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Archive for January, 2007

“you still have a little piece of my heart, dearest, dearest, friend. just a little, tender, bruised and begging piece.

“keep it. it was a gift.”

–anonymous

 
|| January 18, 2007 || 10:52 pm || Comments (0) ||

“Take a bow, Lizzay!”

Become an M&M.

….and if anyone tries to tell you that there’s someplace better than the internet, they liiiiiie. You tell them to fuck off.

(I made one with robot arms and a tiara that I was dying to show you, but then I remembered that I don’t even know how to work Paint so that I could screencap and cut down the damn thing rather than go through their fascist registration process. Another eighteen minutes of my life wisely spent.)

Let me show you why I love my readers, especially the behind-the-scenes ones.

I get lots of crazy-funny e-mails from the random persons that make up the World O’ Muffinass. Ninety-nine percent of those never make it to the site. Guess I’m just far too busy pissing myself with laughter to copy and paste. Sometimes, though, I’ll do you a solid and let you in on the joke. (Jack…anyone remember Jack? Gary? The guy that referred to himself as CuteRick? Boy-oh-boy.)

There are lots of things that go on behind the scenes of this whole voyeurnal business, and they swerve on into the territory of Pretty Cool quite frequently. For what I think could be the first time ever, I would like to share some of that business here. The ‘hey, zip! connection!’ stuff.

The backstory is that I mailed three people a poem that made my toes tingle and made my smile pop up unawares. One of them wrote back, and here’s what came of it.

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

from: Longtime Muffinass

to: That Jett Grrrl

date: Jan 17, 2007 8:06 AM

re: prrrrrrrettttttty

Dear Jett’s Real Name,

Thanks so much for sending this. It leaves me thinking about The Book of Job. In the poem you divest yourself of things and voice to prepare for sacred ground. In Job, he had everything taken from him. He prepared for the voice in the Whirlwind by cursing everything but God. My favorite line? “God damn the day I was born.” Isn’t that what people with addictions call “rock bottom”?

What is common between the poem and Job is the clutter we accumulate that prevents clear views to the sacred in our lives. A few years ago I read a pile of books on simplifying your life. Of course I then had a pile of books on simplicity adding to the clutter.

This morning I stepped out into the snow. The air was still for the first time in days. It was well below zero, but I was in the rising sun. There was no noise from the pond across the way. I had a Mariposas moment. Then my nose froze shut and my hands began to ache. I had to go back inside.

I read your blog this morning, and I’m trying to imagine why anyone would ever feel the need to debase and hurt you. Because I am so non-confrontational there have been people who treated me like a doormat. I take it for a long time until I’m close to explosion. Each time I’ve called someone on their abusiveness, they’ve backed off. Their insecurities couldn’t have been more visible at that moment. You may be seeing something similar.

I hope all is well with you and your family. My gratitude for your writing and your kindness is just boundless. Is there anything better than e-mail from Jett Superior? I think not. Please take care. Keep warm!

His Real Name

from: That Jett Grrrl

to: Longtime Muffinass

date: Jan 18, 2007 1:21 PM

re: Re: prrrrrrrettttttty

I reckon my favorite part of the Job story is an odd one, but it’s a point that has always hung in my brain: Job’s friends sat in silence with him for seven days. I don’t know why I have dug into that bit, It Just Is.

I can’t recall if the scriptures earmark it as a condemning silence or one of empathetic supportiveness. Or, even, if it is vaguely ambiguous as the Bible sometimes tends to be. I need to look into that, and if it’s the very latter, note it in the space I have earmarked for ‘Things To Ask God In Person-like’. Though, I imagine once I get face-to-face with Him, that prolly won’t even be necessary at all, between the a) complete and abject reverence/worshipfulness and b) the whole auto-enlightenment business.

We shall see, my friend.

As ever,

Jett’s Real Name

pee ess….outlook significantly better today. Maybe I am growing up. Maybe??

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

You interwebnets peoples, you matter. Okay?

 
|| January 17, 2007 || 11:58 pm || Comments (4) ||

inside jocularity

Oh!

The promised list, before I forget again:

Backbone

Throat (for the laughter)

Lips

Tits

Hips

Thighs

Cerebral Cortex

Backbone (twice, even)

Dimples

(Jazz) Hands

standbys and ringers include:

the balls of my feet and

the crooks of my elbows and

the nape of my neck (particularly the left side).

Were this a poem, it could be called ‘TCB’.

perspective (or, you can’t have my head, i still have need of it)

spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight spoiling for a fight

….and so on and so forth; the above is what happened when I opened the window and started typing into it this morning. However, several hours have managed to cram themselves in between me and then. Those hours were, all-in-all, not too shitty.

Things to be happy about at the very present:

My hoody with the thumbholes trimmed in red thread. I am wearing it. Mittens are tedious where coldhandsgirls who like to type are concerned. Hoodies with thumbholes (trimmed in RED!)? Perfect.

It’s damn cold. Winter! Are you here? I mean, are you really and truly here, or are you teasing with a four- or five-day stay before you trot off again? It was cute the first three or four times you did it, but you are wearing that whole dance out. Winter! You make me happy! You help me forget global warming, and I get to wear mittens. And gloves. And hats. There is practically boundless hat-wearing potential! A girl gets to be somebody different every damn day with a large enough assortment of hats.

The Real Housewives of Orange County? Sweet Lord, I feel like I’ve been hit with a hammer every time I catch even the teensiest sliver of that poopstick of a show. I also get to feel smugly superior. There is no quantifying how gleeful that makes me.

My bangs are so short that they stick straight out. I look like a bag lady and I LOVE it.

There is that guitar bit round about the middle of Metallica’s ‘Jump Into The Fire’. I just heard it. I hate the lyrics, but that guitar is sweeee.

There is A Scene. The Scene has some lines in the midst of it:

“So you’re saying you’re Joan of Arc, then?”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t carry off chain mail; my complexion won’t allow it.”

That about sums things up over the last ten minutes. There were lots of little things all day.

 
|| January 16, 2007 || 2:22 pm || Comments (2) ||

white-knuckling it

When I was in gradeschool, Mike Brown tripped me out on the playground and then cleated me in the ribs. Hard. “You shouldn’t even be here! That’s what you get for playing with the boys!” he shouted at me, red-faced and spitting. Mike was known as one of the more popular, handsome boys in the whole school. We had been pretty good friends up until that day.

That day, I’d thrown in with the boys and bested Mike Brown all up and down the soccer field.

I lay there, stunned and hurting and short of breath, amazed that there was no one who would hazard to come over, dust me off and help set me to rights. It was out of the question, of course, for anyone to dare telling Mike what a huge tool he was in that moment. My friends; how could someone not have said something?? They were my friends! A stick stabbed me in the back as I tried to recall what it was like to have oxygen in your lungs, to pull in and expell air effortlessly and without thought. It seemed eons before it happened.

Two years later, Mike Brown begged and begged me to be his girlfriend. Begged so long and so hard, in fact, that he began to look gaunt and sort of twitchy for a time. Three years after that, he broke his neck in a football game and became a quadraplegic. He had grown even prettier in the ensuing five years.

I believe in karma, and one of life’s hardest lessons for me has been to just give over sometimes and let the world –my world– right itself and cant back into balance. Now, I’m not saying that my bruised ribs equalled his broken neck, but one can never tell.

For the past year and a half I have been dealing with a Mike Brown on a daily basis…someone who thinks it sport to debase and disrespect me at every possible turn. More and more I’ve resorted to ‘Tuning You Out, Fucker’ as my way of handling this, because in the very core of my being I know that part of the lesson here is to learn Just To Keep My Fucking Mouth Shut. Some days I’ll even do the tune-out thing and giggle all at the same time, just to see the impotent fury that results.

Some days, though, it grinds and wears on me and puts me just this side of throwing a pity party for myself. It hurts me, because I’ve truly done nothing wrong, and one of my biggest character flaws is not being able to communicate hurt in a reasonable, unenraged manner. I’ve attempted to speak with this person, who is just so stubborn and childish and passive-aggressive that they’re near-impossible to get along with. I was met with a curt, “Let’s not get into this NOW.” So I asked when. Asked three times, as a matter of fact, and was met with silence.

There seems to be silence across the board, when silence is the last thing the situation calls for. Sure, there are knowing looks of sympathy, but those just piss me right the fuck off.

No one is saying a damn thing, once again. I wait in silence, strained and upset, for the snapped-neck instance, and I’m horrible for it.

My whole life I’ve just wanted someone to defend me when I merit defense, without my having to ask for it. I cannot recall that it has ever, ever happened.

I am sick of being A Trooper. Do you hear that, world? DO YOU???

 
|| January 15, 2007 || 11:28 pm || Comments (0) ||

“Get ready for the pain train!”

My brain has fallen out today. I have been laughing for over an hour because of the phrase “WOO! Welcome to MY house, twinkletoes! HA-HA!” Whatever disdain I had for that Fergie chick just got put on ice because of that commercial.

My search for that video led to this one, which defies my lame attempt at glowing praise.

Then there is this other one here, which I’ve watched –slack-jawed style– like three times.

While I am confessing, I have to tell you people that I, She Of Little TeeVee, am watching ‘I Love New York‘ boldly and without (much) shame. It’s just so damn campy and scripted. Like, B-movie style. With lots of heaving bosom and melodrama and bold declarations and bleeping over swears. It’s like watching those ’storyline’ pr0ns but without the BLEEP shots and three-BLEEP BLEEPINGS and your general BLEEEEEEP.

Without further ado, I must introduce my newest list: Aging Rock Stars That Didn’t Rate When I Was Eighteen, But Totally Do In The Here And Now. So far C.C. Deville is at the top with Ted Nugent following closely behind. Ozzy, bless his heart, will land on there somewhere, because I feel so damn sorry for him.