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Archive for October, 2006

|| October 12, 2006 || 11:21 pm || Comments (6) ||

Christmas shopping, round one.

Sam had a doctor’s appointment with a specialist-type person away from Hicksville today. The country mice, equipped with good attitudes and what ready cash was available, set out for the Big City. Well, North Hellabama’s version of the Big City, anyway.

Here is where I write a teasy little blurb foreshadowing how the day’s mission went to rack and complete fucking ruin.

Mathias was the objet de shoppe today, so Toys R Us (no corporate bastards get linked in this post!) was in order. First we went to the PX on the base so as to recon their little toy room. I got the Titanium Series Vehicles (of which, Boba Fett’s “_new”>Slave I is my verymost favorite) for like four bux apiece. I found some more of those infernally adorable Galactic Heroes; it’s getting harder to buy that particular item because I canna possibly keep a running tally in my head of which is what and what the dang kid has. Were I smart, I would make a list based on the ones that end up molded into the arches of my feet on late-night trips to the loo. He always manages to strategically miss a solitary one during family room clean-ups.

Alas, they didn’t have the Darth Vader action figure carrying case; I saw one of these in Kmart sometime this summer and foolishly thought they’d be around later. Neither did they have a massive bucket of Legos. The kid –quite suddenly– began lamenting his Legoless existence back in the spring and you’d think that he is the World’s Most Neglected Offspring as a result. I made a mental note to add those to the Christmas list, along with one of those Lego lap table thingies. All the better to pile up your Lego fortress, don’tcha know.

Off to Toys R Us, a store which makes me quite stabby as a general sentiment. Necessity is necesssity, however, and I boldly trucked up in there, snagging a basket for the onslaught of toy purchasing to come. Please insert crickets chirping here, for the basket I was so eager to impregnate with pending purchases stayed forlornly barren: No Darth Vader carrying case. No gigunda bucket of Legos. No, not even the accompanying Lego platform, just the sad plastic weave of the buggy’s floor.

Oh, they had Legos all right. They had kits in all shapes, sizes, themes and price points. It was a veritable orgasmic frenzy of fantasy Lego scenarios. I just. wanted. a. big. ole. bucket. ofthedamnedthings. My kid is brilliant and doesn’t require the guidance/constraints of a preselected Lego diagram. He wants to make those Legos his bitch; he wants to create unfettered and unstructured! HE IS A NONCONFORMIST, MY MATHIAS! gah!

I did what any self-respecting twenty-first century parent would do: I stood in the middle of the Lego aisle, whipped out my mobile and phoned KB Toys. No dice there either, and the girl on the phone was infuriatingly, thickly, crazily dumb.

Sam and I made our way back to the mountain we call home; in fact, we had a fine time doing so. He is in his ‘I’m discovering grunge’ phase, so he slid some Nirvana into the ceedee player. I was Kurt Cobain and Sam was Dave Grohl and we officially Rocked The Motherfuckin’ House.

“You are quite wicked with an air guitar, woman,” my boy said to me, and I sheepishly thanked him.

“Seriously, mom, why don’t you start another band? You love to play, and I would really like to see you up on stage rocking out. I would love it, in fact.”

That’s crazytalk. Great, ego-stroking and wonderful crazytalk. Matter of fact, me picking up the bass is mebbe a means to that end, but I didn’t tell him that. I muttered something about being too old to make a serious stab at the musicks anymore. Sam was hearing none of that. Then we talked about soul-stirring things like music and love and futures at great length. That boy is a remarkable person, and I count myself lucky to be his momma.

So, Wal(gack, I hate you)Mart: batting a thousand. No Darth Vader case, and nary a single Lego in sight, unless you count those eensy Bionicle kits. The hell you say!

Doesn’t anyone just sell a big-ass bucket of plain ole Legos anymore? And a lap table? Would a FUCKING LEGO LAP TABLE be too very much to ask??? auuuuuughhhhhhh….

Look, for all the bitching about brick-and-mortar sales declining, you would think that stores would stay stocked. There are eighty-three different kinds of toothpaste, for hellsakes! Not one pail of Legos? I call bullshit on that noise. It’s as if they are shoving us toward e-commerce harder and harder (even as they protest), and that just pisses me right off. I’m a tactile person; I like colors and sounds and jeezohpete textures. The interwebnets is spiffy and convenient and all, but I don’t want to derive all sustenance and pleasure from this box…the notion of that just sickens and apalls me. Am I the only person of that sort left?

Dejected and forlorn, because yea and verily this has gone down as The Least Successful Shoppy Venture In All My Born Days, I sought to console myself as any all-American girl would; I self-medicated with the anticipation of a purchase for my veryownself. The object of my shoppy lusting? Welllll, if you must know, I went on the prowl for tube socks. I wasn’t looking for just any ole tube sock, though. I wanted the big long ones with the stripey bands of color about the top. The very idea of frolicking about in the same kind of socks that I sported during my knobby-kneed roundballer days was intoxicating.

Women’s department: delation. Men’s department: frustration. Boy’s department: sorrow. Anguish, even. I am as yet unstripetytubesocked. I came home, dejected and downtrodden, to share the whole mess with all of Cyberia (well, twenty-three of you, at least. Twenty-three of you and the one or two fetishy freaks that inevitably turn up). Lucky, lucky you.




Guitars and restless hair: I am a child of the seventies.

One of the ways I was blessed in life was to receive the Good Hair Gene from my father. His whole side of the family: Hair of wildly varying lengths and natural colors, but great heads of it, bouncing, shining and following direct orders.

So lucky me, I got Responsive Tresses and a good load of it to boot.

Last year it hung in a mass, kicking here and yon, down my back. I grew it out specifically to whack it all off and send it to Locks of Love. Plus, isn’t there some unwritten law that says if you are not a Hollywood screen-prowler then it’s rather a faux pas to gad about in shoulderblade-length hair past the age of forty? I mean, I’m not terribly close to forty, but I am closer than when I was twenty. By my astute (though mathtardly) calculations, that gives me only a handful of opportunities to grow it long between now and then.

So yeah, grew it out, cut it up to shoulders and just a wee bit beyond; now I am about thirty-six hours from going under the shears again. The plan is something short (ish) and shaggy-messy. Feeling oddly sentimental tonight, I pulled out the lemon yellow velcro rollers and assembled sculpture of (various) plastic(s) and keratin about mine cranium. The velcro roller is yea and verily the halo of the common, ground-dwelling angel. Take note, all ye mortal maletypes.

I painstakingly applied somewhere in the neighborhood of three dozen rollers to my head. Slice out a strand, apply gel to same, wind around a roller. Repeat, repeat, repeat repeatrepeatrepeat. Mother Louise! Can you believe I had the patience for such? I mean seriously, if you’ve been around these parts for some time, can you imagine?

I got all this hair on top of my head and decided I’d get some writing done. Longing for the fantastic caress of my most favorite, floppy-soft grey hoody, I dug into the closet. I emerged, some two minutes later, a mess of rollers and hair sticking out of the neck hole. Also, if memory serves, I was making little noises of sadness and disappointment (however creepy that may be to you, fine and fair reader).
I made my way over to the bed, where I expressed my mild sadness to Maxim.

“Baby,” he said, mingling exasperation and amusement well, “you didn’t think about this before getting all those rollers in your hair??”

“NO,” I tried to be heard through the mess of shirt, “who thinks about what shirt you might wear after the rollers go in. Who thinks about that?

“Well, there’s only one thing for it: I’ll take ‘em out.”

“Why don’t you just get another shirt?”

“‘Cos this one is the one for my skin tonight. I’m taking ‘em out.”

You did all that work. All that was for nothing.” Sort of baffled-sounding.

“It wasn’t for nothing, silly. I learned that you can’t fit a head full of rollers through a hoody-hole. That’s something.”

Hair’s hanging in wet waves around my face now, comfortable and happy enough.

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

Once upon the first couple of years of a marriage, a wife approached her bassgod husband, lusting knowledge for her fingers. The fingers wanted a great deal to abuse and caress, in turns, a bass guitar. There had always been something feral and appealing about that instrument, and her eyeballs glowed (a glow that originated somewhere around the vicinity of her toes, picked up steam roundabout the pelvis, and pulsed in her chest) every time she thought of even standing, prepared to play, with the great thing slung about her torso.

As you may have guessed, that wife was me. Maxim always kind of brushed this aside. Come to think of it, each request brought some redirecting gift: mic, new stand, and one time even one of these:

I don’t have any idea why his behavior was what it was. I never really took offense, so it wasn’t important to ask.

Lately I’ve again taken to the notion of picking up a bass. I approached Maxim with this delicious idea one more time, and he seemed very enthused at the notion. I dunno what’s happened in the ensuing years, but at this point in the game he has decided it would indeed be smoking hot to teach his determined wife how to thump and pop like I’ve been doing that shit from the cradle. And well, wicked.

*rock fist aloft*

|| October 11, 2006 || 6:43 am || Comments (4) ||


I need to have another One of you needs to have a new baby just so I can buy this. Please? Pleaaaaaase?

I want to put that onesie on the back of some baby somewhere; I’ve already met my quota of children, so be a sport and procreate for The Cause.*

Second favorites: Braces and basses.

*‘Cause I like to shop for baby clothes, baDUMpum.

Because you people never get tired of hearing about me, I’m sure.

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This thing is obviously very unscientific. I’d say I was at least twenty-three percent more neurotic than all that. And ten percent less agreeable. The conscientious thing is open to interpretation.

|| October 9, 2006 || 6:07 pm || Comments (3) ||

The new style, in three blessings or more.

So there’s this guy; he comes into the office on a regular basis.

This man is large and ungainly and at least one article of clothing will have a hole in it, guaranteed. He is, for all intents and purposes, mostly physically unattractive, despite his six-five stature. It’s strange, because he comes from a family of wicked-goodlookin’ folk.

However, he is fabulous in a way that’s unrivaled in these here parts. The whole staff loves when he comes by, because he’s just such a damned hoot, and smart, myyyy-oh-myyyy is that d00d smart. Whip-smart, as it were: He’s very erudite and his mind wraps all this intelligence in a wry sort of cynical and self-deprecating humor. Maybe you’re lucky enough to know one of these and grok of what I speaketh.

One time he described me as esoteric, which absolutely could be construed as a sly insult, I know. However, the way he cocked one eyebrow and looked across the bridge of his nose at me conveyed an intrigue that said otherwise. Go me. After that remark, he loaned me his copy of ‘Heterophobia : Sexual Harassment and the Future of Feminism’ and wanted my thoughts on it upon its return. My thoughts, in case you wondered, are that it’s about time that an avowed feminist called bullshit on her jackbooted cohorts, but that is another discussion for another time and place.

I learn something from this man every time we come into contact. That is terrific beyond all words, let me tell you. Gets my blood to crankin’, a healthy exhange of ideas holding hands with fifty-dollah words. He tends to learn things from me, as well…and this is in spite of a near-twenty year age difference. Take it from yours truly: Cultivate friendships in all age brackets. I’ve done this as long as I can remember, and I never grow tired of (or come up unfulfilled by) it.

So he has this wife, see? And she is from Colombia, and she is exactly my age. He is always telling these wonderful tales about her, what a handful she is, how she keeps up with him, so on and so forth.

The other day he brought Colombian Honey in and, hoowee-eeeee, this woman was so damned gorgeous that I briefly considered swapping teams. But then I remembered that I like massively broad shoulders and manly hands and Persons Sporting A Penis, so I abandoned the notion altogether. But this woman, she was all cafe au lait skin and pale green eyes and long ginger hair and your jaw has a propensity to twitch and take on a mind of its own –going all slack– around her. It is what it is, folkses.

While they were in, I sneezed. I have this thing I do where I sneeze exactly twice. Drove my ex-husband crazy in a weird sort of way, because he has OCD and just got all hung up on the notion of a solitary sneeze or maybe a threefer and whyohwhydoyoualwaysdeuceit??? I sneezed twice; the Big Guy hollered ‘Salud!’ after sneeze one and ‘Denir!’ after sneeze two. Then he ambled up to my desk, leaned across it and explained.

“In Colombia, where my lovely wife is from, they have a custom.

“When you sneeze once, it’s ’salud’. When you sneeze a second, it’s ‘denir’. If you go a third, it’s ‘amor’.”

“Shut uuuup!” I crowed, “You get three blessings instead of one old boring ‘bless you!’ Health, money, love; three things we aaaall could use in abundance!

“I’m employing that from now on. That is terrific.”

pee ess…the interwebnets has brought my attention to all sorts of strangeness. First there was necrophiliac clown pr0n, now this!

|| October 8, 2006 || 10:53 pm || Comments (0) ||


A teapot. Filled with inside jokes.

Who wrote that episode? I want to kiss them on the mouth.

|| October 8, 2006 || 2:25 am || Comments (0) ||

I smell an icky conspiracy.

All of my Guided By Voices has mysteriously disappeared from thisere computer.

Musical interlopers will be shot. And then furiously questioned.