A Random Image

Archive for December, 2006

 
|| December 20, 2006 || 12:31 am || Comments (2) ||

Note To Persons At Blogger What’s In Charge

I patently refuse (RE! FYOOOOOOOZ!) to change over to the ‘New Blogger’. Oh, I know at some point you will –in a great and evil fashion– force me to in some way. Until that time, though, you are not welcome to fuck with my milk and cookies and the manner in which I consume them.

Hell, I’m the girl who still mourns the original sign-in page.

 
|| December 17, 2006 || 10:20 pm || Comments (2) ||

Equine. Ox. (or, All Things Being Equal)

The weather here is fickle and has been for about a month now. Just as I grow accustomed to things like grabbing a jacket before I go out or finding one more pair of gloves stashed away that I go a big girly ‘eeeee!’ over, something flips and it’s time to revisit thin, shortsleeves tee-shirts. The very minute I slowly ponder pulling out my flip-flops from the back of the closet and giving my toes some manicure-lovin’, the mercury drops several inches and I’m squealing over scarves and hats again.

Something lulled to sleep in summer (though its sleepsong is achingly delivered, low-throated, as early as spring) comes roaring up in me roundabout October and hits its fever pitch by the time the holidays have dug their teeth in. The buzz-buzz in the air and the buzz-buzz in my head and heart and chest collide drunkenly, armed and spoiling for exhaustion.

I was not as exhausted by even half my morning’s guesstimation when this evening rolled around. The warmth of this week seems to be dropping off and the nighttime air grows bite after the sun goes down. “I am not fucking around,” the temperature seems to say, “I’ve been hemmed in by the sun’s rays all day, and I’m not real happy about that business.”

Out to run an errand after all social obligations were put to bed, I had enough space in and around me to breathe and think for a tiny bit. I drove down the streets I know so well that I could shut my eyes and have an exact diagram of them, colors of the actual inverted and blooming negatives on the insides of my eyelids. There was the cold and there was the dark, but every now and again I’d take notice of a house, the amber-gold warmth of light spilling across sash bars and out of panes. I once told a friend –while I was in the dead middle of despair and disappointment– that a love deprived is like being in the middle of a winter wood and stumbling upon a house with the warm-bark smell of a hearty fire ablaze; that surprise registered when a door opens and you are pulled in to warm yourself and be delighted by your sheer dumb luck; the utter grinding of grief at the bottom-end of your very middle when you are turned out into the lonely and dark wood again, only to find it seems forty degrees more chill in light of the warming shelter you received.

I am missing you tonight in the way that only you would understand: I imagine warmth and light and lackadaisical pleasantry wherever you are, you going through your day with me standing in the back of your head on tiptoes, socks sloppy and hands buried in the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt, whispering our secret language in spite of myself.

There is to be rain Christmas Eve and an overcast Christmas is predicted. I expect it will be one of those days that is both muted and bright, something altogether ethereal straight out of a children’s book illustration. In my humble opinion, we should not expose young children to technicolor until they have a ready grasp on how atypical it truly is outside the comfort and safety of thirty-two pages and monosyllabic words.

 
|| December 16, 2006 || 12:06 pm || Comments (4) ||

MOTHERBITCHER!

See that title? That is me cleverly pretending –by way of frustrated creative profanity– that I don’t like meme-sorts of things. In all truth, I find memes to be something akin to valium: Perfectly socially acceptable when gobbled in tasteful, well-manicured moderation.

So this one over here tagged, and I will respond in typical Pavlovian fashion.

I am instructed to list six little known oddities about myself. I really think this one is going to be tough, because I am under the solid impression that, in my seven-eight years out here in Cyberia, I’ve told you delightful band of hooligans just about every neurotic and embarrassing factoid about myself.

(I will tell you at the outset of this endeavor that I’m reserving the right to just randomly make shit up if I run up on a brick wall.)

1. I am far more grossed out by the notion of washing my hands in a public restroom than I am by the notion of actually using said public restroom. Think about it….all those random nasties have put their hands in or around certain spaces and then go touch the sinks, faucets, et al. In other words,

Dear Public Places,
There are these nifty things called automatic faucets and towel dispensers. Kindly join the rest of us in the twenty-first century.
Germfree-type lovins,
Jett “Standing Solid In My Weirdness” Superior

2. I say ‘liberry’. Suck it. “liiiiiiggggghhhhhberrrrrry

3. I simply cannot bring myself to change out my contacts according to the requisite two-week schedule. They stay in for weeks at a time, helped along with the sheer force of my will and some rewet drops every now and again.

4. Were there an ample supply of summer-ripe tomatoes year-round, I could eat a tomato sandwich (on wheat, light dusting of mayo) every damn day of said year.

5. As much as I joke about it, sometimes I entertain the notion that I might really need to be medicated. Like, several times a day. I admire people who take steps to fix themselves, who struggle to do the right and good thing at least eighty-six-point-three percent of the time. The main reason I don’t get a professional opinion on this? I like my edge. My crazy is more than just a little bit fun for me. I don’t want to drown my funny, my creativity, my *zing!* in a wash of pharmaceutical faux-content. Maybe I’ve got it wrong on this one, but it is working for me at present. Maybe I’m not even as loony by half as I would imagine myself to be. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

6. Do not do the following in my presence, because it will provoke a less-than-stellar reaction from yours truly: hock a loogie, spit your toothpaste foam, clip your nails.

I’ll not tag anyone else, but I will ask you people to let me know if you post your own. I’ll also ask you to put one factoid of your own in the commentses. Now, off to do the Christmas baking! FA LA LA LA Laaah, LA LA La LAAAAAAAAhhhh.

 
|| December 14, 2006 || 11:58 pm || Comments (2) ||

The one where I’m greedy

Holy mother of chimbley-loving fat men: Boy, do I want this for Christmas. And how.

I bet you I won’t get one. I bet you I get pot holders. Pot! Holders! Okay, okay, I love to bake, but I’m very picky about what pot holders I use. I’m a craftsman, after all.

For some crazy reason, I think it’s time to tell you people what I really, truly want for Christmas. Sure, I’m well taken care of during the holidays, but there are things that my heart cries out for and has for some time…things that I’m not getting. Typically I’m pretty happy with whatever comes down the chute in the way of gift-type things, but ever since Maxim’s Aunt Petunia got me the hideous resin tabletop waterfall fountain that plays music and the screaming of seagulls and is sound- or motion-activated, there has been a growing discontent with gift-related passivity. Plus, I ain’t gettin’ any younger, you know? Life is whizzing on by. When I was twenty, I could afford to take one or two on the presenty chin and laugh it off. I’m dipping my toes into middle age now and haven’t the wherewithal to get all lathered up about something that I can’t fully get behind. The fountain had craggy peaks, y’all, and a lighthouse perched at the very top. It was the lighthouse combined with the squawking gulls that pushed me over the edge.

You want to know the difference between males and females (let’s not count your average metrosexual into this equation for sake of supporting my gender-slanted argument, okay? Thanks.) in the whole gift-giving department? When you fellas say in passing, “Hey, that’s cooo-oool,” or “Man, this thing is awesome,” or even, “Sure would like to have me one-a those….”, most of we ladies listen, and we furiously scribble it down in the mental notebook. Then, VOILA!, there it is at the anniversary or birthday or Christmas gift exchange. When the shoe’s on the other foot, so to speak, when we gals say these things to y’all, your general response is something along the lines of “Yeah-eahhhh.” and instead of furious mental scribbling, your brains are going, “Uh, deeehhuh, wonder if there’s beer anywhere in the near vicinity??”

Take this not as a slight, Dear Menfolk, as we love you very much In Spite Of. Plus, you’re better at things like, oh, chainsawing treelimbs than we are. I’m not saying We Laydehs couldn’t do such things in a have-to situation (so please, Rowdy Feminists, don’t fucking e-mail me on this one, SHIT.), but there are physiological factors like upper body strength and centers of gravity to account for. So, sawing away at big hunks of wood (ha-HA!): You have that going for you. A man covered in bark chips is a verrra sexy man indeedy.

There I go chasing rabbits again. What was this entry about, hmm?

Maxim did superbly the last couple-three years (which, coincidentally, were the first instances that he remembered to stuff me a stocking, my most favorite part of all the ‘gets’); I could tell he heeded my advice given when he expressed slight Gifty Befuddlement long about year five of our marriage. He’d come to me, admitting the slight panic he felt yearly when he asked what I wanted and I (at times) responded, “I got a tree. I’m making ten mountains of cookies. I’m good, man.”

“Look,” I told him, “when we’re out wandering around and I mention that I like something, write it down. I lust for very few material things; this should be easy. At Christmas or birthday time, reference back to your list.” Two years ago he told me that the year prior was a breeze due to his heeding that little nugget of advice. And I realized that I must say, “Gee, I’d like to have THAT movie” a whole lot….but I got Reefer Madness, so I cannot complain. I smoked out the day after Christmas and watched it, much to my giggly delight. Okay, the smoked out part is a lie, but the watch and giggle parts are one-hundred-per true.

In my voracious, greedy heart of very hearts, there is a pretty steady list that doesn’t get added to all that often. I’ma let you, my Muffinass Confidantes, in on that list:

Though I have a small collection of the garden variety handyman accessories, it is far from complete. I have your basic wire cutters and strippers, orbital sander, power drill, punches, tape measure, palm sander, safety goggles, Dremel tool, yardstick, eensy assortment of hammers and screwdrivers, etc. It would hurt my feelings not one whit to have this collection grown and rounded out. Nothing says ‘I think you are a sexy, capable woman’ better than hand and power tools, don’t you agree? Dremel tool accessories would make excellent stocking stuffers. Dremel tool accessories make me all kinds of horny. If there is confusion, a gift card to Lowe’s will fit the bill.

I been asking for the “_new”>Alan Lomax Collection for, oh, about fifty-seven fucking years, and that is a long damn time considering I just barely tip the scales on my thirties. I wants me some negro spirituals! I neeeeeds me some gritty blues! Irish! Folk! Sonnnngs! Why can’t anyone seem to understand how happy and fulfilled I would be to have this set?

A brick of weed. Um, maybe after the kids move out. Then I can more suitably stagger about the house clad only in boyshorts and a wifebeater, yelling for a turkey-bacon wrap. This is the natural state of woman, dintchoo know?

What is sexier than a Swiss Army Knife, with its geegaws and whatsits and thingamajigs? It’s red, it’s smooth, it’s sleek. I’m talking the big-ass one. The one with tools you, your momma, nor your grandmomma ever heard of. The one that you could take into the outback and trust your complete existence to. The one that does everything (with your help, of course) save for translate Sanskrit. And hell, there may even be an attachment for that, too, but you’ve just not had time to get around to looking at all the components. But you will, oh yes you will.

My reading tastes have shifted over time. Used to be, you couldn’t foist a biography on me for all the gold in California. Now? I gobble them straight up. Any and all music –especially rrrrawk– biographies set me aquiver. Maxim is learning: I’ve received books about the Clash, U2, The Stones and Nick Cave in the last couple of years. I’ve been known to take in some hefty books about the first ladies (Nancy Reagan=pure evil) and the founding fathers (Ben Franklin, you neato motherfucker!) as well.

Knee socks, most especially the stripey variety. Girls are lucky because we get to wear them with mary janes. Boys are lucky because they get to see us wear them with mary janes. WIN-WIN, YOU PEOPLE!

BOOZE! There is naught wrong with something nice and sparkly and nerve-soothing from a bottle. Amber is a pretty color during the holiday season, you know? Redclay is smart this way: Year before last, he sent me a fine, fiiiine bottle of Tres Generaciones Anejo to sip on while I pounded out my ‘wannabevonnegut’ angst. Always, always trust a blueblood Southerin drunkard to pick your spirits for you.

Long before I recall having a memory, it has been my flaming desire to have a hefty, overlarge and imposing dictionary. A Bigass Dictionary, if you will. It must have onionskin pages and precise, serious typesetting and cause herniation somewhere in the innermost workings of man when attempting to move it from one bookshelf to t’other. A hand-tooled leather cover and some nice gilting wouldn’t hurt my feelings, either. I’m not exactly sure the expense of such a thing. Whosoever delivered it up into my sweaty, wordnerd paws could claim me as their Bitch For Life, however. So you can see, it would be Truly Well Worth The Expense.

As well as being a girl, I am A Person Who Takes Great Delight In Smelling Nummy. Not in that grody, over-the-top way that some women have, mind you: I like a warm, subtle touch of scent that does not in any way hover fourteen feet in front of me and leave a vapor trail behind. I know Those Laydehs, and Those Laydehs need an olfactory adjustment. No, I like for someone to be conversing away a couple of feet from me and say, “Man, is it you that smells so spankin’ good?” Lush always wins, and sometimes just a little soap at the start of the day is all you need. When I do indeed step out onto a perfume limb, I’ll do a little splish behind the knees, in the crooks of the elbows and a sort of fly-by behind the neck. Ysatis, Musk by Alyssa Ashley (a sentimental favorite from the ole broke-as-all-fuck days), Boucheron, and Burberry London are pretty much staples. I’d like to try Marc Jacobs and L’or De Torrente before I drop a dime on a bottle. Or even before someone else does.

Portry, ahhhh, sweet portry. Despite all my years of self-larnin’ and specific favorites, there are so many wordsmiths out there I’ve yet to discover. I will gladly accept with earnest enthusiasm any volume of portry by anybody.

And there you have it, a well-rounded list of things covering various price points. I know my people have already finished their Christmas shopping for this year, as they are related to me and I like to have things sewn up by roundabout September (malls in December piss me off; this year’s tardiness was predicated by the monstrous repair bill for the Superior Magic Stealth Vehicle). SOOO, I will print this list out in quintuplicate and distribute it accordingly in the coming year.

THERE WILL BE ABSOLUTELY NO EXCUSE FOR NOT GIVING ME MY ENTITLED DUE COME TWENTY-FIVE DECEMBER, TWO-THOUSAND SEVEN!

(happy birthday, bobby haysoos. feelin’ ya, yo.)

 
|| December 13, 2006 || 6:49 pm || Comments (2) ||

Be encouraged!

“Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires but according to our powers.”

Saw that quote today. God told me that some of you might need it.

 
|| December 12, 2006 || 9:40 pm || Comments (3) ||

The one that’s all about New Stuffs.

Mathias came up to me last week and said, “I want a new haircut. I want to spike my hair up every day with that glue-stuff.”

So I set an appointment and we whacked all of his shaggy mop off. This morning, we fauxhawked it; after we left the house he was talking to me animatedly right before school. Not being able to resist the maximum cuteness that is my youngest offspring, I whipped out the camera. He immediately went slack:

Mathias ain't truckin' your nonsense.
:: Lock up your daughters. ::

So I said, “Come onnnn, kid, show me a little life,” and his personality smacked the lens so hard I was left with a black eye:

Mathias knows how to rrrrrock.
:: Throw yer goats up, Muffinasses! ::

I checked the mail today, just like every other day. I reserve the right to check the Superior mail because I get all fucking jazzed about some mail, let me tell you. I LOVE! mail, no matter the type. It’s like getting a little present every day, because whatever turns up in there is a surprise for the most part. So, mail: YAAAY!

Anyhow, I checked the mail today, and there was not only a pile in there, there was a fat yellow bubbly envelope with my dang name on it! I opened it! It had a pretty Christmas card! It had a shirt!

See, a couple weeks back my friend launched a new line of geek-wear. You know, for girls (mostly, anyway). I thought the hex shirts were great, and said so (see comments on above-linked entry for proofs). I planned to order the pretty minty one after Christmas, I really did. Now I don’t have to!:

Patti-lovin one
:: Thank yooooouuuu, Crazy Neighbor Lady! ::

For the record, Maxim said as I was uploading those photos, “You look like a blow-up doll, you know?” I did that thin-lip thing I do and semi-yelled, “I HOPE THAT IS A COMPLIMENT.” And CNL? There is a boobie shot solely for you, ramped up and ready to e-mail if you want it. Pound cee-cee-eff-eff-cee-cee, baby.

The new camera is here! The new camera is here! Santer Closs decided that the technotard might need a couple of weeks to figure out a few tiny details (“How do I turn this fucking thing on? It’s got more buttons than a Mormon’s corset!”) before Christmas morning rolled around. Behold the beauty of my sexy black box:

hellooooo, new camera!
:: I swear by all that is holy, I will turn out photographic brilliance eventually ::

A mere seven years after The Mirror Project was launched, I can finally contribute without feeling mighty loads of shame at my paltry-ass one-point-six megapixels. w00t!

 
|| December 11, 2006 || 10:33 pm || Comments (4) ||

I guess we didn’t make it. (The Memory Of Then)

ONCE:

With a less-than-conscious reckoning

I wrote our future in my sighs

I saw fit to levy a warning:

“The hum in my eyeteeth never lies.”

You laughed at my assurances of

Knowing these stories before even told

“You shall realign your responses to them,”

The drunk me savaged, dipped in liquid bold

THEN LATER:

I left the lights all blazing

In case you decided to come back;

I left the knives all sharpened

In the event you decided to attack;

Then the dooryard went undarkened

And the lock went unpicked–

I didn’t sleep for weeks-come-months

The memory of then grew heavy and thick

AND NOW:

I sweated with it, against it, pulled and

Stabbed with every bit of me I dared

Until I fell unrepentant into forgetting

“It was right here just a minute ago, I swear.”

Stacked up haphazardly in back rooms

Curtains drawn shut: they’ve a mothy sheen

I dumbly wander through there on occasion

Only to bruise myself on you once again