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Archive for February, 2006

|| February 27, 2006 || 10:45 pm || Comments (5) ||

Ohhh, you madcap so-and-sos.

So this guy walks in today and I’m all, “ANDY! What a great shirt!”

It was a collared thing, a bit of a nubby weave, grey and white which came out to a heather grey sort of effect. Very appealing and all that. Then I stepped around the wall surrounding my desk to pull his file and got the full-length view.

My dears, he was wearing khakis.

Why do you menfolk do this? Even my own male people, whom I’ve counseled gently over and over on this matter, mix the khaki pants and the heather grey shirt. For once and for all, ye of the testeresterownie,

heather grey + khaki = NOPE.

It has to be something that hearkens back to the hunter-gatherer thing; that’s all I can figure. Or alien mind control. Or some sort of passive-aggresive torture crap that you Testicle People do to the Ovary People.


Which is why I got my ass out of bed an hour early this morning and donned my (God rest her precious soul) Aunt Elaine’s pearls. There were heels involved, too….the serious ones.

Maybe alla you spiffy Muffinasses are not aware, but there exists in the world a segment of the populus that is only employed in jobs dealing with children not because they love the wee uns, but because they are big fucking bullies and forget that there are parents like me out there.

That is, parents that will come down into the middle of their kids if they are wrong, but will stand on your neck if you are.

“I’ll give you this,” the penitent offending party said to me at one point, “your children are very close.”

Damn skippy. I planned it that way. Maybe they’ll have half a chance at survival after I’m gone if they have one another to turn to.

|| February 20, 2006 || 10:37 pm || Comments (7) ||

And now I am one of the Great Unwashed.

This weekend found me in the super-duper place that is loosely known as Hotlanta.

It also found me in the company of herds and herds of people making their way through The World of Coca-Cola. I couldn’t help it. Maxim neglected to buy tickets to the gol-dang aquarium, EVEN THOUGH I requested advance purchase politely. Erm, TWICE. When we got there on Sunday, just as we were circling the block in search of the entrance to the parking garage, an aquarium employee drug out the ALL TICKETS SOLD OUT, YOU HAVE ONCE AGAIN FAILED YOUR CHILDREN sign.

I wanted to yell dirty words, but all the Superior chirrens were in the Magic Stealth Vehicle with us and it was Sunday. Sunday in the very heart of the South, even if it has become a sort of watered-down generic version of a Grand Southerin City, God rest Margaret Mitchell’s soul. Everyone knows that you cannot possibly shout sweary words on Sunday in the bible belt. You merely mutter them indecipherably under your breath.

Nosiree, I did not shout the words o’ swear. In fact, I remained quite calm and did not even say ‘I told you so, fuckarooni’ to the man I love the very most in the whole vast and wide world, even though it is in my horrible, horrible nature to do so. Yep, I remained quite calm. However, Mathias had to be informed of the day’s tragic turn of events; the very minute his lip started to quiver and his big seven-year-old eyes went all pooly, I panicked. After he forlornly asked, “No shaaaarks?” I fell all over myself convincing him that there would be BIG FUN THINGS and SEE, THERE’S NO NEED TO CRY. The minute shit got dodgy I caved: I blurted that yes, oh yessss, we would go back to the place with the big revolving Co-Cola sign threaded with enough neon to light five or six roller rinks or about eight-hundred liquor store signs.

I have sinned against mine Pepsi-Cola. Judas Popscariot, I am She. May the Lord who lays the Dew have mercy on me.

It might have been not-so-bad to endure being saturated in Co-Colaness, but there was this cheer thing going on which we were blissfully unaware of until we stumbled into the den of cola iniquity. The cheerleaders themselves weren’t so bad, I guess; they were mostly little and we Superiors could’ve taken on four squads at once, easy. It was the moms that were hellish, with their vicarious living and their pushy-assed sense of entitlement.

Dear Cheerleader Moms,

Next time I will eat your face.


Jett “B-A-N-A-N-A-S” Superior

pee ess, stop putting so fucking much blue eyeshadow on your overpermed babywhores. You freak out those of us who aspire to be normal parents.

Every last little thing was a photo op for them, and there were a million little Brittneys and Ashlees scrambling around, convinced to the soul of their spunky cuteness. There were hundreds of other people there, and the cheerleader spawn along with their putrid also-overpermed robot mothers did not mind in the very least holding up the progress of those hundreds.

By the time we reached the ‘Sodas Of The World’ fountain thingy, I was so consumed with annoyance that I sampled COKE PRODUCTS. Oh, the horror. The very notion!

Giddy with my transgression, I followed the fam down to the gift shop stuffed to the brim with ridiculously-priced Co-Cola logos. They embellished things like tiny plastic keychains and large wooden tables and stuffed Polar bears with sweet red scarves and the softest little plushy ass you’ve ever laid hands on. When our own Mathias picked the mid-sized, twenty-eight dollar bear and his father began to let a ‘no’ flop out of his mouth, I deftly stepped to his side, leaned in and said quietly, “You nearly made him cryyyy with the aquarium thing.” Amazingly enough, the spendthrifty Maxim whipped out his most hearty, “SURE, son!” This was followed shortly by his wallet.

Normally I don’t beat members of my own team with the guiltbat, but the world of Co-Cola was waaay cheaper and shoddier than the Georgia Aquarium, so the kid deserved the fucking bear. Amen and amen.

I have got to find a way to visit the birthplace of Pepsi. I must bring balance to the Force.

|| February 12, 2006 || 4:42 pm || Comments (3) ||

We’re Number Ten! We’re Number Ten!

I would just like to offer up a great big “IN YOUR FACE!” to Terry Oglesby. I just know you are sooooo fully jealous of my top-ten status.


|| February 8, 2006 || 10:00 pm || Comments (5) ||

Luck, loyalty and the Leftover Boys

Blame the ole gal at Purple Porch for this one; today’s entry over there sparked a memory….

As long as I can remember, fights have just sort of erupted around me. I can be in the most docile of places and before I know it, fists are slinging this way and that, angry epithets scrambling from between lips and rocketing hither and yon. Hell, I could be at a Tibetan monastery and before too long curses and thuds might just be echoing off of ancient stone. It’s a talent.

Let’s list my accidental gifts, while we’re at it:

-If there is a celebrity within eight miles, we will somehow manage to find one another and interact (I do not seek these people out. I am by and large a humanity-hater, recall, and mirror their sentiments of Just Wanting To Be Left Alone. Conversely, surely to GAWD they do not seek me out, either) in some goofy, inane way that will leave both of us mildly amused but mostly nonplussed.

-Bar fights spontaneously erupt around me, even if I’m not in a bar.

-If I am on a plane with a hundred other people, and one of them happens to be a United States Marine, said Marine will always end up seated next to me. Ditto for just about anywhere, really. My mother believes it is a special homing signal built into my forehead and only the Devildogs are keyed in to it. Remind me to tell you about the Jarhead in a room full of Flyboys. THAT’s an excellent stawry.

-Give me the name of some long-lost fifth cousin that you miss like almighty fuck. I can dig that person up ninety-six point nine percent of the time. Usually within forty-eight hours. Why I am not employed in that line of work, I have no idea, because I would be making a hot-danged killing, I tells ya.

…just to name a couple. I’d hate to bore my seet eedle Muffinasses.

At the risk of being a little spoily, I’ll tell you that this story is unique: It is about the fight that did NOT break out. We always tell stories about the exceptions, see? In my world, an UNfight is a definite aberration.

It was the holiday season in the year of our lord nineteen and eighty-eight. Eighty-eight was a so-so year. There was a lot of fun had, but there was also a lot of time spent pining for the Young Marine, who was due back in six or so months to marry my ass and make me an honest woman. I was way too skinny from a summer full of lovesick, but my tits were still sizable and perky and from what I’m told now I was alright to slide some eyeballs over.

Catt jingled me up on a random night –I don’t even remember which– and said, “Hey, let’s go down to Silky’s.” This was not unusual; when I wasn’t in the deejay booth, my friends running to and fro about the place (there was the upstairs bar, the downstairs bar, the patio, the courtyard, the oyster bar and the dance floor to attend to socially), the whole mess of us were hanging out there, laughing and dancing and being youngly ignorant of our fleeting youth.

Silky Sullivan’s (or Silky’s for short) was normally packed out with any number of young Marine Corps and Navy personnel, but during the couple of weeks surrounding New Year’s and Christmas it fell strangely near-empty and echoey-quiet, even with the music up so high that it vibrated the dance floor. I don’t even know why we bothered to go there, except that some habits die hard and our boots had strolled the floors there so many times that we had grooves with our monograms on them.

The base at Millington would go all bare-bones, as well, because the A-schools there broke before holidays, allowing those who could/would go home on leave for Christmas to do so. As the vast percentage of boots stationed there for schooling were in the neighborhood of seventeen to twenty, most of them took advantage of this opportunity.

There were always those, however, who stayed behind. The majority of them fell squarely into two categories: Those who didn’t have the means to make it home and/or those whose families didn’t give two square fucks about them (thus their budding military careers). My mother was always good to call the base just before major holidays: “Send me some of those boys. I will have too much turkey/ham/brisket left over if you don’t.” Sometimes she’d request three. Sometimes five. Once only one came (a sweet, sweet fella by the name of Andy who desperately wanted to be married to his girl already so that he could bring her to Memphis NAS and put her up with him in that shitty enlisted housing they had over there), but for some reason it was always an odd number. Maybe because we were three –Momma, Fred and me– and my mother just wanted evensies for a time.

A lot of Jarheads landed on our doorstep, with the occasional Squid thrown in for good measure (I dinna say ‘for balance’, because in my experience, it takes ten Sailors to equal up to about one Marine). I can’t say for sure, but I’d wager that a fair percentage of the USMC is made up of young men and women whose families are shit-poor from either a monetary or an emotional standpoint.

So there were The Leftover Boys (as I used to call them in my head); there are always leftovers in the military, regardless of branch or rank. It is one of those Incontrovertible Facts like blinking and sunrise and running out of conditioner before the shampoo is gone.

That night we walked into Silky’s and stationed ourselves along the plank bar that ran the length of the (CRAZILY EMPTY, WHAT??!) dance floor. There were Leftover Boys there, and I recognized one who spent the July Fourth holiday with us.


Lance Corporal Chance was from Maine, that funny-talking bastard. He had one of the most unsettling smiles I’d ever seen, wonderfully fiendish and sweet all at the same time. He was compact and stout and could damn near drink me into oblivion. He was engaging and bitingly funny, with a crazy intellect. He played dumb a whole lot. Surprisingly, I liked that about him. I think it was because I knew that, because he had revealed his smarts to me, he trusted and respected me.

He went to Beaufort, ayuh, is what he told me, but had come back to ask a particular someone to marry him. She had told him no, he told her bitchkeepthering, and he went on a suicidal binge-drinking mission with some old pals.

“I am BILLETED (he emphasized the word like that, and in his noreastern lingo it sounded so funny I wanted to fall out in the floor laughing) at the fucking Navy Lodge, you can pick up my effects there if I don’t MAKE it.”


We visited for a little bit, he and I, before the five or six fellas with him itched to move on to another club down the street. About that time a pack of really huge fellas rolled in, mostly tanned and muscled to a ridiculous degree and looking self-assured in the most annoying of fashions. They were a shock to the little Silky Sullivan’s ecosystem, because most of the regulars were fresh out of bootcamp and were tough in a rangy, leathery sort of way. They were skinny and fierce, looking for a beer and some pussy.

Barring that, some beer and a fight would do.

These old boys, these strangers, had carefully-coiffed longer-than-usual locks and a rogueish obnoxiousness that I find grating. Boots were obnoxious, sure, but it was in an entirely different and wholly tolerable way. They had earned their obnoxiousness in the sand pits of Parris Island. I asked the bartender who the hell the newbies were and she told me that they’d been in the night before; they were part of the Hoosiers football team and were in town for the Liberty Bowl.

Gack. I, as a rule, was a huge fan of football, but not of most football players. I should have known that there would be ‘issues’.

Catt and I stood, sipping drinks and chatting. It was a strange week, in that we hadn’t been able to see each other all that much, and we were playing catch-up when the Hoosier boys made their first fly-by. I felt my backside roughly grabbed and squeezed, and I spun in indignation, only to see broad backs moving away from me. There was not a clue as to who the guilty party was. About fifteen minutes later, after I’d had time to settle down and get engrossed in a conversation with a couple of other regulars, they made another pass behind us. This time, I happened to be fast enough to catch the perpetrator in my heated glare. He was a good six-five, maybe six-six and had blonde hair and a fucked-up frat boy ‘I can get away with ANYthing’ grin.

I am not attracted to blonde men, typically, and this was no exception. I am not attracted to football players as a rule. And I am most certainly not attracted to fuckfaces. This smarmy shitheel was a fuckface of the highest order. I began to mutter under my breath, something along the lines of “…doesn’t know who he’s dealing with,” and “…have that hand as my fucking backscratcher, bitch,” and “…your Yankee momma needs to TEACH YOU SOME MANNERS.”

A couple of things happen when I drink. I become looser, more at the ready, and I become indignant when infringed upon. Mostly I’m one of those happy, happy, oh-so-happy drunkards and I’m less easily offended than when I’m sober. If you do, however, find some way to offend me, the drunk me will not rest until there is reckoning in some fashion.

That silly buckethead. He made a third pass with two of his gridiron goons. He assgrabbed and as quick as he did, I spun and swung. I landed a hard right to the region of his back where his kidney had been puttering along nicely just minutes before. He buckled, yelling, and grabbed at the flesh were I’d put my fist. He was about nine or ten feet away when he turned, eyes all murder, and saw me in my crazyplace.

My crazyplace is where I go when shit is about to go down. It’s called my crazyplace because I have a propensity to cackle through my anger in the most disconcerting way. I’m up on the balls of my feet and everything save for the object of my anger is white haze that settles to a pinpoint of rage where my target is technicolor and just waiting there stupidly to get fucked up.

I say stupidly, because were I to see me looking like that, I’d turn tail and run like a spastic, ungainly seven-year-old.

This guy was all bruised ego, and in ill-bred, overpampered hayseed jocks that is a Frightfully Large Deal. An ‘I’ll show YOU’ mentality was more than evident as he made his way back to me, opening the gaping hole in his red face to spit, “BITCH, I’ll…” before I hopped up on my tiptoes and put my fist into his face. He staggered back roughly two steps and shook himself all over like a wet and rancid dog that is offended by its own stink.

With that he let out a roar and from somewhere I heard someone hollering for a bouncer and then Jocko lunged for me. Suddenly, like something out of a hot-damned movie, there was a wall of Marines –four long times two deep, making for eight total– between me and him. They were so close that they were nearly brushing my nose. There were a couple of them that were a tiny bit shorter than my own five-ten (PFC Ballard, w00t!) and maybe one or two of them inched on up toward five-eleven and a half (LCpl Griggs), but not a one of them topped six feet.

I was dazed into speechlessness at the immediacy of their arrival; they must have been standing behind me for at least part of the altercation, is the only thing that I can figure. At some point and unbeknownst to me, they had come back from down the road with a couple more buddies in tow….they were aiming for the comforts of a good Diver Bucket* and found me, the great and powerful Unawares Damsel In Distress, instead. To a young Jarhead, a wash of testosteroned adrenaline beats the spirits any day. Plus, as I said before, I had big tits and wavy blonde hair. Some might even say that my “fightin’ spirit” is moderately attractive in the right lighting.

They for sure saved my bacon that night, because that gigantic asshole would have pounded on me sans hesitation, at least once or twice, had they not been there. He was at least clever enough to know that you don’t fuck with a slightly drunk and mildly bored Marine, much less a pack of them. Even if your boys outnumber them, outweigh them and outsize them, they will take a few notches out of that left ear for you.

In short, bless the Leftovers, for without them I should be killed. Amen and amen.

So here’s to you, Leftover Boys! May you always know warmth and kinship, even if there isn’t always a home in which to unlace your boots and a hearth to sit by or a bosom on which to rest your gruff but tender hand. I remember you all well and fondly.

*a yellow plastic gallon bucket filled with delightful blend of various cocktail spirits and three-foot-long straws whose only aim is to make you beg for death as you suck tile the next morning or two

|| February 6, 2006 || 11:18 pm || Comments (4) ||

Your regular ole anyday conversation about boobs.

alternately titled, “What, this kind of shit doesn’t happen to you?”

Let’s just start this one out by saying that my new (as of September, anyway) boss knows I blog. You hear that? My boss knows I blog. He’s the first boss in the entire five-plus years of [Abuantg.] existence to know of its presence. Save for Maxim, anyway. And we all know that Maxim isn’t the de facto boss around here….he’s a bold decoy.


But my boss actually does know about my site. There goes all hope of me gaining Cyberian superstardom. I toil in obscurity forever.

So my boss knows I blog and my husband knows I blog and all the stars are in the heavens (except for the ones that are on their way down to serve up wishes or somesuch fairytale shit). I guess my mother could find this place, but at this point I’m just believing that ay) if you manage locate her and give her the info, I guess you earned it and bee) that would only provide fresh material for me to chaw on and spit the residual juices all over the monitor for you to savor.

As an aside, I would just like to say to my mother, I KNOW YOU HAVE BEEN LOOKING FOR MY BLOG. IT WAS ME THAT DELETED YOUR HISTORY’S CACHE. I am not sorry, lady! Not one bit! For Mother’s Day this year I am getting you a shirt with seventies-style flocked iron-on letters spelling out

Senorita Noseypants

Anyway, my boss knows about this place, and you are about up to speed save for the leaving-out of meaty instances and details which have been occupying my time as of late.

So there I was at work the other day and in comes a lovely older woman, late fifties maybe? to sign in and be seen. While getting her settled in a patient room, she asked for a special accomodation and went on to explain why, her eyes so blue and earnest that I wanted to drag my fingertips through the color and dab it on walls, my eyelids, anywhere it would lend itself to the service of good old fashioned breathy beauty.

“I need that pad for my chest. I have implants and they’re kinda uncomfortable and hard.” I excused myself.

She thanked me upon my return, stating that she should be used to them, as they’d been reconstructed nearly a year ago. Breast cancer. Double mastectomy. There then ensued a conversation that covered a topic I’d never really thought much about, as I’ve never mournfully boasted a family predisposed to breast cancer nor lost anyone to its ugliness: Breast reconstruction.

She started the conversation with great aplomb: “I’ve not had the nipples tattooed on yet. I’ve got to do that soon, ’cause they look like two little bald-headed babies.”

This woman just compared her tits to hairless newborns and I wanted to burst into my barking, maniacal laugh, but I managed to rein it in to a reasonable-sounding chuckle.

“Hey! I’ve never even thought about all the mechanics of putting a pair of breasts back on a woman. I had NO IDEA that tattooing was involved!”

She went on to explain that yeah, the areolas were inked on and small pieces of cartilage were used to build up the actual nipple (apparently it was, at one time, accepted practice to ‘bank’ or store your nipples for re-introduction. That shit is creepy to me. Frozen nipples? I can’t say for sure, but I think that in such a situation I’d feel a little Frankensteined, you dig? Brand-new ones? Not so much.)

Her honesty was so perfect, so engaging and settled, that I could’ve passed for a kid who is lovestruck with admiration for a particularly rad older cousin. I, quite like the dumbass I have it fully in me to be, stood there saying, “Coooo-ooooool.” She was just so great, and I felt like I had been given a present, just being able to talk to her.

I hope, down deep inside myself, that there are people that count themselves fortunate to have conversed with me, however briefly. I aim to be that sort of person….even moreso now that I’ve had the privilege of meeting Anne.

Thank you, Cosmos and Wonder, for holding hands and orchestrating these cool little moments that intersect lives and –however subtly and/or quickly– proffer up catalytic interactions between ordinary ole carbon-based bipeds.