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Archive for July, 2007

|| July 30, 2007 || 12:34 pm || Comments (0) ||

A surprising reversal of traits.

On Friday afternoon:

“The neighborhood potluck is tomorrow night. We can’t bail two years in a row.”

“I’d rather have a razor blade enema than go to that.”

That last bit was uttered by your very own Maxim Superior, he of the gentle and decorously polite being. It shocked me raw, I reckon, because right there he summed up the part of myself that I’ve been working pret-ty dang hard to polish up and correct. It seems I’m shedding it all over him.

Don’t worry, though: We fared well in the arms of the antediluvian set that comprises the two square blocks around us. I would even dare say that we enjoyed ourselves (save for Piper, the little cheat, who went on to work) for five minutes at a time during random points throughout the evening. There was no shortage of casseroles, let me tell you, and who wouldn’t lovvvve that?

Hey, did you know that if a bug gets into your car’s air intake system and has the absolute nerve to be ripped to shreds, that one of its wings could possibly mimic a tiny plasticene thing and melt onto some Rather Small But Important Metal Bit? I didn’t either. But apparently it can happen. And apparently this blocks some sort of sensor, which (apparently) makes other sensors in the area get a little testy that the one sensor isn’t doing its fair share. They apparently then find it necessary to flip the CHECK ENGINE, OMG, CHECK ENGINE, THIS IS GONNA COST A SHITLOAD OF GREENBAX0RS!!! light on.

Given last year’s experience (three mortgage payments, for all you people who don’t hang on-slash-memorize my every word) with this whole check engine light business, I wanted teh option behind door number three, which was Get Hit In Face With Ball Peen Hammer Rather Than Pour Thousands More Into Vehicle. I took it to the dealership, crossed my fingers, my legs and held my breath. This inventive strategy worked, because I only had to throw down three figures instead of four, da w00t!

How sick is it when you are so radically jazzed that a bug wing cost you your week’s pay?? To go one further, how sick is it that you are grateful for that bug wing? Because, you know, if something like A BURNING LOG got sucked in there, it might not have been so fucking cheap.

These are the sorts of things I talk about when I am drunkdialing. But sometimes I just talk about cherry licorice or my fear of polyester pants.

I just got through checking every stash place in the house where I’ve placed a lighter in the near vicinity of a candle. Each and every one is devoid of the lighter I conscientiously (welllll, maybe on top of the hot water heater is a bit questionable) placed there. Near candles. Because what if a comet causes a tidal wave or some shit like that? That will short the electric circuits in our house*, surely.

Now there are no lighters with which to light the lovely, roughed-up column candles. This means in case of national disaster there will be no casual family gatherings –each of us bringing our little pillars of light to comprise one collective Lighting Force– where we play Monopoly by the warm and comforting glow of Family Participation Reflected In Shining Pools Of Wax.

I mean, who the hell can have an Emergency Action Plan when there are kids around?

Saw this flyer taped to the side of the checkout yesterday. Urged me to stock up in case of crisis. (I do, honey, and once a month all the chocolate and potato chips in this house go uncontrollably into my face. Apparently salty grease and cocoa powder are required to shed the uterine lining properly).

To this particular retail purveyor of my roughage and dairy offerings I say,

Dearest Little Hometown Grocery Store,

Hi. You don’t know much about me, so I feel compelled to tell you that I am the girl who has been having horrible dreams of armageddon since the age of five.

Tonight, while buying fudgsicles and radicchio (okay, goat cheese, as well) in your establishment, there was a flyer about emergency preparedness all up on the cash register for me to panic over. I would like to communicate to you how ill-at-ease I get when thinking of how apeshit the world is gonna go in the not-so-distant future. The most adequate descriptor might be, “My sphincter takes up residence near my epiglottis when pondering the state of this crazy-assed planet.”

As you may be able to imagine, this rather spoils my shopping experience.

Grocery stores should be about comforting things like canned fruit cocktail and somewhat stale coriander and Neosporin Ointment and ginger ale. They should NOT be about hawking cases of bottled water for the end times. The muzak sounds vaguely sinister in such a circumstance, the fluorescent lighting casts a hard and unforgiving light on The Bleakness Of It All.

And me? I just want to put away the greenery, the cheese, the surprise-the-children treat, go home and crawl into my bed. There I would tuck my busy head and my bare feet tightly under the soothing striped comforter and stay right where my dreams are the most horrible thing I experience, forever and ever amen. The Real seems to be getting so very complicated; at least my dreams are relatively finite and I know that they will end with my waking.

I guess it’d be nice if you pulled that fucking five-by-seven piece of Conscious Awakening done in glossy format right on down.

Yours in blind consumerism,

Jett “I’ll get fuckloads of ugly e-mail about this one” Superior

This week I saw the quote “There ain’t nothin’ from the outside that can lick any of us.” I thought about making a piece themed around that idea, but I believe I’m going to stamp that notion with a big ole Fuck That and just go on and paint it directly on the back door. That’s how much I like it, and that’s how much I want to tell the world at large what’s behind that door, all of us shored up in one another; this is despite the leanness and meanness that is all the time growing thinner and more furious while its teeth grow ever larger and more sharp as it stalks around the outside of here.

And me without my strategically-positioned lighters. Guess we better soup up the damn Scrabble board.

I gotta end the entry here. You know, so I can go and start printing out hard copies of [Abuantg.] for future generations to marvel over in the year 250 PI (Poste Interwebnetse). By God, I’ll know greatness at long last. Do you think I should have them bound and gilded? Perhaps autographing them would be a bit much?

*because if a running blender, a lava lamp and a nintendo console can fuck up the switching and juicing in this house, then Lord knows catastrophic happenings will render us stoveless and, more importantly here in the Land of Estrogen, flat-ironless

(Out of all of them I’ve ever seen, I connected the best with this one.)

On discussing sweating versus eating on our lunch hour.

TESS: I think we need to skip the gym and head on over to the Olive Pit for some good ole Eye-talyun.

JETT: I think we are in need of some endorphins. Big, juicy, sweat-drenched endorphins.

TESS: I’m having a bad day. I need pasta. Let’s just see what’s on the buff-FAAAAAAAY!


TESS: Look, there is ravioli there. HOMEMADE RAVIOLI, JAY-UTT. It is calling!

JETT: Cardio is calling.

TESS: I’m buying.

JETT: Done!


JETT: Look, this being-bad-on-lunch business comes with one condition: I see your Italian foodstuffs and raise you one peach cobbler tacked on the back end.

TESS: Wellll. Go you one further: *I* see *your* peach cobbler and raise you one fat scoop of vanilla bean.

JETT: Draw. Whore.

Yet another thing I’m pronouncing brilliant and encouraging you to click through on. I should get paid for that sort of thing. Only, I’m not Dooce or nothin’.

Official Muffinass Non-Scientific Poll, take one.

Linkdump, and then we’re off to the races.

Today I am fascinated by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. But only today. Until I go desperately searching for the link six months from now, which is why I’m hanging it here to dry.

Also in the same vein, Cherriflip will send out loads and loads of samples for only five bux0rs. Hooray for the company that encourages sampling off of the goods before you commit to buying a full pot of anything. I hate the layout of their site, but I can forgive that in light of the sample thing.

Today I got around to watching The Devil Wears Prada. Upon my excitement over a certain pair of shoes, Maxim spontaneously offered to pop for half if I could find them at a certain price point sometime in the future. This is major, all you people, MAJOR. You have no idea. As in, he suggested I check Zappos.com for them (HA! And, HA!). Now to stop earning slave wages Doing Good For My Fellow Man. Also? I loathe Prada handbags. Really, does the logo have to be ten miles high on each piece? Does it? So tacky. Too much money to spend on all that tacky. I mean, you expect to have a massive logo on a Gap hoodie or sommat. NOT on a thousand-dollar handbag. Also-also? Meryl Streep, never wear your hair anything remotely like that (color, cut, et al) ever, ever again. No, gurrrrl, nonoNO.

Um, shoe purchasing….these would NOT be impractical to own, really, as I don’t have anything shoe-wise in that color.

The Ultimate Transformers Quiz: You’ll never guess my results. Plus, PLEASE MAKE SOME GIRL TRANSFORMERS BEFORE THE NEXT MOVIE, KTHX. Transformers People, I could be your Technical Advisor in such an endeavor! I think I should be hired in this capacity because I have the following qualifications:

one) I have girl genitalia. Despite the rumors.

two) Due to a nasty incident with a large farm implement some two years ago, I had to wear the VARLB. And I have metal implanted Inside My Person. I’ve set the alarms off at various retail extabbishments about yon county.

three) I am kind of a badass.

four) I have my pulse on the heartbeat of several somethings.

five) I am a proficient typist.

six) My mother believes in me.

The Blogathon kids are about to take off running with it. Next weekend, to be exact. This will be the second year I’ve bowed out, and that is starting to feel a little strange. Plus, my charity is nowhere represented, and that kind of asses me. If you want something done, you really must do it yourself, so I can’t see myself missing three years in a row. While you wait for my triumphant return to ‘thonning, you really need to go a pick a someone (or a handful of someones!) to support in their efforts. It’s fun to follow along, as well: Things start getting a little wonky long about hour eight and people are flat-out addlepated by hour eighteen. Who needs Ell Ess Dee when there is twenty-four hour blogging available?

Aside: The fact that mommy is an insomniac really makes it difficult for my children to go a-sneaking out of the house, the little nippers. /Aside

Tonight I am drinking these, just for the novelty of the description: HARD CREAMER. So pornographic and so cute all at the very once. I learned a new word, as well!: Malternatives. So, so precious.

At some point today, in between morning prayers and Having Adventurestm, I painted my toes a shiny, happy, evil-vixeny and delicious crimson red. There is no link to that one, because I let the batteries to my camera die (! and @#$%&^!). I went looking for the backups, but apparently there is some ultra-secret, time- and space-shifting ninja outlet buried somewhere in this three-plus thousand square feet of crazyhouse. I think Ellie Pooch is standing in front of it, but she looks so fucking happy and docile (read: her non-spastic puppy self) that I am loathe to move her. So no snaps of my toes on this most disappointing of days for you footfreaks out there.

NOW! On to the First Official Muffinass Non-Scientific Poll! This came about after some booziness and some heady conversation this evening. I immediately felt it necessary to text a random sampling of Muffinasses with the following question:

Taking a poll me all my boys (and two lesbians): Sweaty chicks, hot or no?

Of course, it was supposed to have read, ‘of all my boys blahblahblaaaaahhh…’ but my proofreading skillz got peed away during one of the post-pitcher bathroom junkets. Bear with me, Oh Mah Poepels, as did the respondents. Here is a random sampling of answers (grossly redundant ones excluded, natch):

+ Post workout, no, post sex, yes

+ If they have hot faces and bods, yes

+ ARE YOU SWEATY? Like, right now?

+ Not

+ Yesss

+ Depends. Usually hot. The kind of girl that gets sweaty is probably involved in some activity that is more or less hot eh

+ Pierced?

+ Not so much

+ Only after you’re “done” and you are the reason for her sweat is the girl hot.

+ during sex sweaty chicks r hot

+ Generally no

+ Definitely

+ Heat would cause them to sweat, but it could also be due to poisoning or infection.

And there you have it, another milestone reached here at [Abuantg.] Please, do feel free to answer the question yourownselves here in the comments or via e-mail (only the boys and the dykes on this one, please); you are also welcome to submit suggestions for future Official Muffinass Non-Scientific Poll endeavors.

Holy shit, I’m pretty plastered. You would not BELIEVE how long it took to format this rambly turdheap of English-Instructor shaming verbiage. Nighty-night!

…and the ‘check engine’ light just came on in my vehicle, but I’m trying not to panic.

I just ate the bessssst Chilton County peach. It kind of brought tears to my eyes. GOD, I LOVE SUMMER IN THE SOUTH.

Another thing that kind of brought tears to my eyes was Skillzy’s trip up from the big city. We were joined by Maxim and Brandy The Hottest Lesbian in DeKalb County. “You can now attest that I don’t just randomly make people up for blog fodder!” I hollered at Skillzy, “Wanna go meet the Irritable Chinese Guy?”

Maxim told him all about how he forbids me to blog about certain things but I do anyway.

Here’s what I was going to write with regard to the visit:

“Skillzy came in. He got nekkid, Tess rubbed him up and down, we all went out carousing, tee-hee-ho-ho, Teh Enz.”

However, Mister Skillzy had to go and be all showoffy:

“And it came to pass that I was beset by demons, and restless, and my burdens bore down upon me, and I grew weary. And a voice came to me in the night, saying “Get thee to Boaz, in the land of the Sandmountainites”. And I was sore afraid, and I spoke to the voice, saying, “But the road to Boaz is long and winding, and the followers of Meth dwell in Boaz, and the handlers of snakes, and the drinkers of poisons. And I shall surely die if I go there”. And the voice replied “Do not tarry. Get thee to Boaz. And stop being such a baby”.”

The piece really is brilliant, though. Especially the part where he refers to me as an ‘angel swathed in a mighty tempest’.

I mean, who could argue with that shit?

|| July 17, 2007 || 5:27 pm || Comments (0) ||

small-town living

Sometimes it’s kind of nice when nearly everyone in your small mountain community knows you. Like this afternoon, for instance. Scout was at the office hanging about when we sent her for four pee emm refreshment in the form of fresh cobbler (blackberry) and ice cream (vanilla bean). The cafe we get it from is two blocks up the street and they scoop your hot cobbler into one styrofoam container while your ice cream is scooped into another. Then they are lidded and placed carefully into two separate brown paper sacks for your trip home. The cafe leaves it up to you to blend the two and make sweet melty goodness.

When Scout got back, I began to root through the sacks, pulling out and pairing cobbler with ice cream while Scout giggled. Allison, one of the counter girls, had written on top of each of the ice cream lids.

Container one said:

I licked this one!

Container two said:


Container three said:


|| July 16, 2007 || 11:05 pm || Comments (3) ||

(lest I forget)

Over the weekend, I passed the eight-year marker with this whole voyeurnal thing.

Never say:

ay) I can’t stick to any one thing for longer than a minute and

bee) I didn’t warn you and

cee) I’ve never used the word ‘insouciant’ in my writings and

dee) you can’t fully and totally undermine yourself and your own interwebnets popularity by choice, in turn killing your numbers completely and

ee) that a Catholic nun is going to hell because she isn’t Baptist.

I did the ee) thing in second grade and it wasn’t attractive at all. Makes for a good drinking story, though.