex-spouse, the inimitable Biff, met him a woman.

Now then, I’ve been praying –LITERALLY praying– that he be sent someone to date, fool around with, get to paint his toenails, whate’er he does for jollies since my cutthroat departure from his intimate life several years ago.

So he meets this gal, introduces my kids to her after a mere two weeks (bells! whistles! me counseling him on wisdom and the kids’ emotions and how he should utilize one to deal with the other!) and then proposes to her after three.

This once very attentive father (every weekend, once during the week) has dropped level of participation in their lives significantly (one weekend a month, and doing charming things like going to his future stepson’s parent-teacher conference rather than picking Scout and Sam up on their usual Wednesday night). I am not bitter, but I’m a damn sight angry, because that silly motherfucker used to have to be beat off of our family time with a stick. Now he does nothing of quality with these children and can’t even manage to at least phone them in (pitiful) lieu of regular visits. His kids are hurt and confused, and once again I’m the one scraping up the pieces of them in his wake.

Look, he shore were pretty, but I am growing a little too old to be able to use that as an acceptable excuse as to why I procreated with the pinhead.

How about, “He shore were pretty, and the military gave us free obstetrics.” instead?

(actually, it cost us like twenty-four bucks to bring Sam home, and nineteen or thereabouts for Scout. but who’s counting?)

Anyway, to sum it up: My ex-spouse, I divorced him for being a chickenshit bastard….which, coincidentally, is the same reason she’s marrying him. Mazeltov, or sommat!

Here I am to tell you:

That no, just because someone might happen to send a get-well card with fuzzy kitties on it and write syrupy things about friendship and rainbows and ribbons and fluffy bunnies and lollipops, it does not lower his masculinity quotient.

The fact of the matter is, when that card is counter-balanced with the birthday copy of Napoleon Dynamite (we have all been yelling, “TINA! YOU FAT LARD!” for a fabulous month now) that will inspire someone to show said cardperson their breastesses in some as-yet undisclosed lack of future discretion, welllll, son…..I’d say that puts you a nose ahead in the tester-esterone departy-mentaaaay.

“For my sheets, they ain’t a-chaaaaanginnnnn….”

(sung to the tune of you-know-which Bob Dylan joint)

Among other things and wishes, Skillzy sent me a Sex Bomb for the ole birthday. I finally got around to using it four days ago (sampling it for the first time, see), and I was so overwhelmed by the deliciousness of it that all day I kept sticking my forearm in people’s faces saying utterly insipid things like, “SMELL THAT! Doesn’t it make you want to LICK THAT ARM?? Bite it? SOMETHING?? mmmmMMMMMMmmmm.” Plus (bonus!), when I later slipped between the flannel sheets with the ice-skating penguins on them that bore me up immediately after the Bath O’ Magictm, I was drowning in the yumminess all over again. I’m not washing those penguin sheets until I can scrape up another order and effectively scent each successive linen set I stretch across the Queen’s Poofy Box O’ Sleepity Goodness.

Skillz, I’m a sucker for your love. And ylang-ylang. Lick my arm. Smell my sheets. Thank you for olfactory bliss. Your four-thirty plus shipping was wisely invested, sir.

There are big fat kudos. And a glass of milk.

They are all for the carton o’ generosity that one anonymous somebody had Lush send out. Putting in a purple slip of paper signed only, “Happy Birthday, Asshat” was THE BEST EVER, I’ll have you know! I laughed about that one for days; you must be a long-time reader. Please ‘fess up, so that I can put you in line (near the front) for sexual favors should my very-loved current spouse fall into a hole somewhere.

One more excuse before I go:

My cousin Kerri was shot by her psycho ex-husband. I’ve been spending a lot of time corresponding with her, stoking up the coals of self-esteem that I see still timidly pulsing at her core. It is taking a lot out of me emotionally. Pray for her, please, if you’re the praying sort.

Since I was asked…

No, I will not go to the spring formal with you. Or you, or even you.

But thanks, really, for inviting me.