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Archive for January, 2006

 
|| January 29, 2006 || 3:29 pm || Comments (1) ||

I MUST HAVE THIS!

…and if any of you turkeys start a bidding war so as to drive up the price before I can get my grubby, art-loving, tacky-kitsch desiring hands on it, there will be hell to pay!

 
|| January 28, 2006 || 4:47 pm || Comments (1) ||

Bitch, I’m black and I’m proud!

Look, I know you people prolly view quizzes as a poke in the eye, but these results were too funny to go unposted:

Rainessha
You’re Deputy Rainessha Williams. You’re black and proud. You enjoy bringing down the white trash of Reno because you think that all those Crackers are crazy. You love who you are and you also love your mace.

Which Law Enforcement Officer Of Reno 911 Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Thanks to CNL for the link.

 
|| January 21, 2006 || 9:50 am || Comments (5) ||

The Town That Was

Amazing, sad and spooky.

I hope I never stop discovering things that I previously never knew existed.

 
|| January 18, 2006 || 10:49 pm || Comments (7) ||

Long-forgotten chambers of memory

So I was driving three of the kids home tonight when the remnants of a long-ago dream came burbling up, out of nowhere, from the depths. Before I really even knew I was doing it, I was recounting the dream in vivid detail to Sam, Scout and Piper.

It was hypnotic and liturgical; the lot of rowdy teenagers jockeying for the next conversational opening transformed themselves into a rapt, quieted audience as if by magic.

“I was five when I had this dream.

“I was five, and I wore a pale blue shirtwaist dress. We called them shirtwaist dresses; the best way I know to describe them to you is to tell you that they are like the dresses that babydolls wear, with rounded collars and fitted bodices and a fullish, gathered skirt.

“I looked sort of like a nice store-bought doll when I was five: I had shiny flaxen hair that my mother kept pulled back into dogears, I had a thick shelf of rounded bangs, chubby cheeks, small teeth, big blue eyes. You’ve seen the pictures. I wore those babydoll dresses because my parents were somewhat moneyed by the time I came along and they could afford to dress me in fine things for events like church and dinner parties and the like. When I had those shirtwaist dresses on, I also wore patent -real patent leather, not the faux vinyl ones whose straps would crack in two upon the third wearing– Mary Janes and beneath those Mary Janes were fold-down socks embellished with remnants of the fine Irish lace tatted by my Great-Grandmother Elisabeth.

“Yes, Scout, the one I was named for.

“Yes, Sammo, the really mean one. She wasn’t mean for the sake of being mean, though. At least I don’t think so. She had a hard life. I’ll tell you a story about that another time.

“So I was in this dress and the shoes and the socks and my hair was up in dogears. I was perfectly groomed, because we were going to visit my Aunt Jackye, who was and is my godmother. Only, for some reason Aunt Jackye didn’t live three blocks from us, but waaaaay out in the country.

“It was nighttime, so it was dark, and the road we were travelling on was waaaaay out in the country (like I said before), so it was EXtra dark. We were driving in a really large car; it was a Coupe de Ville, I think, and I was in the very middle of the huge backseat while my parents were in the front.

“My fingers traced the ribs sewn into the leather seat while I watched the night-drenched bumps of roadside scenery flick past.

“So we were driving, and then we weren’t…we were just there, at this old farmhouse, and we went in through the back door like good company should. The back door led straight into the kitchen. It looked just like you think a farmhouse kitchen in the seventies should look: It had ugly brown linoleum and a laminate table with aluminum legs and cushy vinyl-covered banana-colored chairs and a rounded sixties sort of refrigerator and printed tab curtains.

“We sat down to a meager but happy dinner of hot dogs and I remember thinking –I specifically remember the five-year-old Dream Me thinking– that Aunt Jackye and Uncle Bob were really living kind of shabby these days. I also remember that it was very surreal, because this was the first lucid dream I’d ever had. A lucid dream is where you realize you are dreaming even as you participate actively in the dream scenario. It was like I was me in the dream, and at the same time I was me watching the dream, all disassociated from it. Even in my dream, I was amazed by this.

“After the hot dogs, there was pie, but I’m not really sure what kind. I don’t think I was sure what kind then, either, only that it was homemade and the crust was full to bursting with a fruit filling. They were thick, juicy slabs, the crusts yawning apart like a gaping mouth barely containing all this sweet, this juice, this utter and complete and fulfilling goodness.

“The pie dishes were cleared away and a card game began in earnest on top of the vinyl tablecloth. The table covering wasn’t there for the meal; it was only put on for the card game, which I thought was strange. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around? I perched quietly on my chair, pudgy knees bent and toes dangling just above the decidedly unattractive brown linoleum. I did as all children in my generation did when they wanted a pass into the inner sanctum of cardplaying adults: I never asked to play (because no, this is a game for adults and no, there’s no partner for you, just hush) and I remained quiet as a mouse as I observed.

“There came the sensation of not being alone there, the five of us (just where was my baby sister, anyway??). Something played an itch at the back of my brain, and I was compelled to innocently lift the vinyl of the tablecloth, scooch down just a tad, and peer beneath it.

“There, under the table, impossibly long limbs covered in floppy dotted material and folded akimbo this way and that, was a clown. He had Bozo’s bright red triangle-points hair, but he had wet, wet eyes and fangs (years later, when I first read the novel ‘It’ and then saw the made-for-teevee movie, something tugged in the back of my brain, but I brushed it away the way you shoo a moth from your face. Then I forgot the shadow of memory again. Until tonight.)

“‘Heh,’ he said to me, ‘heh. I am not here for anyone but you. No one else can feel me but you. If you tell them, they will be able to see me, but they will not be able to feel me like you do. If you tell them, I will eat you, and then I will eat them. I will eat your mother the slowest of all.’

“His voice was tinny and full of deep-toned reverb all at the same time. That voice sounded older than time. Five-year-olds aren’t supposed to know that, to know what ‘older than time’ is, but I had a sense of it, all sudden and complete. Like I stepped through a doorway of automatic knowledge and there it was; I just knew something I hadn’t known a minute before.

“After dropping the tablecloth, I sat quietly still, but my eyes were a little rounder and my back was a little straighter. My fingers laced painfully together in my lap, midknuckles grinding against one another like a little memo to myself to not let my words slip out from between my lips and flop around on the tabletop, mussing the card game and our collective lives.

“A couple of times I raised the tablecloth, and there he still sat, folded squarely and awkwardly between the four legs. Both times he met my gaze (his eyes were glittering hateful stones, shiny and smooth-hard), smiled wetly and brought his knobbly, white-painted and claw-nailed index finger to his papery red dust lips.”

Lost in my own telling, I forgot I was speaking to my children.

“Fucking bully.”

It was here that Scout –the bravest and most unflappable of all those I’ve birthed– shook her whole body, saying “BRRRRRR.” loudly.

“Creep. Eee,” said Sam, and Piper looked as if she’d swallowed a golfball. I expected them to ask me what happened next. None of them did. The subject abruptly changed and we once again took up the laughter that we Superiors often bear as the standard in our daily battles.

I’m glad, because I just didn’t have it in me to finish. Hell, I didn’t know I had it in me to even remember. The brain is quite an amazing little lockbox sometimes.

 
|| January 17, 2006 || 9:05 pm || Comments (2) ||

Oooh! A new bit player! YAY!

So, as some of you long-term Muffinasses may recall, I’ve used this forum to introduce you to several somewhat ‘colorful’ local characters. They include, but are not limited to, such smash hits as Irritable Chinese Guy and Antisocial Three-Wheeled Bicycler.

(I would throw all the newbies a history fill-in linkytype bone, but I am hopelessly lazy this evening. Condemn me for sloth if it makes you feel even an eensy bit better.)

Tonight I’m here to share a new person with you: Lesbian Pizza Driver.

What is remarkable (where remarkable=’how this applies directly to ME, you know’) about Lesbian Pizza Driver is not that she is lesbian, nor that she is a driver (she’s not a pizza at ALL, for those of you that are easily flummoxed), nor even that she happens to drive pizzas while being a lesbian.

(she doesn’t really drive pizzas. she drives a little red truck. the pizzas go IN the truck. you know, with her. she drives them around. at least until she gets to the destination, a.k.a. Place Of Future Pizza Consumption.)

(this is going to be a rabbit-chasing night in the way of storytelling. you people know how I sometimes get.)

What is, in fact, remarkable about LPD, is that she flirts heavily and shamelessly with me whenever I

ay) pick a pizza up and she happens to be staffing the drive-thru.

bee) order a pizza and she happens to be the person delivering.

For the record, I’ve never answered the door in my underwear. Nor have I gone through the drive-thru in a mink (and ONLY a mink, woo!) and said something suggestive like, “Which fur do you prefer, this one,” *opening coat and casting eyes demurely downward* “or THIS one, hmmm?”

So don’t come at me with culpability and shit. I know how you people are.

Look, I’m progressive and shit. I am fully flattered when a lesbian turns an appreciative eye toward me. We women are a catty, analytical lot by nature. We, with a few exceptions, size up and decimate other females quickly, cleanly and coldly. So if a chick decides I’m worthy of her appreciation, I consider it the highest form of compliment. I get hit on by females with a fair amount of regularity; Maxim finds this quite amusing (I offer him the same sniggers and mocking finger-pointing when the shoe is on the other foot, as he is a magnet for gay men) each time, but is overwhelmed with hilarity when a particularly butchy chick hones in on me.

I am perfectly comfortable with a dykelyke female as a contemporary. I’m SO VERY SQUIRMY when they turn the hopped-up pheromonal eye toward me.

“EEEE! I am a straight girl! I luuuuurrrrve me some penis! EEEEE, frightening butchbabe, just EEEE!”

Throw a lipstick lesbian at me, all curvy and soft and smelling good, and I’m receptive to her flirting. YOU HEAR ME, FEMMES? I WILL TOTALLY LET YOU STROKE MY HUMONGOUS EGO. Please, please, just don’t be disappointed when that’s all you get to stroke. I’ll be your eye candy all day long, but there’ll be no panty parties here.

LPD’s flirting grosses me the hell out. She’s all skinny and angular with a mullet ‘do and she postures in a way that’s reminiscent of a junior high boy: “I’m not a man yet, but I’m doing my damnedest to be a reasonable facsimile thereof.” She’s nice, and I’m kind in return, but I don’t offer much in the way of interaction aside from general politeness, because I DO NOT WANT TO ENCOURAGE HER IN THE LEAST. I don’t want to encourage her, because she throws off the salivating lust vibe something fierce.

Oh, Lesbian Pizza Driver, would that I could be your next Friday night post-delivery shift conquest, but I’ll have to take a pass. There is a nice Mary Kay lady that I’d like to introduce you to, however. I’ve long suspected that she uses the shining pink auspices of her car-winning cosmetics career not to line her pocketbook, but to gorge her eyeballs on all the giggling T&A a ‘respectable’ Methodist girl can stand. Maybe she can soften you around the edges just enough to make it palatable for me to offer you a beaming smile when you go all eyebrow-wiggly on me.

 
|| January 14, 2006 || 10:29 pm || Comments (2) ||

Gets my vote

…in the ‘Best Use Of Natural Disaster-Related Detritus’ category, this is verra, verra boss.

 
|| January 14, 2006 || 9:13 am || Comments (5) ||

Whoopsies, forgot to invert the can.

Last night, somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve-thirtyish timewise, rummaging in the fridge for various elements to a hot fudge sundae:

“Where is that fucking hot fudge? I swear, heads are gonna roll if there’s not any hot fudge left.”

“Why can’t I get any whipped cream out of this can?? THERE IS STUFF STILL SLOSHING AROUND IN THERE.”

*lightbulb*

“If I find out any of the kids have been doing whip-its, they eat the can.”

I go to the bedroom, hot fudge sundae with extra nuts sans whipped cream in hand, and wake Maxim from his half-sleep to report my findings. He immediately looks sheepish and raises his hand. Oh good, the children aren’t seeking out brain damage. My husband is.

Then, after a bit of discussion, I find that he sweetly and innocently defines a whip-it as surreptitiously throwing back his head and filling his gaping mouth with a frothy mound of dairy. In a way, this is very endearing, hearing my husband admit to acting like a guilty little boy. Marriage is made up of two things: endearing little displays of honesty, and viciously supporting your partner in sink-or-swim moments.

Which brings us to the reason that I was tossing the kitchen for a hot fudge sundae at an hour fully unacceptable for putting toxic things like dairy and refined sugars into your system: Sam approached me a couple days ago and asked if he could go and live with his father. At first, there was this clanging noise-thing in my head, along with a monotone mantra, “you knew this would come around one day. you knew this would come around one day. you knew this would come around one day.” I stretched my eyebrows way up, sort of shook my head to clear it, and listened to all the boy-man –MY boy-man– had to say.

He was respectful and calm and assured me that he was neither mad nor upset nor unhappy. He heaped this reassurance before I even thought to lob the questions at him.

“I just want to be with my dad.” he said, shrugging.

A wail rose up inside of me, and I carried it around for two days before I was able to sit down with him, straight-faced and reasonable, and give him my answer.

“I will let you go, Sam, against my better judgement. You will go under certain and specific conditions that your father will have to agree to, then put his notarized signature on.

“I am letting you go first and foremost because I love you enough to trust your judgement. I am letting you go secondly because I know what it is like to spend your whole life with an itch in your heart because you wonder what might have been. I know the feeling of being restless for the rest of your days because something important has not been attempted.

“In four years you will legally be considered a man, and I guess you moving from young adult to adult starts right here. I would be a terrible, selfish mother if I did not allow you to grow as a person. I would not be deserving of you if I didn’t encourage you in certain specific ways.

“Next Saturday is your fourteenth birthday. Instead of the sixty bucks I was going to give you toward a new amp, I am giving you this: I am giving you the freedom to either fly or to flop. You can pack this week; I’ll withdraw you from school and re-enroll you there on Friday. I’ll take you and your things to your father’s on Saturday afternoon.

“You will go with my absolute blessing and a love that you will never be able to fathom.”

In a painful ironic twist, Bob Dylan provided the soundtrack for my little monologue. What song, you ask? “Like A Rolling Stone”. For ham and hell.

This was yesterday evening. I had my game face on, but it was killing me. I’ve cried myself to sleep for three nights now, and slept fitfully at best. As good a father as Biff’s been in the past, things have changed drastically with him, his life, and his treatment of Sam and Scout in the last eight months. I’m bitterly worried about sending my boy into what could turn into a snakepit.

One of the things I’ve always praised my mother for was her willingness to let us try and her encouragement of me and my siblings to be bold in the attempt. I am trying to be worthy of that legacy. It’s shredding me, but I feel better today than I did yesterday. I’ve raised that boy up to be the best person he can be, and he evokes feelings of tenderness and ferocious pride every time I so much as hold a conversation with him. I have to trust in that; I have to believe that my past instincts were right and I’ve done a better than passable job as a parent.

He told me not even five days ago, “Unlike most of my friends, I actually have a bond with my mother.”

I replied to that with, “Well, son, I’m glad you feel that way. I’d like you to know that even if you weren’t my kid, I’d choose to hang out with you, because I really, really like you. You’re one cool person.”

I may yet fall apart. His father may do something to fuck it all up. I’ll keep you jokers posted.

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

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people / They’re drinkin’, thinkin’ that they got it made / Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things / But you’d better lift your diamond ring, you’d better pawn it babe / You used to be so amused / At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used / Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse / When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose / You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

// Bob Dylan, “Like A Rolling Stone”