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Archive for June, 2005

 
|| June 6, 2005 || 3:44 pm || Comments (2) ||

The harsh reality of it is….

Just a little bit ago Piper was watching a Lifetime movie. I know, I know, as the foster parent, I am responsible for guiding her away from such heinousness* and horrible early life-training. I like to be wise, however, and pick my battles.

PIPER: OH MY GOD!!

Jett is startled away from her blazing hot free interwebnet blackjack game

PIPER: I HATE social workers like that.

Piper is waggling her finger at the teevee, and begins to mimic one of the characters in a simpering, sugary tone

PIPER: ‘Ohhhh, honey, you’ll be home in a week.’

PIPER: WHY DON’T THEY TELL A KID THE TRUTH? “BOY, YOU ARE GOING TO A GROUP HOME FOR THREE MONTHS; ONLY…IN MY LANGUAGE, THREE MONTHS MEANS A STINKIN’ YEAR.”

Piper is spunky. We love the shit outta her.

*She likes the Golden Girls too, by the way. IMMENSELY.

 
|| June 3, 2005 || 2:11 am || Comments (2) ||

…and a snide little petty aside.

(everyone save for a certain fit-pitcher may continue on to the post previous)

No, your hapless trolling for fresh eyeballs is pathetic. Also pathetic is your discernable lack of manners, then your passive-aggressive swipe in response to my politeness, which I am not beholden to bless you with; however, my momma raised me properly.

We won’t even bring up the ‘picking on a girl‘ argument, although I should, since it’s evident that playground tactics are what you’re most comfortable with.

I’ll pit my writing against yours any day. What content I choose to seat here is my own fucking concern. ‘…self-absorbed fusions of narcissism and voyeurism…’ might be a pretty accurate and okay way to characterize what it is I do (as I’ve always claimed to do it for my own fucking amusement, dickdrip, remember?); was it supposed to be insulting? YOU keep coming back. You’re just pissed that you’re one bone-wielding monkey in a zoo full of polit- and warblogging apes, waving and hoot-hooting as the enlightened few of us curl our collective lip and tolerate your boorishness disguised as punditry.

Funny that you turn to insult the same readers that you were attempting to court two days ago. I point! I laugh! I picture you in silly pink panties!

You’ve got potential, but I’ve got five years on you in this medium and (as talented as you may be) a brain like a shotgun, hands double barrels and spraying words up under your petty-acting petulant hide.

Bon vivant, my aching ass.

 
|| June 3, 2005 || 12:01 am || Comments (9) ||

May was quite a month.

[ed note: The following recounts what was alluded to in number ten over here. I sat and scribbled it on the side of a country road late at night, rain slamming down everywhere. Sometimes you have to write a letter before the words go skittering away into emotional holes like sand crabs on a beach. Only, unlike those crabs, the words don't poke their heads out every day. Sometimes they leave altogether, because your insides hiss "Git!" at them. Your insides want your outside to be able to function; they are about saving the system.

I tried to audblog all this that same night, but the words would not flow right, falling clumsily and block-like out of my mouth. I called red, because he gets it when I am like this, and because he --like me-- is a lover of words and of passion and of star-crossed loving that goes on No Matter What. Plus, he's just nosy and found the audblog file not ten minutes after I fucked it up at least four times, listened to it, and called to leave me a voice mail saying it stuttered his heart.

When I read it aloud to him, I did so without much thought and with no regard to reason, just like I felt when I'd written it some thirty minutes before. Afterward, he let go a long exhalation and said, "Sugar, slow the hell down. Words like those are meant to fall heavy and lazy on a body's heart, not be chunked like rocks at the head." Or something akin to that. He gets wordy when he's been drankin'.

I told him that these moments wear me out, even as much as I love them in that bitter, pining fashion, so I try to run headlong through them as quickly as possible.

He asked when I would post it.

"Wellll," I said, "This is a letter."

"Huhhh-ney, come on. You've posted letters before."

"I know, but I would imagine that people get tired of hearing this shit."

"Don't you get it? That's a big part of you that keeps people coming back. Even when you have it put away, people sense it about you and they wanna drink that stuff up. Post it."

It was not so long ago that I wrote 'you can't doubt words of a drunkard / evenifyouknownottotaketheiradvice'. 'Cause drunkards mostly tell you the truth, unless they're trying to rook a pint out of you. Most times, they even tell the truth then, because they can't fucking help it. A drunk is usually a drunk because he is all too familiar with truth and wants to get past it just a little bit, even if it means sour cotton wadding in his mouth, kidneys dripping lead and an oompah band in his skull later on.

But I digress. Your momma should have already told you these things. That's not really what I'm here for. I'm here to unzip my skin and flop out my insides for you. SO, as a helpful means to an end, I've dimmed the lights, poured some of my daddy's plum wine into the overpriced but gorgeous crystal, and set the teevee to that station that plays The Best Soft Rock Hits Of The Sixties, Seventies and Eighties! (If, by the end of the last sentence typed, I don't agree, I'm writing those fuckers for a refund.)

For some reason, I feel I should note that Dan Fogelberg kinda makes me feel old when I listen to him. But they don't fucking write love songs quite like they used to, so I feel no shame in telling you that when he croons, it fucks with me mightily. Here I go again, readery darlings, taking the advice of a drunk. While I'm under the influence of the Seventies Best Soft Rock Hits. Thank you for once again indulging me, and for showing up with a spoon to eat up my fleshy heart. I hope you find it sweet but not cloying, filling and not draggy.

And as a postscript, I think some of you need to be reminded that you are somebody's 'IT PERSON', forever and ever amen, whether you are fully aware of it or not. If you're lucky, not, because then it's only killing one of you, and not the both of you (as has been my humble experience).

Oh, and: You boys, you fucking tell the truth. Stop trying to be so hot-damned brave (or your perception of it) and just tell the truth.]

Hey.

So what is it about running up on me some years distant that makes men lie about what they really think, how they really feel? It happened again tonight….first you, and now him. (Although it’s occurred before, but mattered not-so-much, geddit?)

Well, he was from eight years ago; we met on the job and apparently one day I said somthing that jerked him to attention and burnt the notion of pursuing me into his brain. (Honey, I looked even better then than when we met — all the baby had melted out of my face; I was cheekbones and set jaw and eyes ablaze).

One stiff drink, one long kiss and we began to illustrate the word ‘torrid’ in all its naked glory — he was to me sexually what you were to me every other way. We fucked and fondled and sucked and groped each other for hour upon hour until one of us would literally cry out, “Enough! My God, enough!” and collapse into a spent heap, limbs tangled and akimbo. We’d smile across my three-hundred dollar linens and talk for a while, low and lazy, before I’d get up and push one or the other of us out the door.

He loved me fiercely, and while I loved him in a fashion befitting the oldest of friends (deep and warm), I was not also IN LOVE with him; alas, he could not boast the same. He was kind and passionate and corn-pone hilarious; he was sharp as a fucking tack in that common-sense country way and he had a loyal, tender heart.

Leave it to me to sledgehammer it — the whys and wherefores of it are not of much importance, as I have surely aggravated you with enough details already.

So there was a friend-of-a-friend to whom I was giving a ride this evening and as we waited for her in the drive, there he strode across the yard… I just glanced at first, then something about the way he moved brain-checked me and set the dots to connecting: ZIP-ZIP-ZIP and oh, recognition and before my sense of propriety could leap to the forefront and tell me different, I was tilting my head out the window and calling his name.

He didn’t miss a beat, recognizing my voice instantly, and his stride got more purposeful as he neared the car. I stepped out, we embraced long and warmly, smiling earnestly at one another upon pulling back. There was catch-up conversation, which led to catch-up questions, which led to the aforementioned lies.

At first blush, he told me that he was happy, just as you had. I was so, so glad, just as I was for you. I wanted to know he was satisfied and fulfilled and loving his life. I wished nothing less for him.

I introduced him to Debby, the girl already in the car with me, and as I did, I placed my hand alongside his cheek, looking into his eyes, and smiled tenderly at him. “We are very dear friends,” I said to her, and I saw it then.

Something in his eyes got up and hitched, telling me he’d lied. Telling me that I was his ‘It Girl’, ‘The One’, whatthefuckever, and that his heart was far from done with me.

Then when I dropped Ella off to her husband later in the night, that boy from the past took his leave from their dining room. He asked me to step out of the car and see him one last time. There in the first warm rain of this season, he took my hand and admitted he’d lied: He was in no way happy and a great deal of that was because he loves me even yet — still bears the dual torches of “LOVE” and “IN LOVE” and cannot bring himself to set them aside because, even in spite of the agony they cause, they still warm him, delight him, comfort him.

I took him into my arms then, there in the dark, and embraced him with all the things that are good in me, feeling as if somehow I was supposed to comfort him. He held me right back and –his lips placed on my neck– began to cry. (I wanted to scream and run away, because GOOD LORD! I never expected him to be a cry-er.) It is a powerful, breath-sucking thing to witness a man crying. Even moreso to hold him as he does so. It sort of fucks you up a little, because it gets in there and scrambles your insides around. Or, at the very least, rearranges a couple of things. And it bonds you further to him.

So he loves me, still finds himself wanting me, still asked if we could see one another. How I would love to meet him for drinks every now and again –he still looks like Matthew McConaughey, the pretty bastard, and I still regard him fondly– but the fact that he feels no less would make it selfish for me to use up his company conversating and laughing while not promising him a future with me.

Aaaaand, (because he is he and not Thee) I told him no.

Now I sit here on the dark, rain-slicked roadside, perplexed and somewhat heartsick. Why do you lie to me, men that I love? (& in your case, want so damned badly) Why do you find false bravado (which is the same animal as caution, silly fool, and not a far cry from cowardice) necessary? I COME IN PEACE! I COME BEARING THE BEST HEART YOU’VE EVER KNOWN! IT COMES WITH A MATCHING BRAIN AND PERSONALITY! Lie not, and be ye not afraid!

Sometimes, dear-sweet-infuriating You, God taps me on the noggin (with a ball peen hammer) and says, “Lemme show you a little somethin’, girl.” Such was the case tonight. It wasn’t him standing there in the rain, beseeching me after he’d not been honest. It wasn’t him encircling me, falling on me, mixing his salt drops with the sky’s.

It wasn’t him there, lips tasting my neck one more time.

It was you. You. I can see it even now in my mind’s eye: You weeping against my flesh, panicking my head and provoking my mercies all at once, further embedding you in that place that no one else will ever occupy because I cannot evict you from there, even should I want to.

I hold no illusions about us, fine and sweet Yankee boy — none at all. That is why I can say with complete surety that we will be restored to one another one day and there’s not one single fine fucking thing either of us can do to prevent it. It’s just meant to be, and that’s all. Therefore, I will not try to skirt it (and if you’re smart, dillhole, you won’t either) and I’ll try not to wreck myself on all the piney, girlymush bullshit in the meantime. Alright then.

I love you,

Your It Girl.

 
|| June 2, 2005 || 12:50 pm || Comments (3) ||

Oh, the visuals.

What would be a hoot is if a whole buncha menfolk show up.

Like a big bloggery panty raid.

THAT is what I’D pay to attend.

 
|| June 1, 2005 || 3:25 pm || Comments (3) ||

My GOD, man! It’s spectahhhhcular!

Please, everybody, try not to hyperventilate when you hear the news.

For the first time in three whole weeks, I fixed my hair!

I mean, I’ve been brushing it, and washing it, and looping it in a frustrated, sloppy ponytail on occasion, but today I actually Worked the Coif Mojo. I keep winking at myself in the mirror.

You people LOOK OUT when I’m able to get to the mascara!

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I originally got the grey cast because I was gonna do a ‘project’ on it. Then I got sort of lazy, because I was all like, “You know what? This fucker is coming off on the thirteenth! Bullshit on all that effort, only to have it thrown out so soon.”

While I was sleeping the other day, the children got together quietly* and wrote on the front of the cast while I was sleeping. So now, in silver Sharpie marker and centered perfectly down the front of the big grey monstrosity encasing my leg, is the following:


i do my own stunts.

Ha-ha, kids. Pack your shit. Bootcamp for all of you.

At least it sort of coordinates with the theme of the signs (oh, I’ve not told you? Mathias is All About The Signs these days) Mathias securely and thoroughly taped to the back of my wheelchair, reading “Im SoRRy YoU had A caR WReCk” and “I LovE YOU

Did I mention that he didn’t skimp on the tape?

So, I could tell you about the idear now, so that we’ll all be ready to roll when THE BIG THIRTEENTH gets on over here!

I want to collage my cast, and I want you people to mail me something to be decoupaged on there. It will be your ’signature’, and will be a lot more fun than all that “haha, you braked yore laig!” and “get better soon, Jettaroo!” crap that is standard fare for the fiberglass-wearing set. What do you think?

Also, it will require the use of a P.O. box, as there are some genuine crazybastards that visit here (you know who you are, you cutie-pies!) and I’m not fully okay with hanging it all out there. I don’t presently have one set up. I know some of you have one, as I’ve sent stuff there in the past; would you be willing to share temporarily? I WILL SEND YOU PRIZEY GOODNESS AS A THANK YOU for bundling up all the mail and forwarding it on to me.

Okay, fellow interwebnet gods and goddesses, your favorite feisty dork is signing off for now. I think I may be up for some cosmetic enhancement now.

*and that, kind reader, is a thing of miraculous proportions.

 
|| June 1, 2005 || 12:43 pm || Comments (4) ||

*cough*

o_O

Sorry about that. Everybody carry on.

A bunch of stuff you prolly won’t give a shit about, but I’m occupied and that’s what counts.

First off, Glory Girl wins the Piggly Wiggly tee-shirt contest, WOO! She told me a juicy secret (which I will yell, “I knew it, I knew it before alla y’all!” about later on, but for a price I can mum’s the word for now), she got her number in the hat and Scouty drew her out. Thanks to all twenty of you for entering and occupying some of my more-than-plentiful spare minutes. I forgot how good the response to these contest-thingies are, as I’ve not done an official TACKY PACKtm in some time.

I have time on my hands! And empty priority mail boxes! And all manner of pre-purchased kitsch! Who knows what mayhemian pursuits may result??

So this morning I opened my inbox (yessss, you people, I do sometimes do that) and found an e-mail asking if I might be interested in contributing to a modest little compendium of stories by Southerin Bloggahs. Sure, I might, as I’ve not been ‘officially’ published in several, several years and this might be a jumping off point to get me back in the game. Er, so to speak. Plus, it sounds like plain ole fun and I’ll likely get a free book outta it. Adam asked those of us he e-mailed to peruse our archives or scribble something fresh, our pick. I set to combing through the five years’-worth of vast, wordy warrens I’ve erected and taking notes, intent on letting you guys help me decide by way of popular (and the pimply, unpopular others of you) vote.

I’m a giver like that. And I love me some Muffinasses!

Early on in my muddling about, I came across this entry, which is about a ‘Gypsy’ boy named Tommy Gorman and my fifteen-year-old despair at having been star-crossed lovers. If you know anything at all about Travellers and the Traveller culture, you know that in one clan you can find fifty or so folks with the exact same names, i.e. Tommy Gorman, Mikey Carroll, Pete Sherlock. As adept as I am at rooting people out of the ether, even if I wanted to find my Tommy, it would be nigh on impossible, given the Traveller’s wariness of outsiders and the veritable pile of Tommy Gormans I’d have to slog through.

Plus, they kind of tend to swap around identities. A little.

Of course, being a hard-head, I’d give it a shot anyway. Somewhere in Texas or somewhere in Memphis were the only two leads I had. Well, the long and the short of it is that there is a lot more information available out there than in the late eighties when I started studying the culture. Now there are even websites run by members of the Traveller community and there exist Romani scholars that are of Romani descent themselves. There are activist sites and resource sites and the like for the Gypsy community.

(some people believe that Gypsy is an inaccurate moniker for certain groups of nomadic people, but I’m not here to split hairs; frankly, I’m not educated enough on the subject to do so. I will say for the record, though, that the Irish Travellers within my scope of reference/experience introduced themselves as Gypsies and were proud of that particular label)

Reading some of the things I read, it got me to thinking. I’ve mentioned here before the story of my great-grandfather, who as a young Irish lad was stolen from his mother land –along with his brothers– and sold into slavery. They ran, one was killed in the process, they changed their names and forged new lives.

What was and still is remarkable (to me, at least) is that, so far as I know, they never looked back. There has always been an uncomfortable itch in the back of my brain regarding this fact, because he raised up a brood of children that were exceptionally close-knit and family oriented. My great-gran –by all accounts– did not speak of his family, his past, gave no hint as to who he had been. There was Before America and After America, and the door on Before America was decidedly closed …for whatever reason.

But I wonder, now that I’m thinking about it. I wonder, since the Travellers of back then were more nomadic and more circuitous than Irish Travellers of now (therefore more difficult to find), and since my ancestors were young boys (and maybe short on memories? resources to get them home?), could my great-gran have been a Traveller? This would provide several reasons for his secretiveness, not the least of which being the fact that Gypsies have been persecuted, despised and reviled for age upon age. Travellers are a proud, closely-knit people, and quite adept at building a mystery.

My people are proud, loud, resourceful, tough, musical, lovers of the land, family-bound, adventurers, bearers of great heart: All Traveller characteristics, so I’m thinking this notion may not be so far-fetched, yeah? I’d have no idea how to even go about researching it, though, since no records have been found that predate my great-gran’s Total Life Makeover.

But it gives me something kind of delicious to ponder.

In other completely unrelated matters, ZAKK WYLDE!:

He says, “Come on over here and gitchoo a big ole Muffinass HUUUUUUG.”

He’s pretty, and I always like eyeballing him, but he looks as if some questionable odors might emanate from him. So I’ll continue admiring him from afar, as I always have.

Love you people, mean it!