regulars, I beg your patience

Because of some recent linkylovin’ from Her Esteemed Blogness Jenneh, I find myself the recipient of a sudden influx of New Folk. This leaves me wildly compelled to be all vain and shit and make a post trying to somewhat flesh out just who the fuck I am, despite the eight years’ worth of archives over to the right. So, kinda who the fuck I am, sketched out off of the top of my head, in under thirty minutes:

O HAI. I am Jett; I am inclined to adventures, hilarity and wordiness. I have an attorney on retainer at all times. In multiple states, actually.

I am a Medicated Middle American Babe, once a month for one week at a time. This is because my once-temperate and mild-mannered female bits decided to do a complete fuckout on me in the form of a hormone wash flood typhoon-tsunami-armageddon thing on me about four months ago.

I love those whom I love deeply, unquestionably and thoroughly.

Sometimes I have these vague, spastic impulse control problems. But they most generally manifest themselves as ‘fun’ rather than ‘episodic’.

I am smart. I am not ashamed of being smart. I am also not ashamed of my boobs and shiny, bouncy hair. They’re all gifts. As is my ability to floor you with my choice of lesser verbiage, most especially the adorning of the word fuck with all sorts of imaginative prefixes, suffixes and exuberant qualifiers.

Everything is funny if squinted at just right. Everything. Well, except for babyfuckers. They are appalling no matter the set of my eyes or mouth.

Usually, I’m the ‘outsider mom’ on those occasions that I’m forced into interactions with other parents. Darn the luck, I have very active kids with a good range of interests, so these forced interactions happen more than my sweet little misanthropic heart would beg. I typically fly quietly under the radar until one of four things happens
onesies) I wear something that enables one of my tats to be seen
twosies) I use a multisyllabic word (other than motherfucker, that is)
threesies) I throw my hair up in pigtails or
foursquare rounds it out) my cleavage makes any sort of appearance.

Go on, be an asshole; I’m not intimidated. But you start acting a fool, then don’t get your ass up around your shoulders when I return the same. Only I will do it bigger, better, harder, longer, and make you feel smaller than you ever imagined you could feel. This will probably be in one dozen words or less, depending on the day. It’s an art, and my skills have been honed to a fine, fine point by some folks amazingly adept at being dickheads.

I live in a huge, rambly, Brady Bunch-style home that we totally lucked into because it was being used –literally– as a garbage dump, so we got it at a steal of a price. There is constantly work to be done on it. It is proof of the insanity that is my life. “Water leaking through the light fixture? Ohhh, HAAAhahaha!”

Regular readers are referred to as ‘Muffinasses‘. It is a term of endearment. Muffinasses come and Muffinasses go, but Brynne will always and forever be known as either ‘Number One Muffinass’ or ‘Muffinass the First’. Brynne floats in the background of Muffinassery, spectre-like, and taunts the rest of you with her brainy hotness. That’s just the way it is, y’all.

I’m not mad at you for being an atheist, agnostic, pagan, (fillinthisblank) , so you don’t be mad at me for being a Christian. I think we all have room to learn things from one another. Plus, if I believe like I say I do (and I do, y’all folk), then my God doesn’t suffer from an identity crisis and doesn’t need to prove Himself to anyone. I reckon that means He doesn’t need my paltry, finite ass to defend Him. He just charged me to love people and take care of them the best I can manage, and to not give up on that directive. I have by no means perfected the art of the former, but I’m plugging away at it: There’s everything to be said for just showing up and trying to be used toward some good end(s). At least that’s how I’m approaching things at this time.

I’ve been voyeurnalling for over nine years, eight of that using Blogger as my publishing platform. We’ve had our hiccups from time to time, me and Blogger, but mostly it’s been good to me and I reckon I’ll stay seated squarely in the home camp.

Despite my immense love of all words everywhere, I do not like the following terms: blogosphere, mommyblogger, ‘first to comment!’.

Yeah, I’m very opinionated. Yeah, I’m fairly blunt, sometimes to the point of being rude and/or brash. Rarely, (SO RARELY) do I ‘hate’ anyone. Polite, well-worded dissention is encouraged, but save your bandwagoning for someone else. Always feel free to state your own views, but do your politicking privately via e-mail. We can converse, we can come to understandings, we can totally disagree: None of those things guarantee my either buying or not buying the next round. Sycophants suck. But so do campaigns of petty dickheadedness Just For The Sake Of.

I love art of all kinds, and passionately. Music isn’t just my boyfriend, it is my daddy and I its willing bitch. Language is a plaything, and I enjoy it immensely.

Child advocacy is near and dear to my heart, and has been for ages and ages. Babyfuckers are a startling aberrance of nature and should be roughly dealt with. I have no patience or lovingkindness in me where this issue is concerned.

I am occasionally prone to intense bouts of selfishness that will cause me to post my poetry here in this space. This is for two people: Me, and Christopher Robinson. For me, cos I’m ridiculously angsty in turns and for Chris because he genuinely likes it. This, despite the fact that he is qualified to tell me my poetry (and any other words I stack together, really) absolutely blows by virtue of some letters poked in there behind his name and some experiences poked back there behind him in his past. Selah and amen. (I tried to find a poem to link, but I have no patience for that sort of thing. Any recommendations, Mister Robs?)

I’m not particularly afraid of taking a beating.

I love to laugh. I like quirky things. I like elegant things. I like tacky things. I love both the whimsical and the grave. I like giving presents. Orange is my favorite color, but I’ve a soft spot for ivory-hued things.

I don’t have a gym membership because of vanity’s sake. I have one because ay) I like to push my body to the extreme of its limits sometimes and bee) it keeps me from killing the random motherfucker who really, really deserves it. Also, I just like to feel good, don’t you? I took my body for granted for a whole lot of years there. I’d like to not lapse back into that place.

Your station in life means nothing to me. The contents of your heart and brain absolutely do.

For some reason, I tend to attract people of the Piscean, Sagittarean or Taurean ilk. Iunno why, it’s just a pattern I’ve noticed. They’re the ones I end up collecting –for better or for worser, anyway– up to this point.

I haphazardly collect vintage photographs of people at fancy-dress parties.

My toes are well-manicured, my fingers are well-gnawed. Dichotomy rules me.

I love my job (in the healthcare field) but I don’t necessarily think it’s my Calling. I work with/for one of my best friends, who for the purposes of our bloggy funses is referred to as Young HotDoc.

Oh lord, shoes and books and lipsticks are my Achille’s heel. I think I’m getting a handle on my slavery to bath products, though. I think.

I. Can. Drink. More. Than. You. This doesn’t make me an alcoholic, just adept. I am, however, a non-practicing junkie. DEAR DOCTORS, STOP TRYING TO MEDICATE ME. IF I CAN’T MEDICATE MYSELF, THEN YOU CAN’T EITHER. UN. FAIR.

For years and years I wouldn’t put a picture of me on the web, preferring instead to let my words frame up whatever image the readers could muster in their heads. This policy has recently changed. I look like this when I’m chilling on the weekends, like this when life has handed me a shit sandwich, like this when roadtrippin’, like this when I R Drankin, like this when I’m self-satisfied and like this when I’m at peace. I’m terrible at self-portraiture. The less attractive the picture, the more likely I am to throw it out there, probably. And no, you can’t have a picture of my titties, stupid.

I am a mom. I LOVE BEING A MOM. IF I COULD HAVE LIKE FOUR MORE KIDS AND AFFORD TO FEED THEM, I TOTALLY WOULD. As of now, though, I have sixteen-year-old Sam, fifteen-year-old Scout and nine-year-old Mathias. One word to sum them each up, you ask? Okay, in order: Heart, Head, Soul (read the archives if you want further clarification). My partner, and I do mean partner, is my husband Maxim. He is everything I’m not, thank God for miracles. He is a knight in shining armor and a non-smelly hippie. He has a great hands and heart, which are both exceedingly important in a Manfolk, to my way of thinking. We are foster parents, but currently have no placements and are taking a bit of a break….though we do sponsor a child in Indonesia who Maxim insisted I place a framed photo of on the teevee console, along with all of our other bebes. We have two dogs; One is Ellie, pretty little brown-red Australian Shepherd, and I’ve learned an appreciation for the art of owning a neurotic dog at the mercy of her paws. I’ve never before owned a pet in need of medication, so I quietly despise her, though I try not to let her know this. The other dog is Maple, who is Ellie’s quite-unexpected pup. She is My Dog, no matter what I allow the rest of the family to think, because she is silly and affectionate and fun.

My best friend is a shining example of Most Everything That Is Right About The Human Race. We say ‘Your Mom’ an undgodly lot. Her name is Tess and she’s got the best legs of any near-thirty-year-old you’ve ever seen. There’s not a single day that goes by when we don’t laugh together. She is a lesbian, though I’ve not actively written about this yet. I’ve chosen her to marry my husband should I ever get hit by a bus or fall in a hole or some shit. All parties are in agreement.

I do not post every day or even every other day. I AM BUSY, BEESHES. PLEASE DO NOT PRESSURE ME. You are not paying for consistency. In fact, you are not paying at all. Every now and again I will hit one out of the wordsmithy park, making your repeated empty clicks worth it. I promise this to you, Oh Fair Muffinass, I do.

Sometimes Zakk Wylde will show up to give you a big, testosterone-laden, sweaty rock and roll hug. Like now.

:: “c’mon over here and lemme lay some Zakk on ya!” ::

Also, I will make vague references to beer and sausages, i.e., “Beer and sausages for everybody!”, though I haven’t done that in a while so I don’t even know why I’m mentioning it.

I’m gonna leave it to my Loyal But Sinister Muffinass Cabal to fill in any blanks which I might have missed, down there in the comments. What will be hilarious is if they leave me hanging and crickets ensue. Because we are that flavor of loving jackass here at [Abuantg.]. Welcome to our madness.