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Posts Tagged ‘crass aplomb’

|| October 29, 2004 || 12:55 am || Comments (9) ||

movie house

“They’re going without us.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I want to go.”

“Then fucking go, Cree.” I was incredulous. What the??

“I can’t leave you here like this!”

The ‘like this’ referred to was me, supine on the curb, bootsoles flat to the street’s asphalt, knees (remarkably) primly together. Demure While Drunk In Public Settings is a course that all Southern young women are required to take, even if they never plan to touch a drop in their lives (also paramount is the early-learning regimen of both How To Tell A Bald-Faced Lie Earnestly and Looking Sweet And Only Cutely Flustered In Moments of Discomfort*).

Also, I should mention, I took a painstaking twenty-five minutes –while everyone else was shooting the breeze or talking shit (which really are only slightly different…it’s all in the set of your mouth as you are doing it) –-arranging my hair, braided and at right angles, behind my head. When you’re the right shade of pickled everything’s an artistic moment: I Am Living Sculpture, Hear Me Roar.

Everything else residing between the boots and the hair, well….let’s just say those things were sort of left to their own devices. The knees were on autopilot, performing quite nicely and according to their ritualistic training.

I was becoming one with the stars, motherfucker, and just wanted to be left alone. My senses were so keen that I could smell the mineral content of the concrete beneath my back, feel the thrumming of a miles-away textile plant on my leaden arms.

“There was a ‘don’t’ and then there was a ‘care’. I think I said them together, but I can’t be sure because I am very, very polluted at present.

“Yes,” I lifted my head so that I could fuzzily eyeball his face, “I’m almost positive that I told you I don’t care.”

“I’ll just stay here with you,” he said, exasperated beyond typical levels.

“You know what, Cree? I really can take care of myself.” He opened his mouth to speak again, and I halted him.

“If you are going to stay, then at least shut the fuck up. You can babysit me in silence, can’t you?” His response? He waved the other four on and leaned inside the car to turn on some music

while the merry band of tricksters headed toward a grocery store to stuff cold slabs of plastic-encased beef in their shirts for a little two ay emm breakfast feast. I remember hearing about this later and thinking, “I should be doubly jealous; they got both steak and erect nipples on their outing.”

After an indeterminate amount of time (thirty seconds? forty-eight weeks?), I surmised that it might be best if I explored the whole ‘being vertical’ thing for a little while. I managed to nearly raise myself erect when, whoops, overbalance kicked in on the deal and I stumbled forward into Cree’s magically-waiting arms.

As much magic, anyway, as can exist when said arms are stringing you up by your pits and saving you from violently kissing some ‘crete.

But when I extracted myself somewhat, I noticed that those arms were gooshfleshed, hair on them standing aloft. I remember being suddenly moved by his body betraying his manner and wanting to kiss him because of it. I drew him gently -–my hands clasped on his forearms and his on mine—- toward me, backing into the corner where the ticket booth and front doors met up to do whatever business involves doors and ticket booths.

And when I was suitably pinned in that swooping corner, I pulled him in to me. Our lips were inches apart; we could have breathed in each other’s expelled air had we bothered drawing breath, but we did not. He placed his right hand on my sternum, fingertips lightly resting on my neck, thumb below my chin. That particular move buckles my resolve damn near every time and suddenly here we were, boots jockeying for position and limbs clumsily (in their haste) searching for purchase.

I bit my cheek and he drew my earlobe between his lips, hands working the denim at my waist, pushing and opening all at the same time, damn the physics of it all. I maneuvered his head further downward so I could get my hands in that mass of black hair.

Everything in us both was screaming ‘GIMME!’ and we let fly on one another, the moon above witness to him bringing me to an arching, gasping place where I wanted to both run away from the intensity and stay forever awash in it.

Though we were still running buddies after that, we regarded one another with the keen distaste of ‘conquest’ and eventually the group we hung with shifted, then dissolved altogether.

Every now and again, I will see him in the grocery store, and he eyes me with appreciation and something akin to subtle want. I’ve now become a fondness in his memory; I can see him wishing away my spouse, the years, our mutual dismissiveness after that groping, fevered coupling.

It makes me uncomfortable.

*Of course I failed both of these miserably

|| November 21, 2000 || 9:28 pm || Comments (0) ||



Those are the two prevailing sentiments this evening. Today classifies as Yucky Day Extraordinaire, for reasons that are my own, a.k.a. None Of Yer Fuckin’ Biz-ah-ness (ya mooly muthafucka!). I am just mad and sad and upset and overwrought and overspent and overblown and overfuckingdramatic. My stomach is all knotty and I want to break things. Fuck things. I want to break people.

Look, I know that violent tendencies are severely frowned upon in our society. They are no longer punished as heavily as they once were, but they still aren’t exactly rewarded. I know also that I am a trusty grade-A role model for three little bodies and minds who are highly perceptive and intelligent. I seriously have no desire to fuck that one up.

But DAMN, for all the good it does me to try and BE good, I could just let go and be bad. I could be the perpetually doggedly bitingly bitterly hateful-souled sarcastic ugly-acting dirty cunt that I was born to be. This whole sainthood thing ain’t working out. I would make a really great bad guy. Except for that damned conscience thing. It fucking gets me every time, because it utilizes my maternal grandmother’s voice, who really WAS a fucking saint and who has probably made her god-linens two sizes too small from crying on them. As a result of observing me, of course. Because I learned to say the word ‘fuck’ and because I now use it so comfortably and copiously. Anyway, back to the breaking people thing….

If you have never landed a good punch on someone, I highly recommend it. Especially square in the face. VERY cathartic. I am gonna admit something right here, in just a sec. Please seat yourself comfortably in a chair, preferably with arms, so that you can grab them tightly. Have your inhaler or your Phenobarbitol or whatever the fuck coping mechanism you utilize ready and waiting. I warned you, douchebags.

I whipped someone with a car antenna one time. I was 13. It felt really, really fucking good. She was a couple years older and she pulled a knife on me. “Self-preservation!”, you cry, coming to my defense.

Nuh-uh. You and I both know that using that car antenna as a weapon of defense may have been acceptable. But I was there. I saw it. I whipped the total shit out of her with it. FLAYED her, man. It was most assuredly overkill. Even I can admit that. Shit, I could admit it at the time, however immature I may have been. After I started beating on this girl with this whippy metal rod and the adrenaline was flowing and the “Bow before me, thou lesser being!’ button was pushed and I heard the whip-crack sound of it slicing the air and her cries punctuating my pounding hatred and heart I found it difficult to stop. Her whimpering and the modest crowd’s stunned silence afterward were so dissatisfying, so anticlimactic.

Sufficiently horrifed yet? YOU goaded me to write. You asked for it, on a day like today.

You did.

|| November 16, 2000 || 10:36 pm || Comments (0) ||

When I was two-and-a-half, I shattered my right femur. Well, not really shattered as such, but broke the almighty shit out of it in several places. Back then it was the same as shattered….

Anyway, two-and-a-half, badly broken femur, lengthy hospital stay (3 months), most of it in traction so as not to dislocate my hip or further discombobulate my little body. Eight weeks afterward in a body cast. Parents hadda teach me to walk and potty train me all over again. There are several enriching humorous stories (lengthy and not-so-long) that are attached to the bigger picture, but this is not one of them. Nosiree, those are for another time. This story is an ongoing offshoot of that early happening.

Several things in my adulthood are related to this leg breakage thingy.

For instance, my right leg is a full inch shorter than my left. Not that it really matters all that much, because I am pretty leggy. I don’t have to mourn that inch from a stature standpoint, or anything. Because of this imbalance in leg length, my back loses alignment, so every so often I am couched for a couple days at a time, quite literally not able to move. In cases of sudden weather change, I am at a great advantage, because a temporary throbbing in that gimp leg (as the family so jokingly refers to it) gives me a bit of a ‘leg up’ *HARHAR*. Gramma always said that I was the best barometer that she had ever known. And that little hitch in my git-along was largely misconstrued as a come-hither sashay (or maybe I can accredit that to the large boobs, I dunno…) But disregard all that. What I am here to talk about is the pain.

When I gets too dang cold, mostly in a humid-like cly-mutt, mah here laig goes ta achin’ me sumpin’ pyreful. No shit. That shit hurts, mang. The kind of hurt that says, “Hey, since I can’t go away, I might as well fucking spread the wealth around.” So here it goes to my hip, on into my other hip, and down my other thigh. If I am REAL lucky, my knees get invited to the party. w00t!

Since we moved into this new house, I have been hurting a little. Now and then. Okay, a LOT. Like every fucking day. Every night and every morning until I get up and get around. After an hour or so of movement, it abates. BUT, in all honesty, I am less inclined to go to the gym and get on the treadmill if my hips and legs ache like an old fucking swaybacked mule.

The reason for this sudden change? My husband keeps the heat hovering around the motherfucking 66-degree mark. I go turn it up, he turns it down. I comply quietly, he turns it further down.

In all fairness, he doesn’t know about the pain that I am caused by the cold, because I am not the type to run around bitching about how uncomfortable I am. I know that we are in a new, much larger place and he is worried (as always) about expenses; he’s trying to cut corners so that we can do the things that we want to do when and where we want to do them. I do, however, go around grumbling. I say, “MOtherFUCK, it’s COLD in here. SHIT!” and other colorful catchphrases in that same vein.

But NO MORE, I tell you; NO MORE!!!!

Tonight I went into the laundry room to iron a pair of pants and I discovered that the iron had been on the ‘high’ setting all day. 12 hours’ worth of day, to be exact. I credit you here with the ability *perhaps dangerously so* to figure out who it was that left the thing on.

No more Ms. Nice Babe. No more, “Well, we really SHOULD leave the heat at fifty degrees, because there are starving kids in Ethiopia in desperate NEED of a little more electricity to power their ice cream freezers, not to mention the fact that our government gave them all of those plug-in toothbrushes…..”

No WAY. I jacked the heat up to 70 and snarled at him, “My sonofabitching legs HURT, and if you want any pussy from ME this winter, 70 is where this damned thing will ByGod STAY“.

Clarity of communication. That’s all a marriage really needs.


|| October 24, 2000 || 7:27 pm || Comments (0) ||

Quote of the day:

“It doesn’t have to be a Saturday. I can fuck on Tuesday, too.”
—my pal Sherry, 1998 runner-up for Eloquence Queen, regarding a booty call (officially referred to as an “appointment”)

|| September 25, 2000 || 9:23 am || Comments (0) ||


Him: “I am making some vegetarian bacon here if you would rather have it than that.”
*waggles finger at the package of pork bacon that I am holding*
*I dance around with the package gleefully, pretending to lick it*
Him: “Yeah, well, it’s not gonna be so funny when you have colon cancer.”
Me: “NO…no, it’s not. What’s gonna be funny is when you’re having to tote my colostomy bag around for me. That’ll be DAMNED funny.”
Him: “Do you HEAR yourself sometimes? DO YOU??”

No one understands me. No one.

|| September 17, 2000 || 12:51 am || Comments (0) ||

Welcome to my latest adventure. I just so happen to be fresh off of it; it is ripe to the touch and ready for the telling.

I went out for a pack of smokes. It was late for around here, 12:30 a.m., so I had to  make a 7-mile trip, passing several darkened stores along the way. I pulled into the parking lot of my destination, a Shell station with a Sneaky Pete’s attached. Just so happens that I was the only patron in attendance at that particular time…. I saw through the plate glass that the guy on duty was working a mop with a great deal of fervor.

I happen to take note of these things, who KNOWS why.

I strolled in, leaving the car running because I really liked the song that was on the radio at the time (“Shout” ~you remember, the Tears for Fears jinga-linga-ling~ as rendered by Disturbed). I had a twenty dollar bill clamped in my hand; the minute my hand hit the doorpull the guy stowed the mop and bucket and he was behind the counter before my clad-in-heavy-boot foot even hit the first tile. He didn’t acknowledge me, and I returned the favor.

I prowled up and down the the aisles created in miniature for the rat race shopper (coincidence that these stores are mindful of mouse mazes when you really think about it? I think not, kind reader…). I really only set out for cigarettes, but my brain saw fit to alert me to the fact that I’d not eaten anything since 10 a.m. on day previous, so I searched for the suitable snack in
Carbohydrate Land. I finally settled on a Hershey’s with almonds and headed for the formica.

I placed the hunka nutty chocolate on the countertop along with my slightly-crumpled bill and said in my mostest politest tone,

“Packa Marbro Lights in a box, please.”
Dude looked me in the face and replied, “I need to see your I.D.”

I muttered, “Just a sec, I gotta go to the car.” and I walked out to find just where the hell it is that I may have stashed my heavily-abused plastic ticket to legal drinking and driving (but not both at the same time, Heavens NO). I placed it on the counter as he was ringing my purchases and said “I KNOW that I look older than 19.” I know he knew so; his eyes had slid all over me the entire time
that I was in the store.

“Yes you DO” was his simpily-delivered reply,”I’m just doing my job.”  Now, normally I would not DREAM of giving someone shit for just trying to do their job, but this was different. He was being a prick. He was doing it just for the sake of doing it, not for
the purpose that it was created. I know this because I have been in this same store any number of times, at any given time of the day. Not ONCE have I ever been carded there. NOT ONCE. Not even the time that 2 cops were standing within 3 feet of me waiting to pay for cappuccino and struedel (DON’T ASK. That’s a whole other rant waiting to boil over).

This guy was a disgruntled peon worker bee and it was my turn to profit from his angst. FUCK a DUCK. I love being in close proximity to the sheep that has just figured out that its collar is way toofucking tight. The word ‘tight’ triggers in him/her/it a physical reaction that prompts his/her/its lips and asshole to illustrate said word.

I stood there and took my change. I unwrapped half the candy bar, broke it off, laid the half down on the counter.

“Here. Sounds like you need a little boost in the serotonin levels.”

I turned to walk out and he called after me,”I have to ask if you are under thirty.”

My reply? “Well, my I.Q. is well above that, so now you know!” He began saying something else, but  I turned to face the slowly-closing door and placed my palm on it. I closed it purposefully. It angers me that someone is so pissy about their job, but they make no effort to change it. Some people willingly stand there while their brains and egos and bodies and attitudes rot. They make no effort to better their position (prone is only suitable for martyrs and sleep, boys and girls…REMEMBER that). Sessile is so convenient, so fucking easy. If you are unhappy, slap it into B for Boogie and get the hell outta there. Can I get an “AMEN”?

I happened to catch sight of his vehicle, a beat-up minivan that spoke of its owner’s lack of a merciful fate/existence and my acidic thoughts in reference to him sort of drained away. My measured clunking across the parking lot softened into steps and I think I thought, “So THAT’s it.”

I turned onto the highway to head home and pulled a final glance in. It was amazing. He picked up the chocolate bar and began to eat it. *boggle*

|| September 11, 2000 || 12:22 am || Comments (0) ||

~giggle~ Pneumatic chairs are the bomb. AHEM, now that I have THAT outta my system we can move along, folks.

Ever partake of something the 20th time out and it still seems fresh and new to you? Something about it simply sparkles and it appeals to you on many levels?…I know you know that feeling. We all know that feeling about something in our lives; those of us who are incredibly fortunate have felt it from more than one aspect/in many respects. If you’ve never had it happen, don’t worry. It will occur (even if it takes until your dying day).

One such thing for me is ‘Lawn Dogs’. The fact that Sam Rockwell (some names are so FITTING) sets the old Lust Bus en route notwithstanding, he is one fuck of a performer (sorry, Sam…that’s the best way I coulda put it. I’m at a loss; how cliche). It simply loosens my jaw to know that I have never heard him credited as one of the hottest commodities in Hollystrange. I mean Hollyweird. Nonono, it’s Hollywood. Yeah, that’s it: Hollywood.

So now you know one valuable thing about me: my true feelings about Hollywood. I’d make a shitty entertainment lawyer; or a great one, I dunno….

I should mention that part of the appeal is the character “Devon”; her fancy-schmancy hyphenated last name temporarily escapes me. Yuppies, SHEESH. “We are such full, interesting people that lead such full, interesting lives and live in such full, interesting houses with children who undoubtedly have full, interesting futures ahead of them and we should possess names that are just as full and interesting.”**HEY, HERE’S AN IDEA….perhaps you should earn one more hyphen with each successive ten mil after the first five or so.**

ANYWAY, all kidding aside, I was telling you about Devon…. somebody who knew me as a child talked to some writers and I was incorporated in some aspects into this character. That’s the only possible explanation….tooooo uncanny, mkay? These traits emerge and rub up against me with an air of familiarity that leaves me awestruck. How did they know that I would go out into the moonlight barely clothed on mild nights and look up at the unpolluted sky and feel all those places where I was not? To know that sorrow that accompanies a homesickness for a place you had never seen, a person you’ve never been? Does every little girl know talismans? Is it incorporated into the female makeup? Did we all climb trees and tie ribbons to each branch in need of a shiny piece of satin? Were/are there other young women that knew the disdain of their microsociety? I never pissed on my dad’s car, but had I thought of it, I might’ve. I NEVER would’ve entered a stranger’s house uninvited or unannounced; this was not from fear but from thinking it ill-mannered. I wouldn’t have done the fly-in-the-cookie thing either. Why waste a perfectly good cookie? The dolls, the doll parts, the exacting-punishment-where-punishment-is due…..yeah, toned down a half a click it could’ve been me.

The self-created parallel storyline WAS me. Always ticking out the next string of words in whatever drama I was destined to lay to the page. Not an escape, not a way to enliven a dull existence (for it wasn’t a dull one), just something that was. Like breathing or blinking. Simply an inherent part of the whole.

So watch ‘Lawn Dogs’ and know that it gets me right there, even if it doesn’t do a damned thing for you. Then e-mail me with what holds your multi-layered magic. Or better yet, set up your own blog and tell the world.

Pee ess….I am almost NEVER satisfied with the endings that are unfittingly served to us, but there could not ever in the history of the planet been a more suitable and filling wrap to a story. TRULY.