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Archive for July, 2005

|| July 2, 2005 || 11:21 pm || Comments (0) ||

Tingly nether regions

My dearest Kim Kelzer,

I will be your concubine if only you will turn out clever footstools and media cabinets for me on a semi-regular basis. I’m totally a renaissance woman; you shant be disappointed.

Your hands sure are awesome,

Jett “I Knows Art When I Sees Art” Superior

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

For other nifty furniture artisans (including John Eric Byers, who makes me want to jump around yelling, “Woo! WOOO!” because those fucking dressers and chests are so phenomenally outstanding), check out the list on Old Fashioned Milk Paint’s ‘gallery’ page. They put out a tasty product: Beautiful colors, beautiful finish, rowr.

|| July 1, 2005 || 12:54 pm || Comments (11) ||

Something shiny and new.

Last weekend I bought a payment book worth several thousand dollars! A van just happened to come with it. Or is it, ‘they threw in a van for free!’? Either way, an ar-ar follows. Because, snappy readers, I am clever and original and not cliche at all.

YES, I caved. I TOTALLY ate my “NO MINIVANS EVER, nuh-UH.” words.

“This had to be an act of God,” I overheard Maxim telling our pastor and good friend D on the phone, “because she has said from the very beginning that I would never, ever grease her into a minivan.” And the hippie has been trying from the very beginning of our marital union, folks. His One Greatest Fantasy is to give the Punk Rock Girl a free-love makeover complete with all the accessories: Small love bus, hairy pits, patchouli smell (GAG! DOUBLE GAG!), flowy skirts, non-carnivorous behavior and more peaceful outlook. I tell him that were I to fold to his will and submit to such heinousness, he would quickly tire of me and set out in search of another Punk Rock Girl to contend with. Silly man.

(at one point, I foolishly began pondering the whole commune idea, but when I figured out that I’d have to ay)make my own tequila and bee) share it I quickly rubber-stamped that hooha with a great big ole ‘WHY, FUCK NO!’)

I set out on this vehicle shopping expedition with a great deal of chagrin and bitterness and suspicion and trepidation and despair and annoyance and sorrow and fatigue and any other terminology you can come up with to sum up a negative state of mind. PLUS utter, abject terror. You see, in the past I’ve been afforded the luxury of going out with nothing more than high hopes and a price range in mind before pointing to something and saying delightedly, “Ohhhh, I like that. I’ll take it with a sparkly silver bow, please. And gas that puppy way the fuck up, Salesly McWhoreperson.” Really, it was painfully simple. Now, swap the wordage around^ because we have four children to haul about and, ever since the Great Tractor Incident, I am conscious of silly things like SAFETY RATINGS and SIDE IMPACT mumbo-jumbo and AIRBAG TO PERSON RATIOS. My God, someone push me over, because all this ‘being a grownup’ shit is killing me.

I was firm in my stance as to what types of vehicles I would and wouldn’t consider. Maxim started out the day going out of his way to rain on my parade. Things quickly escalated to the point where we were giving one another the stinkeye in anticipation of swapping blows. We went to lot after lot, each stop exponentially increasing our frustration and aggravation both at the process and one another. We clearly had different visions, and I tried to patiently remind Maxim that we were shopping for MY vehicle, so he was there in an advisory capacity and his job was to mostly look pretty and say smart things when called upon to do so.

And oh yeah, to keep the salesmen from rucking up the skirt of my checkbook and fucking it violently simply because I Have A Vagina And As A Result Am Incapable Of Big Man-Purchases Like Firearms And Automobiles. Because, like it or not, I live in a man’s world, yo. If Maxim wasn’t the token male in attendance, my daddy would be. Thank God for Maxim, y’all, because car shopping with my dad –while highly, highly amusing– is embarrassing in a way all its own.

Another story for another time, fellas.

At one point, I shreiked, “Fuck all this noise! Just take the cripple home! I will nevernevernever leave the house again! You tell the kids that they’ll have to walk everywhere! You explain to them why mommy cannot go back to work and all extracurricular activities must come to an end! I’ll just become internet hermit who drools and talks to herself a lot! JUST TAKE ME HOME, BECAUSE I CANNOT WORK IN THESE CONDITIONS!”

There was pulling off the road, there was buying me a Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCo!), there was us putting on our ‘Yes, I Am A Reasonable Human Being’ masks and duking it out mano y mano in the parking lot respectfully hearing one another out. Then we hugged, kissed, slugged one another on the bicep while saying something Bogartesque like, “I love ya kid…” and decided to make one last stop at one last dealership before calling it a day.

As soon as we pulled into the lot, I saw it. It had a glow, the angels sang on high, and a heavenly voice (kinda sounded like Emma Thompson) whispered gently, “Buy me, for I am here to assuage your consumer-related angst, my child.” The reaction was that pressing and immediate, no lie, so I barked “Get the keys, let’s driiiiive!” at the strange and scary salesman.

::not THE vehicle, folks, just a very good approximation of it::

Didn’t look quite like a van, didn’t look quite like an SUV, thereby satisfying the requirements of both Maxim and me. What sold me full, before I even knew the specifics like mileage and features, was the color.

Only a few of you will understand what I am about to say. Those of you who do in fact understand will get it completely: I never had a ‘Hello, Kitty’ phase. The color of this fan is my own personal version of a ‘Hello, Kitty’ phase. Maxim went out to the driveway the morning after we bought it and stood, coffee in hand, observing my minty greenblue-bluegreen new vehicle appraisingly.

“The color doesn’t look half so gay today as it did yesterday.”

Drat. He’s reasoning with himself. That means I’ll have to start hiding the keys or he will disappear to go make out with himself in my beautiful new mode of transport.

We didn’t let on to the kids that we were going car shopping. We just called ahead, said, “Everybody wait in the drive! We’ll be home in a minute to get you. There are errands to run.” They all just about crapped themselves when we pulled in. Later in the evening, Sam and I sat talking in the dining room.

“You know, mom, it almost seems like we’re rich. We got a big house and now we have a big car.”

“Psh, harbor no illusions, kid. All that just means we are yet one step closer to eating dog food.”

Okay, so I exaggerate. But I want my younguns to seek gainful employment as quickly as humanly possible. Fear of having to consume kibble is one means to that end.

As I was driving around (shh, don’t tell. i still have the cast on.) yesterday, I started composing a funeral dirge for my Cool. I want it to have a proper, respectful burial, after all.

Then I had an epiphany: I am not ushering in the death of my Cool. I am just sending it on a lengthy vacation. Far Away. Without me.

It will come back when my children are driving and I can trade out of the minivan. You know, when I am further into middle age and look somewhat goofy driving something sleek and sporty. But I’ve never let looking somewhat goofy stop me before. Embracing my dorkiness is the essence of my Cool, people. The very essence of it.

And don’t you forget it. At the cost of your kneecapses, don’t you dare forget it.

^simply painful, der. you people are slowing up on me.

|| July 1, 2005 || 7:06 am || Comments (3) ||

Ironic humor pieces like George W’s Quagmire by Michael Graham at National Review Online tend to get a bit precious, but this one’s not too bad and has a few head-nodders, especially in mimicking the media’s spin and leftist slant:

“Here it is, July of 1776, and George W. and his lackeys are just now getting around to declaring what this war is supposedly all about?” complained Loyalist playwright Michael LeMoore. “Washington and his neo-congressionalists rushed us into war at Lexington and Concord, before anyone had ‘declared’ a single word about independence. Face it: George lied, and people died.”

Supporters of George Washington and the so-called “war for independence” dispute claims from the antiwar movement that their actions are unlawful, and they point to their formal “Declaration of Independence” as proof.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights,” reads the Declaration in part, “that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” The document was reportedly written by Thomas Jefferson, a white, southern slave-owner, and one of the architects of the “patriot” movement.

Critics quickly noted the hypocrisy of Jefferson’s reference to “unalienable rights” of liberty and the author’s own record of slave-ownership.

“If they really believed in spreading ‘freedom,’ they would free their own slaves instead of killing the British and shelling innocent civilian Loyalist women and children in Boston and New York,” said Howard Deanne, head of the Loyalist National Committee. “And what of the recently uncovered Commonwealth Avenue memos, which would seem to indicate that those closest to Washington were planning for war after the Boston Tea Party back in ‘73? I’m telling you, the colonists of America have been misled into war!”

Though most colonists agree that King George III is a tyrant, polls consistently show that a minority of colonists support open military action against the British. Many pundits also question whether removing the monarchy will make any fundamental difference in the lives of Americans.

Indeed, as support for the war among the American colonists wanes, some Quaker antiwar activists are using the other “Q” word in colonial politics: quagmire. Some even suggest that the entire war was manufactured by Gen. Washington to settle a personal score with the British over perceived insults he endured during the French and Indian War.

“Washington was just looking for an excuse to go to war,” said prominent lady activist Rosalind O’Donnell. “Everyone knows little Georgie would be broke if not for his connections to major land speculators pushing out beyond Kentucky. This is just a land grab! No war for Ohio! No war for Ohio!”

Patriot leaders gathered in Philadelphia, however, were determined to ignore the mounting criticism and celebrate their unanimous adoption of the Declaration of Independence.

“I firmly believe that in the future, this day — July 4, 1776 — will be viewed as a great moment for America and for freedom around the world,” John Adams of Massachusetts told a handpicked audience of “patriot” supporters.

“Is a free, democratic America really worth such a price?” demanded playwright LeMoore. “I certainly don’t think so. The world shouldn’t look to America for leadership. They should look instead to courageous nations truly endowed with greatness. Like France.”

Go read it all for I had to cut some good stuff to keep it brief here.