Move Over Modest Mouse...

just for a few minutes...

Arcade Fire- Wake Up

Arcade Fire- Rebellion Lies

while I love on this band for a while.


Pick Your Own Title Day: Narcoleptic at Night or Dr. Phil Doesn't Live Here Anymore

That's the name of the band I'm gonna start (NAN). If we make people fall asleep at the performance, then all the better. Have I ever told you I have a brand new pet peeve? Well, I do. I hereby and forthwithily officially hate it when people use the word "opportunity" to describe a shitty situation. Examples? You want examples? You're so needy. "My cat's knocking over that huge stack of papers creates a great opportunity for me to go through it." That one's mild, I know. How about, "I guess all this poverty is an opportunity for me to 'see what I'm made of.'" Ewww, but too generic, right? "Oh, look, soandso's being an ass. Goody. This gives me an opportunity practice speaking from the 'I.'" Nope. Not gonna cut it.

Apparently, all good sexytimes must come to an end; this is the hard truth. (Please, go ahead and sprinkle some glitter on that one and make it shiny.) I like to think of my marriage as a series of honeymoons... continually ending. "Is she ever gonna get to the substance of this post, or is she gonna continue to put out (yep) these disembodied statements?" Who let Jim Gaffigan in here?

Speaking of sparkle. Have I lost my sparkle? Have I lost my je ne sais quoi, whatever that is? If you get that, then message me with the super secret password, the date and time your mother lost her virginity (and her wedding night won't cut it!) , and three.7 money orders in the amount of $.17 and we'll be in business. What should our business be? I crochet a mean winter cap. Sorry Mr. Bee, you got the prototype; I've made three awesomer ones since. Also, there's that thing we put glitter on back there. Can we use that? Market it? How does Mr. Phil do it? We need a video camera. This is the infimum of our worries. Yep. Nope. I'm not going to be able to slip my Real Analysis lingo into normal conversations.

There was that time we had that one thing to say.... Oh, yesterday at work the internet was out. crickets. When I was in 9th grade, my mom went to my back to school night. No great headlines there, but my English teacher (back when "they" used to teach English rather than Language Arts- a speculative evaluation of the differences may or may not follow this) gave the parents a quiz (note to self- DO THAT!). One of the questions was, "What is an ellipse?" You know..., one of these: "..." . (Oops, those quotation marks are supposed to be on outside of the period, right? But, then I would be quoting the four, and that might be confusing-- though this isn't.) My mother's answer? "I'm not sure, but it sounds like fun." That's when I knew she was cooler than me. It was, and continues to be devastating. But, I'm over all that, now... .

Today is day 2.fourfive of packing. Not in that sense. I wish, but I haven't gone and bought my new strap-on, yet. (That statement might imply I have an olde one, no? Well, I don't.) I used all my boxes in one shot last week by packing my books. I've got six more boxes and Martha Stewart in my pocket today (hmmm), so there's no telling where I'll end up. (Insert jailbait joke here.) My mother-in-law is the one who told me that my 15 year-old dog is deaf. She so is. I just thought she was ignoring me. Seriously. But, after all this time, I thought she was justified in so doing. She really self-regulates quite well. We gave her a bath and squeezed her in for our Christmas Eve Death Drive in the blizzard of '09, the one I inadvertently aptly called "Over the River and Through the Woods." We were Jack Londoning it big time, and had to hike two miles all the way to get to presents, which is something my daughters will be able to lord over their children forever. Now, there's a gift that keeps on giving. Sometimes I lie, you know, but not about this.... The Lip Model Facebook messaged me (modern day heart to hearts are so quaint), "I just realized I'm going to miss Mr. Bee's King of the Hill impressions." That's sweet. So will I. So will I.

Moving on. Have I told you I started an OkCupid thing again? It was a whole two days ago. This time, I don't feel sleazy. I think it's because I wouldn't be acting behind Mr. Bee's back. I am moving in two weeks. Wow, that's not long, but I wouldn't meet anyone in person for some time after that, I don't think, but if you're wondering what is the milkshake that brings all the boys (and sadly no women) to the yard on OKC, it's confiding you like to be spanked. Sexy Jesus H. Christ on a schtick. This time, I put things out there more honestly and whatever the fuckity and am concerned that I have the oppositeness of feeling sleazy coming up this time. It's more a feeling unworthy. That really, really hot redheaded 32 year-old PhD candidate (in something way cool) that said he thinks I'm cute and has messaged me twice. Unworthy. I think I took care of him, though. I threw out the 4 children thing right off the bat. I think that should properly get him running, though if he'd had a child at 15 he would be old enough to be my eldests's dad. Come to think of it, he even broke through my inpenetrable 34 and up criteria, as did the older fellow who defied the elder cap and messaged only, "I like TO spank." See.

It's time for me to prepare my hand basket for my next trip to hell.

Here's the video for it...

Snoop Dogg Makes Mashed Potatoes with Martha Stewart

In conclusion, and whatnotandnot, "She's So Squirmy in my Pocket." That's gonna be Narcoleptic at Night's first hit.


Ice Melts- Reveals Mud

This is not the "I don't like Star Wars" retraction it, perhaps, should be, but it will be about as close to that as I ever come. I try to not have to make retractions, mainly by implementing preemptive qualifiers, but even I admit I'm wrong from time to time. Actually, the problem may lie in my being all too happy about being "wrong." Being apologetic is another story altogether. All this is to cryptically say that I just had an amazingly pleasant last two days with Mr. Bee. The jerk.

I imagine I am not the only human being on this planet who gets inordinately cranky when faced with a seemingly insurmountable task, not even realizing what is making me feel that way until the deed is done. Such was the case with Christmas shopping with Mr. Bee. Shopping for picky teenagers on too little money is not my favorite recreational activity, but Mr. Bee and I offered each other a little support there on Wednesday and made it out not only unscathed, but partially bonded. It did take us a couple hours to get to the point where we were willing to be so cooperative, however.

Mr. Bee and I have ridiculously little time together, on a day to day basis-- working opposite hours (and my being in school) is behind his theory of our failing sense of connectedness. I agree with him. But, I have been complaining about the fact that the little time we have together finds one or both of the following to be true: Mr. Bee is altered, not behaving like the man I truly love; Mr. Bee and I are not having sex during the little time we are together. I have come to firmly believe that, for me, sex is the glue that makes me willing to be compromising. Without it, I oftentimes feel like all the work is not worth the effort. I am not too demanding in such ways, but I am needy, particularly in the last week with the kids' being out of school, making Special Mommytime™ a virtual impossibility for a mommy who is floating around the house sleeping in whichever bed is unoccupied at the time, since I've left Mr. Bee our bedroom to make his own private Idaho bachelor pad. This has left me cranky, to say the least.

Because Mr. Bee's been coming home drunk or stoned most days for the past several months, I have taken to leaving the house when it is just him and me at home, in protest, and I feel utterly spiteful when I feel trapped there with him in that state when the kids are home and I feel forced to try and maintain some normalcy for them. I feel pretty clear about what I want and need in that way, but that doesn't make me happy about it, the needing to move out. Also, I know it is not the only factor at play.

I don't want give the blow by blow, but he and I sat out in our yard on the beautiful day it was Wednesday, after my walk, hating each other... until we didn't. Not surprisingly, we had to talk, we had to hold our grounds, and we had to cry, before we could deal with the idea of shopping or being in a car together for several hours. We were both conflicted about my going to his parents' house with him, but our boys were already there and his showing up alone on Christmas Eve smacked of selfishness on both our parts, though there was the possibility it would be the most mature thing to do, and we had to explore that. Nothing really profound happened. We just had to sit with it all long enough for it to shift. Eventually, it did.

I delved myself into the task of acquiring the elements of Snaggletooth's Spy Kit while the Lip Model shopped for the things she wanted, and Mr. Bee took on being the brains behind the geeky items The Genius might want in addition to the XBox360 that we were busy dissuading him was at all a possibility. That's what I am really good at. I had The Genius completely hopeless on the phone by the time I was done with him. "What else would you like? We're waiting on a ferret until after we settle into new places, and we can't afford an XBox360. You have to come up with other things you'd like. More realistic things. " Mr. Bee is super crappy at keeping gift secrets, but I am just the opposite. It's a sort of Christmas/ Birthday Good Cop/ Bad Cop schtick we've got going on. "Yeah, I know Daddy said _____, but I'm telling you something different. We can't afford it." Since it's so often true, they believe me far too easily.

The Future President is getting herself and iPod touch, and since we were giving her cash, she went on to a friend's house where The Lip Model later joined her. "We're leaving in the morning, so don't stay up late," we admonished as we dropped TLM off and looked at each other, hesitantly. Mr. Bee had done me a favor to wait to go get pot until after we finished our shopping and I set aside my usual annoyances that that's how our money was going to be spent. I do usually keep that aspect of it to myself, though, 'cause I readily admit I have a coffee shop perusing habit during the school year to trick myself into studying that runs us about the same cost, and don't either want to be told how I can and can't spend my money. This usually isn't our issue.

As I briefly alluded to in my last post, I had an amazing dream that morning, one that had me feeling particularly frisky there in the car with my husband of ten years, despite the sad direction we're heading. I don't expect this dream to be arousing for anyone else, but me, and I'm sure it was one of those, "You had to be there" kinda things, but in my very vivid dream, I had a penis. I've had one or two visceral dreams with the same theme in the past. One even found me having sex with a woman with my actual penis, and I came and everything. About as close as I'm ever going to get to knowing what such a thing feels like in this lifetime... I thought.

In this more recent dream, I was looking down at my erect penis, and it was very gorgeous, and very real. I was me, and having a penis was as strange to me in my dream as it would be for me to awake for reals and find myself in such a state. Of course, I was aroused, and I stroked it and found myself with the previously unfathomable decision as to what in my immediate vicinity I wanted to ejaculate on. Oh my. I wanted to cum on something special, and yet everything around me, both at the same time, an urge I am not sure if men actually face or not, but it was a very peculiar and arousing thing to experience.

The dream had typical surrealnesses to it, in that, part of the time I was stroking myself (meow), I was talking to a doctor. I did have my vagina, as well, and she was telling me that I had a rare genetic condition that made it possible for me to biologically be both a man and a woman, which is, unfortunately, short of surgery and hormone therapy I'm not interested in having, not really the case. The dream shifted to where my penis was off-center, and then (just like the song) detachable, though that part was nice as well, because there was still sensation in it, but I could also fuck myself with it at the other end. Ahem... there. there. (Mommy's finally buying a strap-on with the Christmas monies given to her by the in-laws, as I'm sure they intended.)

Riding home with Mr. Bee found me with a very urgent need to have sex with him, one he happily indulged before he went to get his pot. It was hot, and I when he told me he didn't think he could drive still thirty minutes after we were done, I told him to be sure and tell all his friends, so they would want to fuck me, too, to which, being still merely goo, he laughed. Ugh. I hope I didn't really mean that.

We had a nice Christmas with the kids and Mr. Bee's parents, which was far too wholesome to include in this post with the rest of this. We had to do it again before we left town to go there, and upon returning last night (with Baby's staying until Tues. or Wed.), we dropped the girls off at their dad's and got a movie and Vietnamese take-out and just went home and talked. We know ourselves better than we used to, and have decided that we'll operate at the level of a "secret"* affair (his idea- is this his little place of kink?) as we separate (to minimize expectations and create less confusion for the the kids?). Even as this rings dangerously close to Jerry and Elaine's Seinfeld "rules," we made just a couple basic agreements. If I sleep with other people, he doesn't want to know as long as we maintain safe sex in any outside scenarios, and he let me know that he's a one-woman-at-a-time-kinda-guy (hence, the "no" to all the hot threeways we're being bombarded with), and he would be more likely to find himself simply wanting to end our "secret" affair in the case he found himself sleeping with someone else. I think it would sting, but be hot to me for him to tell me about sleeping with someone else, though the ending it part is sad. In the end, this is all not too dissimilar to what has developed on it's own without all this new communication. I do think the communication makes it hotter, though, and there is the very real possibility we are just buffering the imminent blow of splitting. At least, neither of us wants to become so enmeshed in the sexinesses to change our minds about separating, and that's a good thing.

Stay tuned in coming days for The Inevitable Change of Heart Stabbing Pains Cause.

*"Blog" counts as "secret" in my book, as the only two or three people I know here in town who actually know about my blog
(and if one counts actually reading, it cuts that # in half) and know Mr. Bee are people I would tell this stuff to anyway.


Over The River and Through the Woods

I'm about to be going somewhere that looks nothing like this whatsoever, Arlington, TX, to my in-laws' house. I'm sure it will be an endurable feat, but I am loading Queen on my iPod for the drive just in case.

Mr. Bee and I survived the shopping we agreed was only fairly done together, since neither of us wanted the burden of making all of the decisions in that regard. I suppose it could have gone the other way re: all the credit, but in either event, just giving ourselves some time (together) to get past the definite feelings of not being connected whatsoever ended up being the solution. I could be more gossipy than that, but I'm feeling like my blog's been going that way way too much, so I'm skipping town with a few videos for your listening pleasure:

Queen- Fat Bottom Girls

Queen- Bicycle Race

You know, I don't like Star Wars either.

Speaking of gossipy, it seems Mr. Bee and I are in the best of company, and I had a wonderful dream last night in which I had a penis. I don't know what to believe in anymore, but go do interesting things and tell me about them when I return on Saturday.


Movin' On

What to write? What to write? There's both a lot and very little to say. This has been an odd week for me. My Baby Bees are with grandparents. I received a video of Snaggletooth's first bike ride without training wheels yesterday. So cute. We keep their bikes up there because we live on a long dirt driveway attached to a road where people drive quite quickly, while they live in a suburban heaven cul-de-sac. I have taken them riding at Town Lake, but not nearly enough. Note to self: You know.

I have had The Lip Model (who, incidentally, has pierced her lip (area) twice now and has the remnants there, which is going to seriously cut into her career) and The Future President (who is going to have a harder time in her career (of my choice) as well (as it's been apparent she can no longer claim not inhaling. damn fine arts academy blue-hair kid scene (which is probably better than about a thousand others she could be a part of, granted)) with me this week. (<= Observe, the most jacked up sentence ever.)

Let's just start a new paragraph here and pretend that never happened, umkay?

Things have been teetery around here. Mr. Bee's drunk every night fuck it 'tude is really putting a damper on my unrealistically expecting these last few weeks of living together to bring us a modicum of closure. Not sure why I expected us to, all of a sudden, be able to do what we could never do well before, though. Communicate. I hate how neurotic I let his drinking make me, and yet, I also recognize it for what it is, a self-protective maneuver (on a few levels) and the result of a hurt from feeling neglected. Honestly, this week is doing what it probably should do. Reaffirming my resolve to move. I need that now.

It seems, I may have my wish re: not succumbing to the capitalistic pitfalls of this, our upcoming consumeristic heyday (or is that hayday (there is that manger tale)?). It seems every time Mr. Bee and I try to communicate about getting presents to go up and meet the Baby Bees up at his parents' house for Friday, we have some sort of power struggle fight. Already, he's asserted that this is the week we're going to start separating finances (which, granted, has to happen) and uttered crushing words along the lines of me wanting to take his paycheck. This sexist mumbojumbo makes me want to barf. I spent my last paycheck on our car insurance and the remainder of our rent, rather than Christmas presents, because there were certain time constraints, er due dates. Waiting until two days before the day is not my preference, but is where we are, with only money from his paycheck, which apparently gives him all the power and means I must succumb to getting lectures if I want to make it to any real conversation. I'm not very good at that, and have defied what I feel like is the power struggle, by saying, "Fuck it." Some sort of cooperation is need here, that we neither on seem able to muster. Sad.

I can't say I'm not pissed that he already worked out getting the boys an XBox 360, which they will yes, love, though I was in favor of our getting a Wii, which is what Snaggletooth expressed interest in previously, plus we have an XBox and my girls would like a Wii better, but I guess that's all moot, since the XBox 360 will undoubtedly go with Mr. Bee in the split, which is fine by me. So, since it wouldn't be very fair to to just have that sitting under the tree for the two of them, I am left seeming like a greedy fuck to assert my need to get stuff for the girls, as well, hence, the taking his paycheck.

When I have on several occasions paid the rent several months in advance with my student loans, grants, or once a significant financial gift from my grandfather that paid our rent for a half-a year, or more bitterly still when I worked a full and a part-time job both for a year while Mr. Bee lost job after job (when drinking had a lot to do with it) he was not mooching, but when I am where I am many thousand dollars down in student loan debt that I will gladly take with me- as it was what I needed to do to maintain my half of our financial picture, I am a mooch. Well, fuck that.

My strong inclination is to just take the girls shopping when I get paid on Monday, and let Mr. Bee go have his first Christmas without me, with the boys. Only, I'm not sure how the boys will take that. I hate for them to suffer, but there has been a subtle malignment of my daughters for years that has been more and more obvious to me in recent years. Sure, they're not his bio children, and my eldest has been what we might have to realistically call a high needs child (less so, lately), but the fact that he thinks it suitable to come home drunk every night when it's "just us"-- something he doesn't really do when the boys are here, really pissses me off. I guess it comes back to my expecting something new to occur now.

Sheez, I hate that this is what I wrote, the bitchy complaining, but it's getting a little too War of the Roses around here for me, and I need the venting. Rest assured, this is all of mutual making, I am very prone to calling "sexism" at the drop of a hat, and I am anxious to move on to something healthier. The excruciating part of it all is that's what I (mother fucker) have to do now in my present circumstance, and I'm a greedy fuck. I don't see any benefit in taking the proverbial high road with him. I don't see the benefit, except that I might be a little less miserable these next few weeks, the problem in that being that miserable is the state I'm used to. Fuck.

Going on a walk.

Happy Solstice two days ago ya'll.


Friday Flash Fiction #14: Well, How Did I Get Here?

I dropped the Friday Flash Fiction ball last week, even after getting a great starter sentence and half-way writing the darn thing, but let's see if I can't jump back in this week. The instructions mandate: "The story cannot center around a crime and it cannot be set in a post-apocalyptic world. It also cannot be a pseudo-existentialist piece." (I'm fine on the former, but on the latter, I may struggle (most pseudably).)

"Well, how did I get here?" That's all I could get down on the paper before we were called to dinner. At first, I was happy that Sharon had brought me this journal as a Christmas present, but when I couldn't think of anything I could write in it, it just made me angry. My therapist had told me the day before that I should write, that it might be therapeutic, but it really seemed more bothersome than anything else. There are times when I don't have anything better to do, that's true, but I don't really see the point in writing stuff no one will ever read.
Great, dinner was some sort of chicken heap with a nondescript casserole on the side... again. I'm pretty sure I've gained weight since I've been here and it's only been a month. I don't expect to be catered to, but talk about making a depressed guy depressed.

A guy named Matt had taken to sitting next to me at meals and it had thoroughly started to annoy and comfort me, both. He kept talking about himself, about his wife and his kids. If he whips out the pictures again, I think I'm gonna go psycho on his ass, today.

"I saw you had a visitor today. Who was that woman? Is she your wife, your sister?" Matt meddled. Matt's wife came to visit him every day, like clockwork, and he always talked about how wonderful it was. Though I was relieved when Sharon left, I did feel a pang of missing the outside world that I didn't expect after I had just asked her not to visit me anymore. Obviously, she and my therapist were ganging up on me with the journal thing, and I could tell she was feeling sorry for me. This goddamned glop WASN'T HELPING AT ALL! I flung my tray at the wall, and yelled at Matt, "WHEN WILL YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP?"

I knew they were coming, so I just sat there waiting. When the guards' hands were on my arms, I started to calm down, and we all walked out of the cafeteria together. I waited on my bed for what seemed like a year for someone, anyone to come retrieve me to dispense my punishment. No one ever came.

I stared at the words in that damn book,
"Well, how did I get here?" With that fucking purple crayon, I wrote... "I made a mistake. I quit cutting too soon."

I did feel better. I knew what I had to do.


Change Senate Change!

For the second time in a week, Senators are questioning the good ol' boy and religiously idiotic elite that have been running our nation to "hell (on earth)" in a handbasket (a woman's no doubt)!

Nice to notice this while listening to a podcast of Speaking of Faith interviewing the Humanist chaplain of Harvard, Greg Epstein, talking about the marginalization of secular people in the US, particularly in politics.

In other good news, Mexico City legalizes same sex marriage!


An Uncomfortable, Hard Sit in My Lap of Love

With a picture like that, this has got to be sad. Of course, it will be. Interestingly, or not, I swear to Jesus with his dick in the mashed potatoes that I had that exact, exact chair. Is it fate? I think it must be. I think this chair is my soul mate, which only makes sense.

I was a foolish grrl not to have brought a book with me to work today. My knitted cap is looking pretty boring, and there are all these people here who keep taking their breaks in my office (the break room by the employee entrance) and they're really cutting into my crying time. I don't think I was alone enough this week. Or, maybe I was alone too much. How am I supposed to know?

Last night, all my children were away. My girls were with their dad for the night and my Baby Bees are up at their grandparents' house until we meet up there for Giftmas, so it was gonna be me and Mr. Bee home all alone. When I found out I passed my class earlier in the week, he suggested we go out this weekend and celebrate. He's really helped me so much and been through as much with my being in school as I have been, but when it came down to it, it was very clear he wasn't interested in going out last night. Drinking or no, I knew he'd finally gotten his beloved WOW re-installed on our desktop properly, so I would be hoovering around both ruing and craving closeness with him, so I decided to go out. I wanted to be around people.

On Wednesday, I had listened to a polyamory podcast that was recommended to me by a friend and afterwards I clicked around the site it was on and saw the link to OkCupid. My first exposure to OkCupid was not that long ago. An old and dear friend of mine has an on-again off-again bf she's crazy about, but was on the outs with, so she started an account to see how he would react, knowingly creating this persona she knew he would be crazy about (there's a whole post contained in that whole statement, I know). Of course, this is pure evil, but it was fun to hear about. Apparently, the guy was falling for it, and dying to meet up with this fictional being, who is, of course, my friend. Oh, the drama. Anyway, that's all I knew about OC until my podcast friend told me that it was a very poly-oriented thing. So, to make a long story longer, I opened an account there the other day and did stuff to it yesterday at work.

At first, I described myself as leaving a ten-year relationship, not wanting casual sex per se, but neither wanting a ltr (long term relationship, for those of you who don't get off on text message lingo). Mother, yes. Of four, I decided was TMI. I put curvy rather than overweight, though recognized the line is not as fine as I'd like to think. Basically, the whole thing made me see myself for the catch that I am, right now. Not much of one. Oh shut your hole contradicting that. I mean from a realistic point of view of view. "If we have a date, you can come to my house and meet my husband who will no doubt be unhappy, but behave neurotically pleasant to your face. Shit, if we decide to do it, we can even come back and do it on my daughters' bed, where I sleep when they're not there." I don't think so.

All around, I just haven't been happy with where I'm at, and it's been more acute for me thes past couple weeks. I know I've allowed school to fill some very significant spaces in my life, and I'm not quite through, but in its staid there is a bit of a gaping hole that I know it would be über lame to try and fill with another person(s). I know what I have to do is be developing a relationship with myself bladiblah, but believe you me, that's not as pleasant as it sounds. I bathe myself, I sex myself, I spend time with myself all the time. I might even say I love myself sometimes. I feed myself well, and have even been keeping subdued track in my planner of my weight each week as my giving up coffee in the past couple months was motivated by a sneaking suspicion that it was affecting me in more ways than I knew. I had added up the caloric intake that half-and-half and milk many times a day might incur, which is easy for a mathy former bulimic, but it doesn't take one to see that just that one thing might have a big impact, for the worse, as the case seems to be. I thought it seemed that 3500 of the calories a week I was consuming might be from that alone, which in English measurement systems doth one pound make, and it seems I was right, because simply cutting out coffee has resulted in my losing a pound a week for the last eleven weeks. Pretty easy and pretty good. Thanksgiving and all the usual funnesses included. I had also felt that there was a link between coffee and my thyroid medicine, which might have been creating a need for me to detox. In so doing, I see myself on a tedious, but finite path to feeling better about myself physically. But, I can't call it dieting. I can't do that, like I can't drink, healthily. Or, at least, I haven't. It's slow, that's for sure, but I know "they" say that's the only way to do things that last. Plus, I'm not really doing much of anything else special, walking when I can, but I am pleased with the result. As we pseudo-speak, I am wearing pants at work I had bought myself last year-- ones that were too small after their first washing, but fit, even loosely, now.

Anyway, I set up this OC account yesterday, and answered some of their questions and discovered something. I wasn't really all that attracted to the people that the site matched me with. The guy that had 97% match-up with me was wearing an American flag shirt in one of his pictures, and I'm sorry. With that I can't abide. Either that, or the prospect of meeting any of them was really just too daunting. I messed around on the site for a couple hours, and left account on yesterday, but just went in and closed the account this morning. I felt creepy. I hate creepy. There's is a couple I've been crushing on for a couple weeks now. I've gotten mixed signals from at best, more extensions of friendship, which are very nice, but last night I got my feelings hurt after I felt flirted with and then flirted back in a mild version of my usual crass ways, and received no response back, so I have been kind of kicking myself, and once again, feeling creepy. I'm not really crazy about all this sort of stuff. It sort of puts a damper on the whole open relationships thing to hate to forge new relationships that aren't platonic. Sure, there are fun parts to it, but the painful parts seem to outweigh the other for me right now, and I'm just kinda cunty or wimpy that way these days, so I have been telling myself to stop thinking about it all. It's neurotic is what it is. It makes me feel trapped. I know know know I need to leave the safety of my fucked-up marriage to get to where I want to be, but am not crazy about where that leaves me, feeling lonely. Plus I have all these teenage boy sex hormones raging.

I know. I know, now is a time to be focusing on a relationship with myself, but I have to say that most of my marriage has been having a relationship with myself. That's why I'm leaving it. Ok, the crying. That's why I felt compelled to write, to get to this. I've seriously gotten to the point where I don't really care what my blog is to anyone else, either folks. A public spectacle? Maybe, but it works for me. It keeps me writing. Today, I thought a short fictional thing might do it, or a poem, and I am so disinterested in writing a book right now, it's not even funny. I'm sure the urge will return; I could just pay attention and seize the urge when it does. Hopefully one of the times I do this, it'll stick.

I didn't really have a point with any of this, but I have had a couple dreams about drinking and smoking pot and I think I know why. They're potent social lubricants, even though I am an ass in their clutches. My first urge last night was to go to a gay bar. I like to go places by myself all the time, and both didn't want to go to a suitable places of ill repute by myself or with someone else. Recently, I went with a friend to a party and was bummed when she wanted to leave sooner than I did, when I felt I was hitting it off with a couple folks, friend-wise. Of course, she wanted to leave, so we did. This is one of the only friends I call up to do stuff like that with (though I don't think a gay bar would have been her thing), and I knew she'd need to be done earlier than I wanted. In the rare event sex urges arose between me some cute tranny, I wanted to be able to be open to that even though I'm not on so many levels. I think I just want to kiss someone and make out and feel someone up and stuff. But, instead I decided to go see the most depressing, but worth-it movie ever, Antichrist.

I could movie review it, but I have to tell you it was dark in the ways I like, graphic and sexy while horrifying at the same time. If you want to see the most awesome vulnerabilities of an actress in Charlotte Gainsbourg, especially as she quite maniacally masturbates in the woods, you'll love it. I loved Willem Dafoe in it, too. I would say meow, but it was all so fucked up around the sex that it wasn't arousing in the slightest. Ok, maybe in the slightest, but not really. It was super cheesy in what may have been the theme, and I'm not too interested in deconstructing it, but to say that it is awesome for men to be supportive of women and for men and women to recognize a Kali sort of kinship that is passed down in women's dna (as there may be in other archetypical forms in men). I've felt it, though it's abstract, in childbirth, maybe in sex, and I think the guy who directed the movie was trying to tap into those basic human elements (in women, I think Willam Dafoe was distanced from his until the very end- which lead to there being more than mere implication of his being in control that irked me), but he (the director) did it in such a heinously cheesy way, that I could only laugh at it all. It made me wonder if that's the way he saw it or not. I knew he'd done Breaking the Waves, which I saw recently, but I just (now) found out he did Dancer in the Dark (which I mentioned here before). Oh, that wikipedia link had a bunch on Antichrist (and is a spoiler). Of course, they analyze it far better than I do. Note to self: See the rest of his movies. Oh my, I have a lot of work to do in this!

I guess I got what I came here for, a cerebral adjustment. I suppose all this restless energy is the energy I can draw upon to pack up my house, get rid of much stuffery, and move, a daunting next step-- almost as difficult as calling on the last day I could, Friday, to withdraw my application to graduate. Uggh.

I guess I've nothing more to add here. However, Article 34598yerfh.e98t of the bloggers' code does require the following:

Andrew Bird - Imitosis (Official Music Video) - Funny home videos are a click away

Poetry Day: It's Just a Phase

To the tune of Bubble, Bubble Toil and Trouble and that last part of Hop on Pop:
It's Just a Phase

Wallow wallow
Suck and swallow
Rhyming makes me feel so hollow.

Kinky Weak Knees

Do I want a lover
Or do I want a muse?
These are only two I confuse.
It's only 9:16; my mind is flat.
I've been drinking in my dreams;
Imagine that.
Exhausted from trying to forge
Connections in a vacuum,
Love in an elevator,
All these specks in my eye
Make me want to cry.

Don't mind me;
I speak the language of anti-love,
A bullish boy in a sex toy store,
A suspicious girl always wanting more,
Though I know that in the now
Does not preclude
The extension of an exquisite interlude.
A wiser woman would surely say,
"Pack it up. Walk away."
Graffiti on the wall corroborates this view.
Have something nasty, spurt and spew.
Haven't I better things to do?

Diffident, so forget it.
Outer, inner
Put me in a salad spinner,
One might think... including me,
I'd be mixed up less,
Screwed a little more.
Perhaps, if my myths didn't perpetuate
This inner hate,
The ones that say,
I should wait and wait,
Like a vessel, knocked up,
Knocked down, spilled out upon the floor
For someone to sweep me off my feet again
Until walking makes me sore,
Or, better yet, a whore.

Flattery will get you.
Everywhere you want to go
Finds earnestness begging me to
Shut my hole.
I can take,
"Cross your legs.
Kink your weak knees."
Don't say, but think, "Pretty," please.
Couldn't this comtempt be better spent?
This one makes me wonder
What I want to say.
Not, "Yea" or "Nay",
Or, "Go" or "Stay."
Something more substantive,
Like what I fear,
"Damaged goods should be returned to sender
Where they can remain,
Never good enough,
But for each other."
But, that would be so last year.


Such a Good Wife

I've been saving this picture for FluffPo, but since that slut Mimi hasn't been posting, she'll have to go find her own shit. Maybe a little linky love will get her to quit editing her holiday email letter and go ahead and send it already so she can get back to blogging like a good housewife, behind her husband's back.

So, as you can see, I'm way into the Christmas spirit this year. Actually, solstice is more my style, so I have been thinking that maybe as my marital separationings occur, this will be a good juncture to start preparing my children for that special "Christmas Doesn't Live Here Anymore" moment that I'd love to have the resolve to present next year. I've reiterated that Christmas is a Christian celebration, and The Genius has been asking if we're Christians lately. My best answer is that, "No, but Daddy and I were raised that way... kinda," on my part—I don't think my then atheist, now agnostic, mother's sending me to a Presbyterian church voluntarily is the same as Mr. Bee's Church of Christ mother's fretting over the salvation of our heathen children, really. They might as well get used to it. I'd really rather we kept things simple, give made things, or draw names. The consumer holiday, parent mandatory Christmas has gotten old and burdensome (now that it doesn't benefit me, is the honest answer, right?)

This is among one of many things I am hoping to return to as Mr. Bee and I extricate our lives from each others'. I can't really blame Mr. Bee for any faults or pounds I've acquired in these past ten years, but there are certain compromises I will no longer have to make. Food is one area. Oh sure, I'll eat chips and queso if they're right there made and on my kitchen counter, but I can tell you I never bought Velveeta once before the week we lived together or since without him asking (besides that little baby one Santa put in his Christmas stocking that one year). Of course, no one's shoving my face down in it. This is only one of many ways I could purport we have differing ideals, but that would be taking things too far. It's just food. Let's do take it too far, though. I'm likely to take some sort of seeming high ground, and say that he should go ahead and take all the video game accoutrements with him. I want photos. Kids art. Can I be honest here? I've already taken to accumulating boxes in my daughters' room (which has doubled as my own when they are not with us) and the one I have packed is a box of the finest kid art ceramic-ish items. They're already wrapped in newspapers. Oops. I set aside all of the little knickknacks of Mr. Bee's I haven't liked over the last many years and have generously started a collection he can take with him as well. I admit. I'm a cunt. But, I will be a cunt with a sore and cramped back, because that queen-sized bed my grandmother gave us 7 years ago has started to hurt my back, while that king-sized wonder his parents gave us 3 years ago is still quite cozy. Maybe there's a win-win, here, and I can convince my children we now celebrate the birth of baby sexy Jesus by sleeping on hay. On the plus side, I see great potential for the tooth fairy to have an ample defense.

So, I started the cleaning. OMG. and OMFG. My house has some very rough areas, outside and in. Now that I claim I'm a college graduate, this shit gots ta change. Educated people don't throw the washing machines they just wrote about fucking a year before outside in a washing machine redneck yard display. They sell the darn things and use the money to buy sex toys. See, that's how that goes.

So, here we are, at the part of the post where I : 1) start complaining about sex; 2) get myself all hot and bothered depicting some (most likely) redneck or kinky sex act I imply is a gross exaggeration or something to which I could only aspire; or, 3) change the subject with a poem, dream, video, link, or other allusory device. I'm not sure I know another way of being, here. It's my schtick, I suppose, the dancing around the vulnerabilities by mocking my own inclinations, needs, dare I say, desires. I'm not sure my writing would be as entertaining for me to re-read time and time again without it, but I have come to wonder if it might be the case that it's not the most useful technique for conversing and connecting with folks. Just as sure as Mr. Bee is going to get sober and get his shit together the day after I leave his ass, I suppose, it's inevitable I'll stop being such a defensive bitch. (I know you want to tell me how that's not a nice thing to say about myself, 'cause that's what I'd say to you, but do pay mind to the fact that you have been hearing this stuff from only my point of view.) Even so, and hy-di-ho, I am still expecting my life to be significantly juicier and overally better, particularly, because I'm implementing some of that, "Don't wait to do tomorrow what you can do today," shit right here and now. Some of it.

Last night, Mr. Bee dideth show me some powerful truths, yea. I was fortunate to have had a friend and her daughter stop over to drop off her cat that's going to stay with us this weekend last evening when Mr. Bee did arrive three hours after he called to say he was an hour away. I'm not sure if he'd already made his plans or if he changed them when he go home, but he did what I've asked him to do ten billion times: go be drunk away from me and the kids. Sure, he was smiley, but I can't help but see a contempt under his drunkness anymore. Drinking and driving aside (which I don't ask for, that's for sure, but it's far too cold for me to be sleeping in a tent these days), I was relieved when he announced that he would be spending the night at the house of a friend of his. This friend of his is a serial cheater and has tried, from Mr. Bee's sayings, to bring Mr. Bee along on the ride from time to time. All that's not really my business, and I admit to suggesting a four-way between he, his wife, and us after Mr. Bee told me, two years after-the-fact, that his friend had suggested it previously, but for me to say that my number two pet-peeve, just after pets with people names, is being lied to, especially, when I am later blamed for it in the form of, "I knew this is how you'd react. That's why I didn't tell you." Asshole, I wouldn't be this mad at an honest and humble telling of the truth, I assure. (This has yet to be tested, but I feel it is true.) My point is that I think it was the secretary at Mr. Bee's work that he was with, and that his friend was his cover. Bully for him, and all that, but he was quite happy to be rid of me, his ball and chain, he was clear about that last night. On the one hand, this is a big relief. I've been taking all the blame for our split, even while I have had to face that when Mr. Bee's words and actions don't match up, I should go with his actions, which have been saying, "I don't want you." In addition to the bit of relief, I am also hurt by all this a great deal. I don't really think it had to go this way, but I guess it's just the best we had, which is sad. I was just glad that I had a friend there for those five minutes after he left last night.

I am pretty overwhelmed by all the unknowns I face, but I am determined to proceed, minute by minute mindfully, with support, sobriety and playfulness. So long as some sort of hidden camera or overly-confessional blog doesn't blow my cover, my prospects are good. Maybe I won't continue winning all these Wife of the Year and Mother of the Year awards, but perhaps, I can avoid the rut I'm digging myself out of this time. Maybe, I'll be able to avoid feeling railroaded into celebrating Christmas (which I did pre-Mr. Bee, too, uh), spending time with people I'd rather not, being (somewhat) loyal to a sex life that is not of my conscious choosing.

I'm not really of the mind that any relationship is not of mutual making (excepting non-consensual situations), though I do admit coercions are The American Way™. In my case, I'm sure that as often as I've gotten the short end of the stick, I've gotten the long end, as well. (mmm) Speaking of which, why don't I set myself up in better situations where I feel able to say I'm meeting a lovely lady for a night in San Antonio (in advance rather than after the fact)? Why didn't I tell Mr. Bee about my online love of yore or show him the one and only sexy video that exists of me that will surely resurface when I am elected Miss Bi-Strap-On California, or about that strapping kinky co-worker I gave blowjobs to for a while? Maybe because it was like pulling teeth to get him to spank me or do anything remotely kinky, and I my perception was that I had to take what I could get, not what I want. Maybe because when I was honest about that first lovely encounter, he treated me as though I'd done something wrong, even through I felt as though I hadn't. Maybe I just didn't know myself very well. Maybe I was the one who lied by omission in order to avoid making him angry, or worse yet, fearing he'd leave me for my sluttitudinous attitudes. This is all a bit much, really. I just hope his sexploits are good, 'cause, though I already miss the good vanilla sex we did have, it's not happening with us anymore, and that's just sad.


Nothing to See Here


This is your last chance, Technorfuchity, before I try again!

Can't we just make up?


It's Tricky and Right on Time!

Well, blogospherical universe, it's done! I passed Real Analysis, completed the classes I needed to earn a math degree, and will never have to take a math course again in my life. That's probably not true, but I'm gonna think it for now. These past few days have been excruciating..., the waiting. I still don't know how I did on my final, but pulling off a C- after making a 36% on my second exam finds me ecstatic, in a very humbled way, as at least two of the women I studied with very intensely did not make it. I'm crossing my fingers for the other two.

I don't see this class as anything less than the symbolic transitional period I've had to go through to get from point -.67 to point -.4, and just like a pregnant woman who will not give birth until she is past the point when her body can't expand another milimeter, I was past past past the mental ability to cope with the potential hardship of not passing. Seriously, and I've been a mess on crying jags for days. The elementary winter music program? Forget it. Cried. So You Think You Can Dance Season Finale? (Shamefully watched, and) Cried. Talking about bills with Mr. Bee? Cried. Boys fighting in the car? Cried. Walking into my women's group? Cried. That rock's flying three cars back and a lane over to ding my windshield? Cried. That song? Cried. Messes in the house with no one willing to help (except for The Future President and her complete willingness to make dinner)? Cried. Need I continue? I'd rather not. Of course, mow I am sososososososo relieved, even though much of me moved right on to the next challenges I'm facing, but I am very happy that at least my coming challenges will be new ones. And, fortunately for you, I will have new things to complain about-- hopefully more sexful ones, though I suspect this next semester it may be be finances.

Well, I've written a half a story and two halves of posts since we last talked, but have been, as I now am, tired at the end of the night. The Lip Model and The Future President are with me this week, so what I thought might be a lot of home time (why?) has been a lot of chauffeuring. I'm tired, under-blogged, and on the verge of being undersexed. Baby Bees with grandparents part of the imminent winter break will help with the next task at hand, de-clutterfying and packing. So will Jake Gyllenhall's and Reese Witherspoon's break up. Wait, no it won't.

One of my new theoretical relational adventures will be exploring the concepts of polyamory. Having talked about them a bit with someone in the know recently has brought it to my attention; it's kind of where I'm headed/ belong/ come from, though I am, sadly, miles away from new relationships. Just another thing to cry about. Am I depressed? Maybe a bit, but it's more about being stressed and tired, so here I go, to bed.

I'm very much hoping to see you tomorrow, but in the meantime...

Remember this?


A Silly Putty Party Plus Everlasting Gobstoppery

Here is this pent-up,
Whirling, frazzled frenzy
For you to gnaw on,
Chew on, suck and savor.
I want you to open it,
The gift I've yet to bring—
Containing such unoriginal blobdiblobs as:
Getting closer and closer until
Kissing is all there's left to say;
Tying you to a tree so we might
Something archaic and cheesy make;
Whispering to you
My pleas for retaliatory spankings.
At any of these,
Feel free to laugh into your reddened hand...
After you've extended it to me.

Were it that a wall,
With my back's name upon it,
Could push me up against you,
My breast might,
Finding itself delectably compressed,
Discover a palpable firmness
I could finally choke down,
Even if it is with a tear in my eye.
Alack and alas and utter flubbery,
My wannabe kinky bind?
Pushing too hard leaves little room
For such significances to arise,
While passivity, lust's enemy,
Virtually insures this mundane malady will persist.
In either case, the not feeling wanted remains.
Since these are my two impatient views,
I need to be seen through new eyes, like yours.


Chop Wood, Carry Water, Ride Unicycle

Dear Blog, Hi. I'm not sure how much I have to offer today, but I've missed you, so I thought I'd write. I know you've been here, and we've seen each other, but that does not preclude my missing you, now does it? Sometimes, that's when I miss you most. I know I haven't been the best human these past couple years. I've worn you out at times, and I've neglected you at others, but mostly, and worstly, I've taken you for granted.

Day in and day out, there you are. We've grown apart and I can't really blame you. Have you ever been around a bunch of people and felt lonely? Well, that can also happen with one person, when you don't feel connected. Yesterday, I finished my class. I am hoping hoping I passed. It did all depend on the final, how well or poorly my classmates and I performed. The difference this time is that I was not in the bottom layer grade-wise going in. What I don't know is if I will fall out a C and them a D or if I will fall out a D and them F's. I miss the days of worrying not whether or not I would pass, but whether I would make an A or B. Just a couple semesters I made the Dean's List. I've really hated ending my college career on this note. College has made me feel dumber rather than smarter in many ways.

What I did do this week that I feel very good about is solidify a friendship with a bight young woman who has been struggling even more than me this semester; she's been students teaching alongside this culminating math degree class, a feat I did not manage to complete last semester. All week I've been saying, "When we rock the final, he will not even consider that second test grade." Wishful thinking, I know, but it helped me a ton for us to flounder and ponder it all together. Speaking things aloud is so powerful. And just think, I finally know how to prove The Fundamental Theorems of Calculus from nothing but five algebraic field properties (not) ...just in time to never have to take a math class again. My future students are going to hate my new "prove it" 'tude and my new mantra, "Decide where you want to go, then say only what you know until you're there." (Yawn.)

Sheez, you know I could go on and on about all this, but since I'm even boring myself, I'll spare you. It's over. If I pass, which I should find out Monday or Tuesday, the healing can begin. If I don't... I don't know what. Something not pretty or ladylike for sures. Since I'm out of rope, I don't even think I can claim suicidal tenancies, unless death by chocolate or spontaneous combustion are actually possible. Lalalalala. I can only shove such thoughts from my mind right now, and rest assured that I tried. Could I have tried more, sooner? Sure. I just hope my showing up to my teacher's office hours by myself on Wednesdays for several weeks in a row, calling him once for help on a problem when I couldn't make it, and begging him to take my homework via scanner to email the one class I missed when I thought the baby Bee's (but, it was me) lost my keys (my one perfect homework score, incidentally) count for something.

I have a feeling this is pretty boring, but I had to get past it, so maybe I'll just end this one and start anew later with another post. Regardless of how I did, I have a blessed break from school and I am relieved. I have an amazingly long list of things to do to prep for our move next month, particularly if our landlord accepts my and Mr. Bee's bids to do the make ready and repairs, respectively.

Mr. Bee was told yesterday that he will be having an extended winter vacation as his company only has another week's worth of work for him at this point, so before long I'll have a whole new set of complaints. Worry not.

Bye blog. Let's have sex soon, k?
Love, Bee.



Oops, I waited until 20 minutes until my laptop's due back to check-in to post. This may be more stream of conscious even than usual, but bully on the fact that the subliminal slips will be even more rampant. right? Today is my study marathon day and I've spent half of it making a flyer and being too sleepy from staying up too late last night to really be productive, but am about to shift gears.

I've had a very emotional last couple days. I'm pretty sure that I am just nervous about my final, and all the meaning and pertinences that accompany it, but also I've had a very old friend offer me a place to potentially stay in next semester. It's the ideal sort of arrangement in that it's win win though it is quite crude. One solar panel outlet, for example. Just a step above camping on the luxury scale, but I love camping, so.... I can see liking it more than my kids, but I just have to get through the semester, and I know each day more and more how much moving into my own place is the right thing. That doesn't make it easy.

I've been a part of a group therapy experience that's been very intense, and I think that things are really shifting in my life, as a result. I've been expanding on my sexuality issues by means of relieving myself of the artificial pressure I've been putting on myself to choose between men an women. What if I can have (even if it's in the theoretical) relationships with both? These are the wonderings I've been wondering. I've been able to state in my little group how my needs weren't being met there, and having that be received so respectfully was a real contradiction to the communication issues I am far too often experiencing in my marriage. It's healing, and I've noticed a bit of a spreading out into areas in my meat world, ever so slowly, but nicely. I feel a little more connected with folks I see on a day to day basis.

I always knew marriage was a potentiall isolating experience, but it really snuck up on me. I want to be more mindful how to not get myself into the same such dilemma. Though..., I do have you internets to meet all my needs, right? right? Sure you're a good listener, but look how much fun these guys are having. When my final's over, I'm wearing slippers A LOT and maybe not pants so much.

Time's up.


Sexy Jesus, In This Day...

Please grant me proper discipline. Please.
And, good hair.

Freida of the Bees

If I'm a good grrl and go get all the stuffs done, I'll reward myself you with a post later. A pithy juicy post.

Sexy Jesus, please grant me a pith juicy day to post about.
And, may my stockings not run through it all.

Sexy Jesus, divine interventions are allowed as long as no smelling salts or policemens (except you, dear) are required. (Handcuffs are acceptable, however, of course.)

Sexy Jesus knows I could go on and on with this (and, sorry for referring to you in the third person, there, Sexy Jesus), but Lord knows I'm just a confused woman who's lacked proper discipline when it's mattered most, so off to hit to the books (not on my head, mashed potatoes willing.)

Love, Fred of the Peas

A little of this:

Harvey Danger Flagpole Sitter

DZA2000s | MySpace Video

And, more of this:

Gettin' Into the Holiday Spirit!

Jesus Thinks You're a Jerk

(The lyrics on top are annoying, but it does help the gems to not slip by.)

Merry Zappadan!


Tha Florence Joe Diaries: Turnin' Over tha Other Cheek

Beginning with the starter sentence, here is my lofty contribution to Flash Fiction Friday.

"She was always threatening to punch someone in the face, but this time she meant it." Tha's what Roy, mah boss said a' we's 'ployee meetin' this mornin' an' it ain't no lie. Ah still got's tha shiner ta prove it.

Ah jes' wish this wasn't mah day I got's ta get ma employee valuation. Tha's what ah's doin' here sittin' here in tha hall outside Roy's office writin' in mah diary. Waitin'. Ah hate waitin'. Plus wha's takin' Roy so long in there wit' Miranda? I heard tha Stacie might be leavin' and tha' Roy might have ta make one of us he's new night manager. It probly don' look good ta have this here shiner on account a tha.'

Ev'ry Friday, all we's waitresses goes on out to tha parkin' lot over off Riverside an' we collect we's spare change to give ta charity. Jes' 'bout ev'ry time we do, tha' lesbian dyke goes out and hold's up she's sign again tha' says, "Women's are not for decoration." Well duh.

I can understand why she feels tha' way, tho. She probly got treated meanlike like that time Carl Wayne Jr came home crying from school after they's boys started shit wit' him callin' his Mamma (me) a whore. Ah's never been prouder of him than when he showed up back at home wit' he's black eye, but this.... This here's different. It looks cool when a boy got's his shiner, but when a girl got's one, people either think she a dyke or she's a doormat, an', Jesus knows, ah ain't neither one a them's.

If that dyke could see tha way me an' Miranda kiss when we's playin' quarters wit' we's customers when Roy ain't 'round, she'd know ah ain't no homophobia or nothin'. It's jes' tha' them suits give us tha big bucks when we kiss each others, so tha's why we do it. Las' time, Miranda even slipped me she's tongue and grabbed mah tittie. It got me all worked up fer mah date wit' Rudy Gene an' ah was glad fer tha', but ah think Miranda actually liked it.

Ah know ah ain't been writin' 'nough lately but ah've had lot's on mah mind ever since Carl Wayne been put in jail on account a he's meth corner in we's kitchen. Tha's why ah's really hopin' Roy might be wantin' me to be he's new manager. Ah needs ta make me some extra cash.

Las' Friday, ah said to tha' dyke outside, "You ain't never gonna get you no dates iffin' you don' stop protestin' beauty." Tha's all ah said, and she up an' decked me one. It ain't right. Ah was jes' trying to help her, sister ta sister, and she weren't gonna have no part in tha'.

Anyways, I hear Miranda an' Roy talkin' louder now. Ah wonder if she was jes' givin' Roy a blowjob ta sweeten tha deal. Well, fuck, now it's gonna be really hard fer me ta get Roy up for he's blow job wit' me. Tha's probly why he wanted Miranda ta go first. Tha's ok. Ah got's tha 'bility to get he's boner hard anyway. Ah guess it's a oppertunity fer me to show him mah skills with tha company. Ah know we women's ain't no decorations, but tha' don't mean we got's ta be neglectin' we's bilities to please we's men. Tha's why ah went out an' turned tha other cheek, like Jesus tells us ta do, on tha' girl las' Friday and went out there an' gave her she's coupon fer some free wings. Ah wanted her to see that there ain't no need ta be attackin' me. Ah don' wanna steal she's girlfriends. She don' got nothin' to worry 'bout with me.

Now, that Miranda.... She's a other story.


Getting from Point A to DD

Here, with this perfect word,
Feel free to express
With exquisite excess
One aspect of the anticipation:
Before befall, you'll see a bouncing ball.
Don't call.
Now, it's too late... unless...
Obsess, obsess, obsess.

In a funk, funk, funk,
Fuck it. Fuck it up.
Get off the milk truck.
Don't you know how to buck it up?
Apply lipstick to that ugly smile,
So, for just a little while,
We can kiss and make it better.
Of course, then I'll knit a sweater.
(I mean, really sigh.)

One day, the danger and the desire
Of reliance will retire,
Just in time to be seen,
Uncovered, bared, scared, scarred
When, out of nowhere, ruing, stewing,
We don't know what the fuck we're doing.
This is what my mother meant.
This is why my father's spent.

Our mistake? Convention.
Our solution? ________.
Greedy fuck, you're out of luck.
The gilded tongue is on the platter.
When you said it didn't matter,
You lied.
Only my smugness can satisfy me now.
That, and my unringed hand.

It should have ended there,
But I wanted more, more, more.
A phallic surprise to water my eyes
So we could cry and fuck in disguise.
Why couldn't you just suck my cunt enough?
Fuck me really rough(ly/gently)?
There was always that thing you didn't do,
And this guttural refusal to be compliant.

This is where redemption tempts:
Start over, slower,
Only. After. The. Longest. Wait. You. Can. Take.
With permission, and a renewed sense of promiscuity,
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Funk it up. Funk it up.
Then... STOP.

Riddled with Indecision

Of course, I'm talking about this little monkey. Not me. He's open, but confused. It's obvious. It's not like he really has anything to be confused about. It's not like anyone is going to allow him to have any choices beyond, "Which side of the cage do you wish to walk along?" or "Which person near you do you wish to heap your poo upon?"

Sure, these are tough choices-- not ones I envy. The toughest choices I've had to make today are, "Would I rather be showered and late to work or unclean and on time?" and "Would I rather eat my banana a la carte or sliced on top of my cereal?" Easy in either case (the latter), but what if I were in this monkey's shoes er, fur?

What if I had to decide whether I should opt for security or freedom, comfort or authenticity? I mean, this lady here is nice enough... most of the time. So, why do I hate her? She's my captor, but did she actually place me in this cage? She doesn't speak my language, but she tries to communicate the best she can. The thing is, I am certainly aware that this can hardly be construed as love. She anthropomorphizes me continually, always putting things in her terms. She doesn't really understand the irrationality of my dilemma. She doesn't understand what it's like for me, that what matters to her, doesn't really matter to me. She doesn't want to play and diddle like I do; she's always too tired to have fun, and then when she is trying to have fun, I don't really enjoy the things she thinks I should like to do, things she herself doesn't really enjoy anyway. What's the point?

I've tried to put the doubts out of my mind, to accept my actions that got me here. Sure I misstepped, but I didn't know then what I know now. Will I just make the same or some other misstep that would bring me right back to the same situation, though with another woman once this one has moved onto the next monkey?

Oh, sure. I'm not a monkey. I'm a real boy with womanly needs. I work hard and am unappreciated. I'm sure many men would claim the same. I bring home the tofurkey and fry it up in the pan, and I do indeed, never ever ever let Mr. Bee forget he's a man. I throw up those walls. Though I have my good protective reasons, in many respects, it just doesn't seem fair. I, of course, know what total bullshit it is for me to pull that, "He deserves to be with someone who can make him happy," crap out of my ass and fling it at him, so I try pretty darn hard not to, even though I believe it. The thing is, it is only because I can believe that about him easier than I can think the same on behalf of myself.

What would be the equivalent of living with me be like, if I were him? Here is this woman, pretty enough, working her ass off, kinda depressed because she just wants to be normal and have a normal marriage. She wants to kick back and have a few beers, to not have someone always being so sensitive around that gets his feelings hurt and just bottles things up until they get to be too much. All the time, he's walking around wondering if he even loves this lady, this ball and chain, this person who doesn't want to have sex with him hardly at all. Is he aloof and distant because they never have sex, or is his aloofness the cause of it. He knows it's both.

I'm bored with this. I'm not really indecisive. I can empathize with and try and put myself in the shoes of the cute monkey or Mr. Bee as Mrs. Bee just the same, but neither one of them is me. Plus, all the monkeys are just going to die by our hands anyway, right.

There needs to be a poem, but blog, our sex life had bored me and we're going to try something different. Give the poem her own post, dammit. Twice in one day? I wish.


Coming Out All Over the Place

Oooh baby, this title sets up all sorts of punchlines. Punchlines, punch lines. What's the relationship there? Someone needs to spike the PBR for you to laugh at my next sentence: If I had a wiener, I'd never keep that (wince) thing in my pants. Now that you mention pants, today I had the sort of horrendous, but shouldn't be, moment that's just so horrendous, but shouldn't be, it has to be shared.

So, there I was sitting in a coffee shop, having just seen and chatted with a very nice, lovely lady I have opportunity to see from time to time, talking to her son while she's chit-chatting with someone else, and then I'm setting him up on a computer game when all's of a sudden I feel the blood a'flowing. Yes, it's time for a Menstrual Moment™ in History (The first of many, I assure). Woot! and the like. It's not like I wasn't using protection, but rather that I felt so secure, I lost sight of the cold hard facts when they were pressing themselves up and up against me. I had to leave this poor, sweet innocent post-hastily, nearly running into the bathroom, with my purse, a dykely no-no.

And, to my surprise, I find I've done something I've not done since, well, ever, I've got pants that are completely soaked in blood in the crotch, and I couldn't even just enjoy it. I had places to be and people to do all over town. What could I do? What could I do? I took off my pants (fearing the not-lockable door would open any second-- though, thankfully, my shoes were able to stay on the entire time) and rinsed them in the sink, a little too thoroughly, though. Because I'd worn my schwank polyester men's levi's, there was nary a stain in sight, but now I had some super soaking wet pants (and today was colder than my now-hard tit as it's welling up to snow in Austin doth portend). Seriously, it would look as though I'd peed my pants, were i wearing them, until I Macguyvered my way out of another mess. Did I have one of those hot cunt blowers? No. (Deja vu, 'cause I just conjured the need for one of those recently here. Can't say where. Can't say when.)

I used my handy dandy hanky to smear the edges of the wetness just enough, or, really, as much as I could, and then tied my corduroy shirt around my waist. I'm too cheap to have thrown the undies away, which were, of course, unwearable, but to avoid another such mishap, I was really going to have to rely upon some heavy duty feminine protection, so a quick trip to Target found me buying some underwears I needed anyway. I got a chilled crotch in wind tunnels for the next little bit, but came away fairly unscathed. Just 15 minutes late to a deal, which worked out for the best anyway. TMI™. My specialidad.

Now, I'm just procrastinating the need to reapply pants in order to fetch a few items from the car. I never did duct tape the windows and stock the bomb shelter for the .24 mm of snow we are expecting, but Lard knows, it'll probably be enough to spoil my ability to attend a shin dig I am lamely mentioning for the second time in as many days, which I guess was all in the proper spirit of Potentially Lame Evening #2, an event only Splotchy could mastermind.

oh, the pressure of the lame poem; it unbuilds.
I just noticed
With new eyes
The awkward potentials
I inherently possess.
Keep it up, Chuck.
Pass me a muff.
Quick and dirty
Squirty squirty.
Now you've gone too far.

This one-haired beard
Doth (word of the day) take the cake
Something something
I'll have to fake
(Only until the rut returns).
Run, run pretty beaver,
Furry, raunchy, splatter paint me.
Don't forget usurping.
Never forget usurping.

This is the one that says it all.
Bunch it up. Make it small.
Make it so.
Make it so.
Make it so.

Line 225.jtz of the formula states: Johnny Cash.

Welcome to my Little Worry Zone

Dear 2AM. There are many nights I enjoy seeing you far more than this, but here we are, non-bedfellows again. This is what happens when I fall asleep scratching The Genius's back at 9 PM, and then wake up hungry at 12:45 AM. I'm just waiting for the banana to kick in. In the meantime, I'm being worried about all the things there are to be worried about, just trying to at least avoid doing any of these Top Ten Ways to Destroy the Earth. It's not easy.

Goodness, did this become a forum for my worries, here? Today (well, yesterday, technically), I kicked some major butt. I took care of business all damn day. I studied, went to office hours, sat in the financial aid office, emailed and spoke with three different university advisors to find out that I do myself more harm than good to apply to graduate this semester. Financially, I suffer re: Pell Grants, and yet, all that I will receive in half-time status while student teaching is enough to cover my tuition when I am less able to work (more) or take other classes than in any other semester. Plus, I've partially set into gear the need to move in just under two months, to my own, non-alcoholic home.

I really try not to complain too heavily about Mr. Bee's drinking ways, because it's kind of hard to understand it unless you're in it or hear it on a daily basis, and because all the complaining's gotten me so far is to not be invited to a whole lot of parties, and I've been invited to ones this and next Friday, so I got's to keep my complaints on the down-low. I'll just say thanks for setting me up to come home from studying to find the baby Bees with most of their evening needs and obligations still unfulfilled 45 minutes before their bedtime.

Oh don't focus on that. Focus on the two days when I was worried I picked up lice on my airline flight. Was I imagining it,or did I head something off with a lice comb and some rampant laundry doing? Or, will two weeks from now find us in lovely egg hatching bliss?

Will someone sue me for using this picture?

Oh sure, there are legitimate things to worry over, but worry is often compounded by a touch o' tha lazy from whence it arises, so I'm too lazy to go into all that.

Plus, I think my banana is kicking in, so maybe a poem?

Cradle me, oh deathgrip, ever more tightly.
Let these forehead wrinkles, pale ever still
To these increasingly wirey locks.
As I observe my beauty's fade,
Remind me that no one appreciates it (the fade), anyway,
And so it is for naught, and even self-perpetuating .

Take your own damn "in the now" advice, you sleepy cunt
And worry not that in that I was referring to you, or you.
For how could I even focus on that which is beyond this belly fat
With these bad credits, a warrant for an unpaid ticket, even,
Knocking on my door.
Is my heater emitting carbon monoxide?

So, as I listen to the drips and ticks and clunks
Of this bitter cold night, let it remind me
There is work to do,
Winterizing, watering, studying, mending, scraping, and scratching
Yet to fit onto my busy schedule.
Let me not forget the most important thing.

This is the point where some poets really cave in with the fluff
And other stuffs of cuddle and remind of good times,
How it's all worth it all, but not I.
Unappreciated, unnoticed, uneventfully, I've lost my cookie cutter.
I know the shape is unimportant, no more portent
Than these fleeting thoughts, the ones that, heeded, would have prevented much.

These, let me cast aside... until another night.

Note to self: Killing Him Didn't Make The Love Go Away (by Amy LaVere)


'Tis the Season for a Bible History Lesson

Have a Happy Thanksgiving!

When someone insists you say grace, be sure to get into the Christian/ Thanksgiving Spirit™ by remembering this video!

Source of: Brad Neely's Bible History Lesson


Friday Flash Fiction: Never Heard the Word Impossible

Here is my contribution to this week's Flash Fiction Friday

Throughout my teenage years, I recall trying to fall asleep despite hearing the inane singing of, "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 Schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated!" This chant indicated it was 10:30, the news was over, and my father, assuming Todd and I were sleeping, was getting "tight." "Pater," as he insisted upon being called, diverged from his public life of suits and ties in those evenings, eventually transforming himself from a respectable business owner in the community to a blathering idiot by the end of each and every night.

From the moment the local news started, Todd and I knew we were to go on to our rooms without question. Our mother had died just before this all began, so we had to face the harsh reality that goodnight kisses, hugs, and apologies by Pater (by proxy-- my mother) were a thing of the past. There were no more apologies. There was no more warmth. There were only his ever-shortening outbursts of artificial joviality followed by his ever-lengthening periods of remorse.

Once, I made the mistake of going to Pater in the night when I was scared and sad, missing my mother, and he told me it was high time I stopped being such a pest. He told me that my emotionality was a weakness that I'd best gain control over, lest I find myself working at a brewery for the rest of my life. At first, this confused me, his comparing my issues to the seemingly frivolous antics Laverne and Shirley embarked upon night after night. Such comparisons became more and more commonplace, though, until, eventually, he started calling me "Shirley" about halfway through each episode. I'd always fancied myself more the "Laverne type," but that had nothing to do with my disdain for this act. Rather, it was the abuse he found it acceptable to heap upon "Shirley."

"Shirley, where's my supper?" Pater would holler, though I had just made dinner three hours earlier, when he was nursing his first scotch on "the rocks" or, as the more normal I knew called it, "ice." He was past eating dinner in those days. He became thinner and thinner until all of his nice work suits started to look as though he were a boy dressing up in a grownup's suit in order to fool people as to his identity. Thankfully, I was able to begin buying tv dinners on my weekly trips to the grocery store, which were just one of the adult responsibilities that were one by one left to Todd and me to manage.

Had Pater been watching "All in the Family" or something, I might have expected his behavior, but seeing him treat Shirley with such animosity was, indeed, baffling. "Shirley, you whore, go wash my work clothes!" "Shirley, clean up this mess, right now!" Shirley, do this; Shirley do that, was all he seemed to say anymore. It became apparent to me that he was suffering from blackouts each night, as any mention of the evenings' events were met with blank stares and winces.

Eventually, "Shirley, come suck my cock!" woke me up one night. I had previously learned that appeasing my father was the path of least resistance. What had begun to really compromise my ability to sleep had been trying to reason with him, to say, "No," to his ridiculous demands, but this one I had not seen coming. I ran into Todd's room, and he was able to convince my father, by playing along with his inebriation that "Shirley" wasn't home, that she was at work at the brewery. That night I slept in Todd's room until well past the last sitcom, "One Day at a Time." Pater would surely be asleep, I thought.

As I tiptoed into my room, I heard him sobbing in his sleep, or passed out state, whichever it would more properly be called. I went and put a blanket on my father, and returned to my own room where I laid awake for at least an hour before I fell into a fitful sleep with crazy dreams. When I awoke, I found my suitcase pulled down out of my closet, open, and filled with oranges.

I'd like to say stranger things had happened, but my life was pretty predictable. I woke, made lunches, went to school, hung out with friends as long as I possibly could before I had to get home to make dinner. I went to the grocery store on weekends, babysat for the Thompsons all day on Sundays, and started it all over again on Mondays. There was no need for suitcases, and those oranges were not to be wasted.

The next night Pater left me alone, but I awoke to find my suitcase back on the floor, this time filled with 10 rolls of toilet paper. Damn, that Sam's Club membership. Each day for the next week, I felt more and more scared that Pater's interest in sex might resurface, and that in a drunken state, my being the only female in his life might become very dangerous for me. Though he left me alone that week, each morning I awoke to find my suitcase out with some strange new household object occupying it. Soap, the contents of my underwear drawer, a stack of newspapers. After five more nights of this, I awoke one day, on the floor, lying next to my suitcase.

My mother had told me that I had slept walked twice when I was younger, and that both times she found me eating the dog's food, but the extent of this seemed to be much more severe. Todd was about to graduate at the time, and would be going off to college in the fall, but I still had two more years of high school. I sat there on the floor of my room, crying, and knew what I had to do. I had to leave. In those moments, I made a decision to propel my life on a path perpendicular to its seemingly natural trajectory. I collected the money I had earned babysitting that I had been saving for college, said goodbye to my wonderful brother, and left while Pater was at work. I never came back.

(In lieu of a started sentence, we were to use these four words: schlemiel, pater, pest, and perpendicular.)