11/30/08

The Week of Blame, Part II: I Blame TV!

Last night I had a dream in which I spoke with Barack Obama. We talked, and despite his being very presidential, I found him very friendly. We discussed what a president's role is and we discussed what my role will be in his presidency. Unfortunately, I do not recall what we agreed upon. I'm like George in that Seinfeld episode where he was working for The Yankees and they gave him a big project and he was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do without directly asking. I think this means I will be the Obama administration's Laytex Salesman.

Speaking of tv, as the throngs of you know from last week's episode, I am a big fan of The Mentalist tv program. Well, last night I watched another show for the first time: Numbers. You know, I used to like math before I majored in it and I even studied astrology for many years, so one might think I would like this show which featured a not-really-as-cute-as-he-thinks math "genius" which seemed to be trying to teeter between the value of studying the symbolism inherent within the occult and calling it all bullshit. Then there's the dad and the life lesson and the woman with the sexy voice who's smarter than her legs might have you think. You would think with two of the actresses from Rescue Me, the only tv show I'll ever admit to watching, and all that other stuff I might actually like it, but, you know, I didn't. They blamed religion for violence, and while I know I am their demographic in that one... still, nope.

Mr. Bee and I were in the mood to watch a movie, with all the baby Bees out of the house staying at their grandparents until today, before we sexed it up, but we were too lazy to get one, but then there was some Ben Stiller, Jennifer Aniston flick on tv and we thought, "Meh." But, it wasn't as good at all that and I just turned the darn thing off, showered, changed my sheets and waited on the bed for Mr. Bee to peel himself away from World of Warcraft. He's a level 72 on one of his characters or some shit and though he did come on in and get some somesome, he really wasn't all that into it and I became convinced again that I am a lesbian. So you see, children, today I'm blaming TV. TV lied to me, you know.

These are some of the lies it told me:
If I chew gum, my breath will be minty fresh.
Men are who aloof, but handsome, are desirable.
Men want to have sex more than women.
I should be focused on what's dangerous in the world.
Sex sells. (It doesn't. I've tried.)
Avril Lavigne is a rebel.
People don't like Eddie Haskells.
Celebrities are humanitarians.
If I smoke pot, I'll be skinny like a crêpe, but people won't like me.
If I talk to my kids about drugs... (uh- what's the rest?)
Owls talk.
a.) People who are dumber than me win and make large sums of money every day.
b.) I'm not as smart as I think I am.
There is something useful in knowing the lyrics to Journey songs.
I really could go on and on, but surely, you see my point. Bold and hurtful lies we've been told.

I've decided that in order to have a threeway with Mr. Bee and some poor unsuspecting cool, sexy, middle-aged bi-woman, I am going to have to get off my Duff™ and place an ad in the Austin Chronicle personals. But, none of that un-truth in advertising bullshit here.

My and Mr. Bee's ad will look like this (DO NOT tell him I am even pretending to do this):

Cool, overweight couple seeks female to ravish and lavish sexually (but more lazily than that might imply):

If you are the 40ish, French lead singer for a hip band (or at least embody that mentality), sport a mod haircut, but don't use the word "sport," and are just insecure enough to like our foibles, then you might be the one for us.

Him: 39, hetero, well-endowed (not that it should matter to you), over-worked, WOW addict; great father, bass player with funky beat, willing to do kinky things if coddled with patience. (If you get him stoned enough behind her back and like to do dishes, he will leave her for you.)

Her: 38, bi, eager beaver with large breasts and sweet badunkadunk, "writer" (who will blog it- don't worry, no photos); supportive, creative and loyal. (If you bring a strap-on, handcuffs, and plenty of rechargeable batteries, she will leave him for you- if you also bring the keys.)

No: porn stars, hidden cameras, polygamy stings, or blackmailers (we don't have any money or pride anyway), please.

P.S.- If you have a male partner and sneak him in the back door (no pun intended here, but now that you mention it...), you won't be turned away.
And so you can see, Your Honor, that's why I blame TV.

11/29/08

I Blame Christmas Music!

I had 30 post titles run through my head on my way to work this morning and as I rested my hair on my pillow, but not a one is coming back to me and I am starting this a little more, ok, the same as usual, lost this morning. Ok, it's not morning. You're so picky.

In case you were worried about me and whether I stayed safe on "Black Friday" (yeah right), I am touching in to let you know that I was not crushed in the mad rush to see the teenpire classic, "Twilight." There was, however, incessant Christmas music playing while I was standing in line and I had the urge to shoot someone or run into the theater, so, being the scientist that I am, I have concluded that it is Christmas Music which is to blame for the Christmas shopping tragedies yesterday.

I did take my daughters to the mall a couple years ago the day after Thanksgiving because they were going insane and driving me even more batshit crazy than usual hounding me to take them somewhere, and, sure enough, we all caught the flu and our whole family was sick for the two weeks after.

You know, I am all in favor of flexing the immune muscles and all, but even just the air in malls makes my eyes sting. Seriously. And nobody else can seem to sense the tiny tremors that I feel when I am in parking garages and malls, though I am glad to hear that there are earthquakes in Arkansas (Google it. I'm too lazy to link it.) because I think I made one too many people think I was a little crazy feeling it.

Here is the paragraph where I complain about school. Sucks. One more week of classes. Then finals. Maybe I'll make it through.

Mr. Bee, with whom I am completely re-inlovewith after spending two days off work and school, and I were given notice by our friend/ landlord that he was regretfully going to have to move back into his house that we have been renting the past couple years because he is getting divorced. We kinda, sorta have a lease until mid-December, but have agreed that the end of January will do for us all. We are saddish about this. Mainly, we are broke as shit and were not planning on moving until next fall, and were hoping to buy a house when I start teaching then, but that's not the way sexy Jesus would have it, so here we are. I am, however, looking forward to moving back into the city. I like to take busses and the kids haven't been able to play with other kids and ride their bikes around our house very easily, though they will miss their secret fort in the woods, I know.

Mr. Bee and I have been having a very hard time, what with my being gay and all, and you all know I am, but, well, Mr. Bee is different and I am still confused and decided that it's a good thing I want to have sex with him, but am decidedly against telling everyone and his or her dog who reads this blog all about it, but suffice it to say that it's kinda extra exciting to have sex with someone after you imagined not ever again after 10 years. I don't know. Having identified as being bisexual for all these years, I was very surprised at my feelings these past couple months, but have to say, not being a huge fan of dogma, that it feels good to give myself a break and let all the old feelings return to accompany all the new ones.

I know. I know. I just about couldn't be any more vague. Let's see if I can be more specific. Here is a blip from about 2 milliseconds in my brain:

"I have thought there was something wrong with me all these years.
I am kinda different than normal.
(My internal grammar is not as good as my outer-grammar.)
I do really like women.
I do get along better with them on many levels.
Maybe this is what it means to be gay.
I kinda felt like I 'belonged' when I thought that.
I was a tomboy all growing up.
I do wear men's clothing primarily.
Was I just looking at that woman's very curvy and full legs?
Oh my god, her ass just made me tingle.
She is "my type."
I could live with a woman.
I love to do delicious things to ladies' naughty bits.
I want to do delicious things to ladies' naughty bits.
I want my face in her breasts.
But, Mr. Bee is my best friend.
We have worked so hard on everything.
We have been getting along so well.
We are family.
We have two sons together.
I don't want him to be with another woman.
Oh, I want to make his crotch swell.
Oh, I want him to be inside of me.
I wish we kissed more.
I can't be what he needs.
He doesn't want me the way I want to be wanted.
I do like to suck his cock.
We could have a threeway if we weren't so lazy and busy."

I really could go on and on, folks.

(If I pimped FluffPo to you on Twitter and you wondered who the hell's email address that was that was listed as the return address, I have no idea. It was a strange hybrid of a couple of of my addresses. I'm pretty sure Mimi has a little somesome to say, so I'll be heading over there and I had better get to work on my schoolwork here at work.)

Love, Freida

P.S. Everything wrong with the world is contained in Christmas music. You heard it here third.

P.P.S. Will you miss me when I'm gone? I'll miss you. Let's make up, k?

11/26/08

The Fluffington Post

Because there just aren't enough conservative female voices in the internets and because they just have a lot of important things to say, Mags and Mimi started a blog!

Check it out!

11/22/08

The One I Forgot To Put a Condom Title On

Last night I had the funnest time, in the dénouement of a quite challenging week, sitting with my baby bees, watching the crime noir "movies" as The Genius calls them, the one-hour, b-list, CSIesque sitcoms that come on on a Friday night. I needed to vegge out and since we cannot find "Eagle vs. Shark" which we rented from Netflix (quickie movie review- hiiilarious) and have delayed sending it back, "Houston, we have a problem" and since I can't get Mr. Bee to watch the movie we anticipate to be quite depressing featuring Bjork that we've had for several weeks now and I've just been to busy to watch it myself, I settled for some good olde-fashioned mind-numbery.

Firstly, we watched "The Ghost Whisperer," which was so ghastly I almost turned off the TV, but I did not want the boys to discover that "Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader" was on. They love that show for obvious reasons. But, really, I was just in a tv watching mood, which occurs once every couple weeks. Since, we don't have cable, we are at the mercy of tv execs with bad taste (sorry, tv execs with bad taste who read my blog- which only exemplifies my point). So, at some point we start mocking TGW, but it brought up interesting conversation since The Genius asked me about reincarnation the other day and some weird bastardized version of reincarnation was featured in said episode. (TGW's husband had recently died and she knew he had taken a huge romantic risk to take over the body of a man who had recently died in a car accident's body and she was in love with her husband in another body to the chagrin of his family, but, as can be expected, it all turned out good for everyone in the end, even the guy who was haunting her and breaking her mirrors. He eventually went into the light, which was "following him around all day." For the love of Jesus Christ on melba toast, was that all hard to swallow.)

I tried to balance mocking the show with explaining what some beliefs around the issue of reincarnation are for a curious boy the age of nine. I happen to be your typical blend of buddhist, humanist, agnostic, pagan, parallel universalist and always enjoy presenting what some people believe to The Genius- who's been asking about God for years now. We have very matter of fact conversations and I always conclude with something to the effect of "It's hard to know these things. Each person makes sense of his or her experience in his or her own way, sometimes many people come to the same conclusions or have the same experiences and sometimes what a person thinks is the truth changes."

What I haven't told him is how the morning of the day a friend of mine died, I had a very vivid dream in which there was a boy who was the son of some people who were chasing me with a gun and I decided to take him with me, wholeheartedly. I had a very surreal day and it was at the gathering after the funeral of my friend that The Genius's birth father and I bonded and became lovers in the months following. I later found out that my friend had just found out that she was pregnant. And, though my relationship with The Genius's sperm donor was very short lived, I always have felt exactly like I felt about that boy in my dream and I have welcomed him even though becoming a single mother with three children was one of the most daunting paths I ever embarked upon. It did bring Mr. Bee to me. Mr. Bee loves The Genius, always has. There were many times he has stayed with me because of him and in recent years, there are many times The Genius is the reason I have stayed with Mr. Bee.

Another is Mr. Bee's humor. There is no comparing the dorkitude our home embodies, as is typified by the statement after next. The next show on after TGW was "The Mentalist." Mr. Bee looked up from playing World of Warcraft to say in his rich baritone "I am 'The Dentalist'" to which The Genius replied, "I am 'The Mentist'" to which I replied, "I am 'The Mintiest.'"

We howled at "The Mentalist's" clever Man-Who-Did-it-is-in-This-Room-(and-will-collapse)speech and Snaggletooth mocked his hynotizing the girl, to confess the next time he said "hello," brilliantly. During commercials I was forced to ask The Genius science trivia questions (It's hard work raising a little genius.) and even took a break to do the dishes for a bit, but that was more so we would have clean dishes than to get away from the mentalizing... kinda.

All I'm going to say is that I have discovered PBwiki and it's all over now. I have a household one I started (and a novel writing one and one for one of my school projects) which has right now a grocery list page, a bills page- complete with links to our debtors online and contact, due date and amount information. I even started a weekly menu page- which I (ooh the geekitude) roughly make each week before I go to the grocery store. I'm pretty good. I can shop big and not have anything go to waste and have it last for a family of 4 full-time (6 half-time) for a full week. I can foresee chore lists for the kids and other organizational things that are aimed at helping me get paper out of my life once and for all (except for that whole teacher thing- though we will have class wikis).

There's so much to write since I am writing so little these days. Just two more weeks of classes and then finals and then I could almost say that I am done with taking classes forever, but the 25 I made on a Real Analysis test last week pretty much seals what was inevitable anyway, my retaking that class while I student teach next semester. There is always the hope I will pass, and I will try (and it wouldn't be the first math class I passed after making a 25% on a test), but the chances seem pretty slim. I am no optimist, I assure you, but it is a pretty cool class and I will be glad to know the material in the end if I do end up retaking it, that and I really should take one class next semester in order to be considered 3/4 time so I can receive a Pell Grant. I was just hoping it might be creative writing on a pass/ fail basis, but say, "La vee."

I've got three awards to showcase here shortly. I just had to post before I felt justified in being considered a blogger. Oh, believe you me, I am about to be a blog slut to the nth degree, and yes I am gay and coming to terms with that in my all-to painful way right now, so there's that. Coming soon.

Things I bought this week:
Playdough
A Pencil Sharpener Shaped Like a Crocodile
Kefir
A D in Real Analysis (if I'm lucky)
Pepperjack Cheese
A watch (Actually, I found it outside a grocery store- not an expensive one, but I like it.)
Cat Litter
$.75 worth of air for a car tire (but only used $.25 worth)
The Hype

11/14/08

Everything Will Be Illuminated in 27.3 Minutes

Yes. Yes. This post will be the one which will give me the long-sought, but ever-feared clarity I so coyly pursue. It is love itself knocking on my door, and I will be startled because it is so rare that anyone ever knocks on my door, because I reside out in the boonie-fucks and I may not even answer the door. I might decide that the unraveling of the fabric of my inner life is far too rich to be bothered with such things as answering the door. And so the love that is capable of being contained in this post will go on over to my neighbors' houses and they won't even recognize it. To them they will just see a woman with hairy legs and a mod haircut and a faint mustache and they will just think that she has the wrong house (and they will be right) and that she needs to take a shower and that they don't speak French anyways. They will offer her use of their phone and then they will each think that she is rather pretty, even if she is rude with her boldness to knock upon a stranger's door. And, then I will be sad because I am stranger than them and I would know that she likes to be kissed around that mole on her inner thigh, but she won't know I know.

And, it could be the case that within this these words my future at.one.mint. is already existent and then the illusion of physicality could be ended freshly, but I cherish it too dearly to be enlightened by it's curiously sweet taste, and yet rue, in its stacks and stacks of junk on my desk that Mr. Bee should think pertain to him too, such form. But I would rather no one touched my stacks but me unless they would do it just the way I like, and then even if Mr. Bee did handle my wares the way I so controllingly state is necessary, it still would not be the same as if Sophiè rode her bicycle over and asked me if I wanted her to pump me and I would say yes and we would ride off into the sunset that comes way too early as does this eerie wind that makes the trees scrape the roof, though it doesn't bother me. And, neither do nails on a chalkboard which cause for some a shiver down the spine that would also ensue were I to do "Criss Cross Applesauce" down So- as I now call her-'s back.

So, Quietly I Wait.

If I say nothing,
I will hear my answer.
'Tis not a cricket,
But an owl I hear
Crying, "Whooo
Are you waiting for?"
I mistakenly revere the owl,
The messenger,
While ignoring the knock again.
Impertinence, a mask falsely worn,
Belies significance,
Fleeting, opportune, apt,
And, then, even it passes.

11/13/08

To Douche or Not to Douche, That is Not the Question.


Whether 'tis nobler in the course of one's day,
The thongs and cleavage of egregious fashion,
Or in having qualms against a tub of razors,
And by tweezing, end them. To dye or sleep;
No more; forgone mine slip to see my end
The head-ache and the two natural shades
That were my hair's due — 'tis a consumption of
Beauty to be spoon fed. To dive in deep;
Too deep, perchance to preen. Ay, where's my rub,
For in that puff of meth what dreams may die,
When we have shuffled off these loathsome pounds,
May we feign loss. Where's my mirror
That I might see my mascara extend,
A lash that bears the curl and scorn of clumps,
So long as lips full, the proud man's pouty gaze,
The pangs of denied love, the one malaise,
The indecency in offices, and on desks
That spanking merits of worthy sluts,
When they themselves might their coitus make
Or bear a bodkin? What would Jesus bear,
To grunt and sweat under phallic strike,
But that the dread of something in the end,
The undiscovered pleasure from whose burn
No traveller returns, fundies beware,
And makes us rather dense those frills we have
Appeal to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does it make cowards of us all,
And thus the pensive hue of hesitation
It sickens me with its pale cast for naught,
And enterprises of great birth and moment
With little regard for current trends turn awry,
And loose thy satisfaction.

11/8/08

Insane Ramblings: They're Not Just For Breakfast In Bed With Strangers Anymore

Well, crap on a Jesus wafer. I'm in a funk without the James Brownsesque benefits. The emotions in the pit of my stomach are driving me nearly insane and worstly of all, on top of plenty of the usual vaguaries, I know near precisely about whichawhatnot they pertain.

I know this isn't a Zombie Jesus Tale and I will certainly not proffer the benefits of decaf at this second. (Alright, there are none, I know!) I have my lesbian love letter half-way written, but this is not quite it (unless any French Lesbians With Hairy Pits, Great Hair, and Faint Mustaches I Don't Know are reading this). I do think that this may meet the criteria lain out by the 1975 Summer Olympics to qualify for an insane rambling, however, though perhaps not the type my Senor Bon Bon Boullion would have wanted, particularly in response to his supercalifornicationistic love letter. Since he got the job as my latex salesman and there was a, like, four or five-way tie on the topic picker poll, his was the deciding vote (though, actually, this is just all I can muster right now, so what say ye for symbiosis?)

I know it may shock and awe and daze and confuse many of my two readers to hear me say out here in the pseudononymous open that I am attracted to teh ladiez, but I am going though a doozie of a lollymabippy here, folks and I am having the raging, raw, lesbianism I may have once yearned for force its way up in me in a way that is making itself downright undeniable.

Oh, the drama. Oh, the egodeathaliscious profanity. This is a terribly inconvenient sort of pickle to be enduring at the moment. I have gone through stages, though, in my 21+ years and seem to have hit the critical masspoint in realiziationing this that makes denying my feelings rather impossible-seeming. I am past all the, "Oh, that makes sense in retrospect," sorts of reflections and am internalizing the meaning of such things. I am profoundly sad about it, really, while also extremely relieved.

Mr. Bee is my best friend, the father of my children, the matriarch of our family, the most loyal of the loyal, to a stubbornly annoying point. He really should have left me by now, if he had any sense at all. I guess he doesn't. I see no need whatsoever to act in any sort of way on anything at this very second, but to acknowledge the way I feel. I have actually done one of the hardest things in talking to him about it (though believe you me with all my dirty talking about what we would do in a three-way scenario, I know he cannot be shocked.) We met initially through a mutual friend of ours, a lesbian momming with a lesbian he used to date when I lived with a lesbian and then started dating later when I was dating a lesbian. Actually, come to think of it, Mr. Bee, what were you thinking? I used to think that living with a bisexual man would be the ideal scenario for me, and have been identifying as bi-sexual all these years, and maybe am in a way, but this feels different. This feels far less convenient, but more spot on. And, it sucks.

Don't get me wrong. I am not hot for Barbiez. I am hot for feminine tomboy sluts, for dykey goddesses, like the physics teacher I observed the other day working with the kids in the woodshop. Meow. And, for some lameass reason with all the things, the my parents divorcing after 25 years, the counseling and all the babbling on and on, lamenting about how I have this blog where I can be myself- but it is not who I am to those close to me day in and day out, the confluence of Count Zoloft, the support group for the bi-lesbian questioners with the dreamy skeptic lesbian virgin grad-student (I hope she doesn't google search herself there), the recalling my youngster makings out with girls, my raw defenses simply failed me. And then there was this picture (circa 1988):

.
Good Lord of Buttery Balls on a Breakfast Platter. Someone (evil) posted it to facebook. I had (yet) a(nother) "Which one of these things is not like the other?" moment and have to say anything else I say is only saying the same thing over and over and over and over and over again, and yet, if you tell me what I just so silently uttered here, I will deny it.

Did I mention I have three more weeks of classes, period? I have already talked to my advisor about retaking my math class from beyond hell while I apprenticeship teach. It was much easier to do that than to hit my head against the proverbial wall trying to understand the material, and yet, there is the glimmer of delusional hope that some sort of wicked curve will make my 30% homework grade and a 76% on the test with several others making A's in a class of 12 people above passing standards. Uggh. I know there is no way that sentence was not not not improper and frankly, my darlink, I don't give a rat's ass.

11/1/08

One of the Best Things...

... to come out of my home town is not a thing, but rather a person, namely Brad Neely.

Seriously, these are the keenest observations of the absurdity around.





Some People Call Me The Gangsta of Love, But You Can Call Me Maurice.

I was thinking about participating in NanoProBloMe and have too many ideas for posts I just don't have time to write today, so I want you to practice getting your vote on, children. And, you thought I was a socialist. I suppose I am more like a benevolent dictator. Now, vote in comments for the blog post you most want me to write tomorrow and I shall do so unless the cows come home in which case, I shall be udderly unprepared. In the event of a three-way tied-to-the-bed debacle that lasts all morning, er tie, I shall let the future Vice-President of laytex sales decide, so I'm gonna need a new VP of laytex sales too.

Here are your choices...

1. A Bowl of Ice Cream a Day Keeps the Sex Away

2. Zombie Jesus Wakes From the Dead and Boy is He Pissed!

3. Imaginary Love Letters to French Lesbians With Hairy Pits, Great Hair, and Faint Mustaches I Don't Know

4. Why Does Everybody Hate Decaf? It Saves Lives.

5. I Can Rant If I Want To. I Can Leave My Virginity Behind.

6. I'm Gonna Wash That 16 Day-Old Sweat and Cum Right Outta My Hair

7. Tha Florence Joe Diaries: Can Ah Borrow You's Gun Fer a Hour?

8. Insane Ramblings: They're Not Just For Breakfast In Bed With Strangers Anymore

Seriously folks. Entertain me. I'm at work.

Wait a minute, are you really going to go hike and camp out in this kind of gorgeous weather? Please take me with you!

¡VOTE!

(Faulty vote counters are standing by waiting for your votes. Vote early. Vote often.)

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