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Posts Tagged ‘some things just tear my crack out’

|| November 27, 2000 || 11:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

I am listening to Pure 70’s and I am thinking evil thoughts. I have a sadistic grin on my face as I do all of the above.

In other news, my mom and dad are here. DAMN, what a hoot.

Shall I give you a pat explanation? Okay, you twisted my arm. I will.

For future reference (and past too, for that matter), you should be aware that I call my stepfather ‘dad’. When I refer to my father (a.k.a. ‘Daddy-Warbucks-Who-Ain’t-Gonna-Spend-It-On-Anyone-’Cept-Himself) I am acknowledging He Who Donated Half My Biological Make-Up. Clear on that one, plebes?

So my mom and dad are here. It is always a riot and a half when I spend time with my dad. He is all wry humor and one-liners and they are never repeat one-liners. Fresh material every time. In case you didn’t realize it, that is a strong indicator of a sharp mind/intellect. He is so, so, so clever and that alone makes me love him. It is second only to the marvelous way that he reveres my mother in my list of things to dig about him.

One really funny thing about his visits is the fact that he finds it necessary to undertake a ‘project’ every time he abides under my roof, however brief the stay might be. One time I commented that I hated my cabinet doors and their grody pattern/hardware combo, just sort of offhand, not one of those ‘hint-hint’ comments that you sometimes ply your parents with. Well, I went off to work and when I came home 7.5 hours later, my whole kitchen was sporting new cabinetry. We’re talkin’ a LOT of cabinets here, folks.

Well, my mom and I bundled the toddler for an excursion today. Dad opted to stay at the house, as we would not be gone long. Two eldest chirrens opted for fun and heckling with Papaw. Shortly before mom and bambino and I left, dad says, “Hey hon, what’s this over here?

Well, he knew damned well it was our new satellite dish, which had not been installed yet. I have 4 boxes still packed in the hallway and I have explained to my husband that I’ll be fucked if the satellite dish goes up before those boxes get unpacked and I get a Christmas tree put up. SO, he has conveniently stayed just busy enough to avoid putting said dish up (and, AHEM, to unpack those last 4 boxes). We don’t watch much boob tube anyhow, so no big deal.

“It’s our satellite dish, dad….we’ve not had time to mess with it.”

“Hmm.” he says knowingly, nodding at the same time. Mom and I look at each other and smirk as he busily observes the box and its contents. “Go find Papaw a hammer, son,” he says to my oldest boy. “Sis, go get our coats,” he says to my daughter. “Typical.” says my mother. We leave.

We come back two hours later to feed him and children and find that he has moved the dish all over the yard and is not getting the proper signal. “96 or better!” is his battle cry on this particular day. I remark that the 74 that he has been consistently getting is suitable enough. He gives me that “You blame crazy woman” look and I go in to rustle up some grub.

Mom and I leave again as he is departing for Radio Shack. More cable seems to be the mission. He is also muttering something about azimuths and global trajectories….who the fuck knows?

When we return two MORE hours later, my son is observing something, perplexed, in a mirror image of his granddad. My daughter, Little Miss Tattle Pants, marches to the car and expertly informs us, “Not done. Don’t ask.” Mom and I decide an afternoon nap is in order and go into the house to tuck the baby in.

One gossip session, two cups of cocoa, and a start of dinner later, the dish was installed. At 8:30 CST tonight, we re-joined the world of digital television reception.

Thanks, dad. I like the ways you convey your love to me. I adore you and I couldn’t have hand-picked a better man for my mom. And for me. And for my children. You embody what a good man should be.


The only drawback to having an exceptionally angry day is that now I have an exceptionally large headache-thing (this never happened when I was younger, but perhaps that’s because I pounded on my little sister or one of the neighborhood boys to let off some steam). But not to worry; It goes nicely with my lavender pumps and my raw-to-the-core nerves. Can you hear them jangling away? Is it a tune you might be able to dance to? You know me, happy to accomodate.

All outta beer and sausages, though.

On the lighter side of the day, My Charming and Gorgeous Girl Offspring was piddling her way through a plate of Mom’s Best Made-Entirely-From-Scratch Spaghetti (pizgeddy) when the following exchange occurred:
“Hey, momma…”
“Yes, my punkin, what is it?”
“I need somethin’ here.” *gestures grandly at her plate with her fork*
/// Meanwhile, the boys are making monkey noises at one another and feeding each other a piece of garlic bread ///
“I need some of that FarmerJohn cheese.”
My eybrows go up and my eyes sorta get squinty at this juncture. I am trying HARD to comprehend.
“You know, that kind that comes in the little shakin’ thingy….FarmerJohn cheese.”
I nearly bite through my lip while trying to suppress the laughter.

If any of you is stopping by the store tonight, couldja please pick us up some FarmerJohn cheese? We are slap OUT.

|| 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 25, 2000 || 10:09 am || Comments (0) ||

Oh oh deep water / Black and cold like the night / I stand with arms wide open / I’ve run a twisted line / I’m a stranger in the eyes of the Maker

I could not see for the fog in my eyes / I could not feel for the fear in my life / And from across the great divide

In the distance I saw a light / Jean Baptiste walking to me with the Maker

My body is bent and broken / By long and dangerous sleep / I can’t work the fields of Abraham / And turn my head away / I’m not a stranger in the hands of the Maker

Brother John, can you seen the hopeless daughters / Standing there with broken wings / I have seen flaming swords there over east of Eden

Burning in the eyes of the Maker / Burning in the eyes of the Maker / Burning in the eyes of the Maker

Oh river rise / From your sleep

// Daniel Lanois, “The Maker

|| September 13, 2000 || 11:50 pm || Comments (0) ||

Fer God’s sake, it is not really even the middle of September yet and I am sitting here shivering.<–wish I knew of some funky little snippet of code I could slap in there and make the word ’shivering’ quiver like newly-set Jell-O….that’d be tres awesome!

Anyhoo, I was saddened by the news about this cyberguru-to-some. I’ve not been visiting long, but the visits that I DID make were unsettling and thought-provoking. I like this guy because I don’t necessarily have the level of courage to be so forthright and raw with my web spewings. We have lots in common, D. Maybe you find comfort in knowing? Maybe not? Either way, I should have made you aware of that fact sooner…hope to hear from you again real soon.

|| 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.

|| 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!!!