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Posts Tagged ‘rife with swear words’

|| 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.


|| November 8, 2000 || 12:50 am || Comments (0) ||

FTP Error: 550 /thejettgrrrl/472915.html: No such file or directory.

That’s the message I am getting as I try to publish this thing. And each time I tried to log in to any and all of my blogs earlier today, all I got was a blank page that said something similar to fOO (perhaps somebody simply forgot the ‘L’…). Mister T is writing script for Blogger now?

That would be a great t-shirt:
My parents went to blog and all they brought back for me was this t-shirt that says something similar to fOO.fOO. What the fuck is that shit supposed to mean???

|| November 8, 2000 || 12:41 am || Comments (0) ||

Blogger is all fucked up. Somebody out there is tweaking something that doesn’t need to be twuk and there are bloggers out there swearing like apeshit at their blogs, their server, their being cut off from their cybernook, the internet in general. They are clenching their jaws in fury at their monitor, throwing sidelong disgusted glances at their CPU. And let’s not even mention their connex speeds. Oh, a resounding and mighty “HELL NO!”.

Can I snivellingly ask if this little sit-yoo-ayshee might be cleared up soon, perhaps? Maybe? Piddy peeese? With ball gags–oops, I mean cherries–on top? I have a few things to talk about. And there is reserved seating here up front.

|| October 9, 2000 || 9:48 pm || Comments (0) ||

Lie back, daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man’s-float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up , and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

// Phillip Booth, ‘First Lesson’

I have that stupid gut-clenching, I’m-gonna-throw-up-from-the-ferocity-of-this-moment feeling. Fuck you, world. You owe me nothing, I know that…but I fucking owe you nothing either. Your chanting burns like a red-hot rock-hard fist in my brain. I am wound like one of those creepy clattering eye-rolling cymbal-crashing monkeys. I may go off in the middle of the night sometime, and you will awake fearfully, with ice-rooted hair standing up on the nape of your neck, willing itself legs to run away with.

You just don’t realize how morbidly fucking sad you make me. You don’t realize the stone facade is only hard-packed silt and I weather away some with every heavy, labored breath you cause me to drag into myself in anger. How much, damnit, how much? How much more do I have to live it and how much less responsibility can YOU take? I mourn your passing and you are still here among the living. I am sad and sorry and ashamed to admit what your departure from this particular plane will in fact mean to me. I will be relieved to have you gone. Terrible as I am, I will be relieved and happy.

|| October 5, 2000 || 12:47 am || Comments (0) ||

There are times when a person is rudely yanked out of the present by some associative smell, by something seen that triggers a memory, by something uttered from the lips of someone (said someone having had no idea that the turn of the phrase they just gave voice to would cause a minor fold in their listener’s space-time continuum). The past moment, now that the linchpin is pulled, comes banging and clanging into the present without any foreshadowed knowledge or even the slightest peep of a warning. It can be insanely overwhelming, to say the least.

This has been happening to me a whole lot lately.
That having been said, lemme tell you a fucking story, boys and girls.

There was a time in my life when things were really, really off-center in the whole three-squares-a-day department. Three squares a week were not even the norm. Shitty school lunches were the highlight of the day, and God help us on weekends. Dad had bailed to go chase some tail and powder his nose (“Must be a little chalk dust, punkin’…”) and generally live it up in the worst/best midlife crisis fashion. Mom worked her ass off shuffling real estate (or trying her goshdarnedest to in what was at the time a male-dominated market) literally 19 hours a day to keep the heat on in the only home we had ever known.

In the little Oklahoma town that we lived in at the time, there was no such thing as Catholic Relief and my mother was staunchly against joining the welfare rolls. We came from the deep south and there was a large stigma attached. Ma’s reasoning was that her girls may not be garbed in the height of fashion any longer, but they sure weren’t gonna be wearing the almighty cloak of poor white trash. Pride has no nutritional value, you see, so it did no good to swallow it. What was the point, after all? My job was to keep the house tidy, make sure my tomboyish sister didn’t stray too far past the now-empty barn or permanently disfigure herself in her wanderings, proof the homework and guard what little food we had from her constantly-rumbly tummy. I tell you all this not to elicit sympathy, just to give you some background that is instrumental in this particular tale. I survived to become the closet genius and Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico) lover that I am today.

Quick, throw on the brakes and join me in the ever-present today. I was wandering through a toy store a couple of days ago taking stock of the coming holiday season’s offerings for the young ‘uns. I cruised down the doll aisle and happened to catch sight of some hideous little Campbell’s Kids (you know, like the soup) dolls. This particular pair, adorned garishly in wedding finery, scooped me up and slammed me face-first onto memory lane. It was very, very yucky.

“How can two little dollies do such a thing?” you ask. “They are made to bring companionship and pleasure and many hours of fun play into lives (sounds like a dildo advertisement, right?) all over the free world.” Get comfy, fellas, ’cause here comes the crux of it. Ready?

Pan back to the past: One afternoon, the phone rang. Mom was –as always– at work. My sister was playing (oddly enough) quietly. I picked up the phone to hear the booming, boisterous voice of a gentleman on the other end. He rattled off the call letters to the local radio station and informed me that we were randomly chosen to participate in a promotional contest and that I was live on the air. If I could sing the Campbell’s Soup jingle, I would win TWO WHOLE CASES of Campbell’s Soups.

Oh, this was SO grand! My mind was reeling, but I got hold of my thoughts and managed to drag up the image of those delightful little Campbell’s Kids dancing in grandiose cartoon fashion and sing-songing that WONDERFUL SOUP-WINNING JINGLE! Hallelujah and shave the monkeys, I knew that damned jingle and I sang it with tentative excitement and anticipation. Upon finishing, the DJ loudly and proudly announced me victorious. I had won! We had food at long last! GOOD food and God only knew how long I could stretch two whole cases of soup betwixt the lot of us! Oh, thank you merciful heavens! I have seen the promised land and it is flowing with cream of mushroom, it is strewn with chicken noodle!

I was nearly jumping out of my skin as I dialed my mother’s work number. I was fortunate enough to catch her in the office and not out on a call. I hurriedly related the recently-transpired events to her and I could hear the smile in her voice at my enthusiasm. “Mom, mom, we have some FOOD! I won food for us!” and I started to tell her my plans for rationing and stretching our good fortune. Maybe things were starting to look up…

In the background I heard a male voice begin to sing the Campbell’s jingle. “Hey mom, who is that? Did they hear me on the radio or something?” My mother fell quiet and at that moment, in the best display of bad timing ever in the history of man, my mom’s prankster co-worker picked up the extension and began sing-songing the jingle in a little-girl falsetto.

“Hey girl, I really hadja goin’, huh?” I was stunned into silence and my gut slid down the front of my knees as I slowly settled the receiver in it’s cradle. I slumped into a chair, putting my head down on our heavy oak table. The sobs were so low and big that as I heard them, I was vaguely amazed that they were brought forth from a little-girl body. The phone rang and rang and rang and I never answered it.

Those fucking dolls. Those fucked-up grody-looking dolls. I was okay not remembering that story. Give to Toys for Tots, you fucks, and include a motherfucking ham. And don’t you DARE look into your refrigerator replete with condiments ever again and say you have nothing to eat, because you DO. You and I both know you do. Be thankful, ingrates. The world owes you not a fucking thing.

Postscript to this story….the dude who phoned to prank me was a really great fellow and had no earthly idea what a mindfuck it would be. Had he known our situation afterward, it would have broken his heart to know that he had goofed on me in that regard. Don’t hold it against him. HE SIMPLY DIDN’T KNOW.

|| 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 7, 2000 || 11:54 am || Comments (0) ||

I am SOOO weak. Weak, I tell you!

I can imagine life without cyberalia, without television, without a 21-cubic-foot refrigerator (please don’t mistake that for the fact that I don’t need a frig…I could get by on 3 cubic feet.). I can envision myself not pining for a microwave or a down comforter (even though polyester is quite icky in my opinion). I could get by sans socks. Minus matching tableware. I cannot, however, imagine whiling away my time shackled to the earth without MOUNTAIN DEW (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico).

I try to be good, folks. I tithe to various charities near and dear to mah heart, I go to the gym and WORK on my health on a daily basis, I eat mostly properly with a few minor indulgences here and there, I don’t beat my children, I read the instructions before assembling and I usually only verbally abuse those people who step into my path & don’t clear out quite quickly enough. See?? I try to be good. But oh, that MOUNTAIN DEW (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico) has its’ shiny nuclear-green-colored claws in me and won’t allow me to shake loose.

My theory is and has been for some years that MOUNTAIN DEW (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico) is liquid crack for Generation X. Once upon a time you could not even speak to me until I had quietly meditated over half a frosty-crisp can of it in the morning. I drank no less than 3 cans a day….sometimes only 2 if there was a Pepsi lying about unattended. I have friends that joke about having an IV feed of it anchored directly into their nearest capable vein so that they can consume without the bothersome “bottom-of-the-bottle-gotta-go-and-fetch-another” happenings. Only they aren’t joking.

Damn you, MOUNTAIN DEW (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico), and your cheerful color and your pleasant wash over the palate…DAMN YOU!!!