One in Which I Go All Clan of the Cave Bear on Your Asses, but without Daryl Hannah, Her Bad Acting, Her Great Gams, and That Blonde Stud-- ick!

Aw shucks, that picture of them stairs is so cute; I shoulda took a picture of 'em, too..., but I didn't, so I've stolen this and the other pics in this post, though they are, indeed, exact replicas of the pictures I coulda/shoulda/woulda taken of my recent visit to Guadalupe River State Park. Since I was accompanied by four 14 year-old young women, one would think that this here post would wreak of family values and, no doubt, it shall, but we all know that eventually I will end up complaining about my marriage and my sex life. Let's not lie. After two nights of hearing the call of chuck will's widows (listen) (a near relative of the whip poor will (listen)), seeing possums and feeding raccoons deadly mac-n-cheese, I'd have to say I got myself a little of that there cerebral adjustment to which campers aspire. Sure, it might be a by product of camping in 103 degree heat (wtf was I thinking?), but I suspect it is more likely that I was merely transformed onomatopoeically (had to use that word after I saw it on the whip poor will wikipedia page- it's my new favorite word) by the sheer beauty of my surroundings. Seriously. Seriously.

Because they charged an arm and a leg, $7/ night/ person, in addition to my $32 camping fee that I naively thought was going to be the entire cost for our two-night, three-day stay, I purchased my first-ever State Park Pass. OMG. Why haven't I done this sooner? I'm pretty sure I will end up living in a State Park in the near future, my final transition into becoming a coon den mother, as the math keeps calculating itself in my mind over and over and over and over again. Some parks have weekly and or monthly rates and I can tell you they are far cheaper than rent. One cannot say the same thing for skiing, and still, both always have me vowing to live "that way" every time. "What way?" you might ask, as you read this at your air conditioned computer desk, in your bathrobe, eating those yummy Pringles™ after a good ol' romp with the bad boys of porn. Well, I might tell ya.

I love cooking on a campfire. Even though part of the reason this particular state park was selected by my daughter and me was that it was in a county that was not under a burn ban and I even called the State Parks info line the day we were leaving to double check before I bothered to load up the back of our van with firewood from the house. With cast irons and french press in tow, we were good to go. Turkey burgers with home fries, pancakes with bacon, eggs, and cantaloupe all on the menu. We were set. And then, when we arrived, we were informed that there was, indeed, a ban on wood-based fires citing no rain forecast in the next ten days. Charcoal fires and contained-fuel stoves (ours left out in the yard a couple hours back) were allowed. Fortunately, there was a grocery store not too terribly far away, but our. camping. budget. was. gone. and I was scraping pennies to buy hard wood charcoal and lighter fluid then. Lighter fluid, propane tanks and hard wood coals were ok, but logs were not. Suct. I then learned that I sucked at charcoal fires. Seriously. Seriously. Our first night's kid's choice mac-n-cheese and beans-n-weenies turned into sandwiches-n-salads after I put the pasta in water that never ever ever boiled, making the nastiest noodles you ever did see, touch, taste or feel. (They smelled ok, though.) Then, when the little blade fell off our old cheap can opener (I'd chivalrously left the good one back at the house for Mr. Bee), I vowed to make successful fires, and great meals on day two.

Since coffee was not optional the next morning, I began my little cheat that became a new mastery, slipping wood into my charcoal fires unnoticed by the park police. I hope all the park police who read my blog don't come after me, but I discovered that a log, hidden by the instructed "pyramid" of coals, helped keep the coals lit, and prevented any theoretical harm posed by the danger logs of yore, which I could only figure involves the layerous quality of wood and a greater likelihood that, in places with wind, burning embers might blow away causing a forest fire. Suffice it to say, Mamma fed those skinny girls amply the rest of the time. Unfortunately, when it rained our second night before we made s'mores, we did stoop to using a Virgen de Guadalupe candle to roast marshmallows. Hail Mary! Please, just don't tell Martha Stewart!

Of course, every one of the above events would have been completely intolerable were it not for the cool beauty of the cypress-strewn river we were intending to "tube." Almost fortunately, given the unexpected camping expenses, the river was not flowing enough for us to go tubing, but the river itself was a gorgeous place to swim. When I was a young lass, growing up in the wilds of Arkansas, my parents used to send me down to camp in the woods of East Texas for five weeks at a time. That is where I learned to light my little tee pee fires with one match, where I learned to unswamp a swamped canoe, and from where I took a week-long camping trip in the Ouachita Mountains of central Arkansas-- one of the most beautiful weeks of my life. Even though we froze our butts off and got no sleep after we'd hiked an entire day to get to our campsite that we shared with at least one coral snake, my memory of drinking straight from the mountain steam could not be undermined by the risks. Showering under a freezing waterfall has never been as good as it was then, either. So now, though Austin houses a rare amount of natural beauty for a city its size, any place that offers natural swimming unpolluted enough to not send me into one of my poison-phobic anxiety attacks, is a source of great pleasure for me. The Guadalupe River offered just that.

Of course, I enjoyed learning how to play spoons with cards (?) and teaching the girls how to play spades and hearts. Certainly, I appreciated learning about the death of Michael Jackson-- even adequately removed from civilizations via a text message The Future President received on her cell phone (long after the rest of our batteries had died), that prompted her to shout it from her tent and us to doubt its veracity (given the fact that it was followed by a "pass it on"). But, looking at the beautiful rocks on the river bottom with my daughter's best friend for an hour or two was a very serene experience. "This one fits my finger perfectly." "This one looks like a buffalo." Her finger, we discovered, was a dragon fly magnet, and my Tevas made floating even easier than my ample bootie and boobies already did. The river is where my penchant for wearing a bandanna as an inverse sweatband (getting it wet on purpose to cool me off) took hold, and my "camping look" was established. Unfortunately, I overlooked sunscreen that day and my forehead is back to the wrinkled mess it was before I'd moisturized these last 10,001 times, and before I had glasses and used to squint all day, but such is the price of inner beauty. It was when I discovered the park had hotel-quality warm showers that would make my university's billion-dollar swimming facility blush, I began to calculate the obvious.... How much would it cost to live here? It's a reasonable question, and I assure you it is far less than the rent in the Austin area. Not to mention the down-to-earth quality life takes on without all the clutter, in particular the relationships that make you feel like a hypocrite supreme. Living in a tent is something I could manage financially, and no one would be worse for the wear to let Mamma let her hair go wild out in the woods with the never before seen (by me) lizards, would they?

Sure, I might not blog as much, but a job in San Marcos and one at the State Parks office in Austin call my name and sending a thousand dollars a month child support back to Mr. Bee to have me out of his hair is not something I think he would mind so much. Seriously. Seriously. Our van is now paid for, and he's got his little black hot rod and we have both given up on each other; it is apparent. I wonder if I would get lonely. I wonder if a simple air mattress would make me feel like a sell-out. I wonder if living more simply for a time might not help me to gain some clarity. Some stamina? A return to myself that is long overdue? For that matter, should I just set up a little compound on the back forty of our own property, one that would allow the kids to come stay with me whenever they liked? That somehow seems more traumatic. Maybe my impending madness should not be witnessed. Maybe my handwritten book that will be revered by future generations of raccoons for decades to come, may lead my own children astray. Maybe I will just begin to blend in with my surroundings, and that Zenful space of simply being, rather than consuming, will help me to forget all the unimportant things I focus on all the time, for a time. This is why I fell in love with The Genius's birth father. I saw a possibility for us to live like that. I think heroin and a gun in LA sidetracked him on his independent quest for oneness, but perhaps this is my very own personal ad to myself to go fuck myself-- at least until I fall in love with some unidentified, androgynous, strap-on bearing Yeti. I am rather fond of Chickweed.


Debbie Downer Does Dallas

Scene I

D: "Hey Dallas, what're you doing?"

D: "I was just finishing doing some manly stuff, Debs."

D: "I hate it when you call me 'Debs'; it makes me sound like a hooker."

D: "Would you like to go out tonight, Debbie?"

D: "Ohhh, there's a new Mental on tonight and I was thinking about watching it while I go through all these papers. You wanna help?"

D: (With a disappointed look) "It's been a month since we had sex, Debbie. Can't those papers wait while we spend a little time together?"

D: (Shooting Dallas what she thinks is the eye, but is really a creepy wink) "Maybe, we could do both."

D: (Uncomfortably) "I say we just throw all those papers away. I wanna go have some fun with you, go out and be around people."

D: "Just because you never help with the paperwork doesn't mean there aren't important papers mixed in with all this crap. (Reaches into nearest box and pulls out a picture from the fair of them with their heads through the kind of holes that make it look like their heads are hilariously atop donkeys' bodies) If you had your way, we 'd be throwing this away."

D: (Rolling eyes) "Ok Debbie, we'll do it your way... again."

D: "Alright, I'm just gonna go make us a quick dinner. I was thinking of making some of tyour favorite dish. Would you rather have salad or green beans with it?"

D: "Debbie, you know I hate all vegetables, but ketchup."

(Show picture of half-eaten dinner and cut to Scene II.)

Scene II

(After couple's done the dishes and brushed their teeth, they move to the bedroom.)

D: "Which way do you wanna do it this time?"

D: "I don't know. Take off your shirt, first."

D: "Do you think my boobs are sagging?"

D: "Never mind, leave your shirt on. Come 'ere. (Dallas unzips his corduroy pants and shows Debbie, his half-flaccid, penis.) Will you suck it?"

D: "Ok, a little. You know I don't like it very much."

D: "No teeth!"

D: "Again with the, 'No teeth.' You're so picky."

(Debbie spends five minutes very slowly licking and french kissing Dallas's ding-a-ling until he is almost completely erect.)

D: (Lifting Debbie's corduroy skirt and pulling her ass to him, he grinds his cock into her as he kneads at her Grannie panties.)"You want it? You want this cock, Debs? Let me feel how wet you are."

D: "Okay. I'm probably a little wet. Will you go down on me first? That yeast infection's gone, I think."

D: (Struggling) "Sure."

(Dallas gets Debbie wet with some oral sex.)

D: (Twenty minutes later) "Are you ready?"

D: "Okay."

(As Dallas mounts Debbie, and penetrates her. He tries to force the picture of her with a donkey body out of his mind, until he succumbs.)

D: "Can I do you from behind?

D: "Ok, but not too deep."

(Dallas stands up on the side of the bed and praises Jesus that Debbie's ass is hot. After he gets himself hard again, he grabs her hips and eases his hard cock into her wet hole, making sure the edge of her corduroy skirt gets wet and joins in on the secret three way. The texture of those wide wales gets him going faster and faster. He reaches around and rubs the front of Debbie's ribbed skirt against her clit, until it is soaking wet. When she stops talking and starts moaning, Dallas can't help himself and he cums mostly in her, but pulls out just in time for the last few drops to land on the brown corduroy. The couple collapses onto the bed, and Dallas immediately begins to snore, but not before Debbie utters the final line.)

D: "Maybe I'll get pregnant."

(Scene goes dark, and a wa waa waahhh sound turns into the Mental theme music.)

The End

I'm practicing writing porn scripts. What do you think?


I'm Not Going to Encourage You to Watch This...

..., but I think that it is important that we be able to watch it, and doubt the continuance of that. I'm crying hard. A girl the same age as my daughter dies here in an instant before the world's eyes. I would say her death is completely useless, and really it is, but it is not without consequence, no doubt. I have no idea what that consequence will or should be, but I am utterly devastated that any parent should have to go through what her father just went through- whether it be an Iraqi insurgent's mother, a US military personnel's father. I cannot claim such bravery, if that's what it is. I can think of a million injustices I'd rather withstand before I would sacrifice my own or my children's lives. I'm just sad. As I, no doubt, futilely twitted, the discrepancy between our human capacities for compassion and violence is just too large.... I'm sorry, Neda. I feel responsible for this and all violence that occurs in our collective humanity, and I am ashamed.


I'm Feelin' Lucky Title: Bacon Makes Everything Better.

It's not like I hate my blog or anything. I don't. In fact, we're like this. I have started two posts in the last few days, just to have them fizzle like the cheap fireworks I typically buy four of each year, and say, "Woot." I had this cute picture of Amy Sedaris that I was going to post and say that I made Mr. Bee the cute little stuffed animal she was holding all by myself, and that she had agreed to have sex with Mr. Bee for Father's Day. That's what sons get their fathers for Father's Day these days, right? Hookers. She's the prettiest hooker I know.

I was going to find some cutesie, but smart-play-on-words-kinda way to tell you that Mr. Bee and I got a new car. Not a new used car. A brand spankin' new car. I really had nothing to do with the whole thing, and I would have told you that too, but that didn't work out. Our car gets awesome gas mileage, 31-36 mpg- city- highway. Though, I'd rather have better, or a flex fuel option, but considering Mr. Bee-in-Law paid off our old van, so that we could get this car without increasing our expenses, I don't figure I'll complain. I've named the car "Kit," as she's black and she talks and I feel a lot like David Hasselhoff when I drive her- though, that's not to say that I've been drinking and driving, but rather after I drive through the What-a-Burger drive-thru and get home and eat my cheezburger off the floor, my daughter yells at me about what a shitty father I am and I know she's right. So, I suppose I could say that Father's Day's got me down a bit, seeing as I have an issue or two there on all sorts of levels, but I'm actually rather numb about the whole thing. I blame David Hasselhoff.

I was gonna not be tired today, but that didn't happen. Instead I'm slurring my words and eating coconut m&m's. Damn you, Mars™! If this organic burrito and bag of frozen broccoli I am cooking in the microwave with Smart Butter™ (which is fortified with 11 herbs and gps devices, which will allow me to find the nearest piece of chocolate cake if I am ever stuck in the rain forest) doesn't get me out of this dullard state, then I will have no choice but to make a second pot of half-caff coffee, which is the reason I like half-caff, so's I can drink two pots of it. If that doesn't work, I'll have to go for the adrenaline rush, which would undoubtedly involve sneaking around this facility naked without the two people onsite or cameras catching me.

The Future President and I have been having some good-quality Mother-Daughter Bonding Time™, lately. She and I just started having those dramatic sitcoms in common this past year. She likes House and Bones, and she's turned me on to Dexter- which I am excited to watch way too much of. There's nothing like a good ol' cute, justified, vigilante serial killer to bridge a generation gap. Timeless. I wish that we had audio-taped our watching of the show Hitch or Ditch the other day. It was one of the funnest things ever. Very Mystery Science Theater. Nothing like the dumbest. show. ever. to bridge the generation gape. Incidentally, that night, I dreamt that three girls from my high school were cannibals, primarily the one I most coveted- who was about to eat me when I awoke. Mr. Bee then told me that in the night he had heard TFP cry out in her sleep from the couch in the night, "He's a cannibal!" He got her to go to her bed and that night we watched the Bones episode in which someone had microwaved a woman, and passengers on the plane on which it had occurred asked about that "delicious pork smell." Yummy. I'm waiting for my star on the Hollywood Mother's Sidewalk of Shame™.

TFP and I have laughed many many times the last few days. She really is a comedienne. She's very funny and has great mannerisms that accentuate her humor. Being famous would be a great way for her to get the experience she needs to become president, too, but anyways, I've agreed to take her and a few friends camping and "tubing" on the Guadalupe River. There will be tents, s'mores, and bacon involved, but TFP has already told me that reading from the Roald Dahl-compiled Ghost Stories book will be off limits. I'm trying to convince The Lass to accompany me on this 2-day sojourn, but must be prepared to go by myself, in which case I'll just have to sing campfire songs and teach them how to play Light as a Feather Stiff as a Board, the official Legacy of America™ Board Game (sic). If the Lass goes, though, we can laugh at everything redneck/ pertaining to "tubing" we see, and yet pretend that we are not participating in such unseemly such and suches. Either that, or we can talk in southern accents and secretly record conversations with the "locals." I don't know. Now (not previously, though), I'm just making shit up. There was more complaining I was going to do; I just know it. Let's see, I covered the fact that I've been watching too much TV- even without cable. I put a couple quirky pics. I took 80,000 hours to write this, even falling asleep at work in the middle. I'm not really fighting the urge to feel pitiful. I figure it would be one of those "That which you resist" things.

I love camping. I like to pretend that I'm all rustic. I love making fires. I love it when there's not all the stuff to keep you up after dark. I don't really like having to go off to pee in a bathroom a half a mile away, so sometimes I pee behind a tree if I can get away with it- throwing the toilet paper in the trash, of course. I like being away from all of my normal things, the monster lists of things to do. I like being outside. I like acclimating to my environment rather than making it acclimate to me. I don't like mosquitoes, but I do like beetles. (That one is lame.)

It would figure that after I put it all off forever, I finally feel like writing. I wish I had ideas for long term projects that I felt like acting on. I have a few things in mind, but the idea of working on them bores me, which I don't think makes for great writing (see this post). I've gotten tired of complaining about sex and my relationship with Mr. Bee. Things have been quite nice, but quite minimal may be why.

I've decided to increase my thyroid medicine in the last few days. Not without going to the doctor first, but I test normal, eat pretty well, and am gaining weight, even with all the walking and it's just been happening the last few years. I was originally on a higher dose and I never tested out of range, but went lower because I felt a little anxious, but now many severe anxiety attacks later and on Zoloft, I'm just going in there and telling the doctor she should let me see how I feel at a higher dose. I got pretty hypochondriac on myself yesterday and figure I'm having MS hugs in my back where I have a patch that intermittently feels as though there is pressure and tingling. I'm pretty sure I have Hodgkin's disease like my grandfather who died of it in his 30's. I've a touch of diabetes, a whole lot of carpal tunnel and an ever-increasing amount of gray hairs. On top of that, I've got an allergy/ water in my ear ache thing, and surely it's related to my teeth and has now formed a brain abscess. I'm fallin' apart.

The thing is, that when I just walk, abstain from coffee, don't eat ice cream at night, sleep and wake early, make progress on the things I consider progress, eat 5-a-day, don't spend any money, scoop the cat box, pet my dog, recycle, call my mom, bathe, brush my teeth, have sex, make money, don't eat in the car, have a therapy session, get flirted with, read to my kids, take my vitamins, post to my blog, read, write a poem, don't use gas, pay my bills, and don't feel pressured, I have a pretty good day.



I Fell Asleep on The Couch and Have a Mysterious Water in My Ears

Mr. Bee and I have had a surprisingly unromantic first two days of our Half-Summer of Love™. I just woke up with Cops™ on the telly infiltrating my psyche and this water-in-the-ears sensation I've had ever since I had Swine Flu the week before finals. What's water on the brain? I'm pretty sure that's where this is going.

I fell asleep on the couch last night too, but got up and went to our bedroom where I performed my to-be-suspected turning the ceiling fan down from a full hard-on to a persistent semi-erect posture maneuver. The Compromise™. Are heating and cooling issues the true underlying cause of The Erosion of Marriage™? I've got a theory.

Once upon a time, it was blankets. Namely, Mr. Bee would freak my precisely-placed layers out every night, and this was intolerable to me. It was a symbol, in my mind, of all of the ways that he disregarded my needs, even if it was subconsciously. I hold him accountable for unconscious acts as well, you know. Profound tiredness every time I'm horny, drinking most heavily right after I've spent all of my financial aid paying the rent for the semester. He knows I can't afford to move out. I don't care whether he recognizes this pattern or not. I do. And so, when he used to roll over in the night and "subconsciously" recognize he'd thrown off his covers in the night because he's always hot, he'd reach over and pull off my top layer of blankets, leaving me with a mere sheet. I get irritated just thinking about it. If I were awake myself when this occurred, I could grip the edge of the covers so that the aligned unit would remain in tact until he figured out it was his bad, not mine.

You see, I am master of my subconscious processes, apparently. When he would take my covers, I would awake and demand my rightful coverage and would get frustrated and quite often the whole thing would end in my need to get up and remake the whole damn bed, resentfully. We tried separate covers, the natural progression on the way to side by side twin beds, but it didn't eliminate the original cause. Even if Mr. Bee's own covers were on the floor on his side of the bed, the solution was the same. Remove my outer layer. Quite by accident, an ugly gift from his mother, two years in, solved the problem. She gave us a comforter. Fuck sheets underneath. I'll wash the fucker more. Whatever. Layers were the enemy. Ever since, I may be a stickler for our comforter's orientation. I don't want the portion of the blanket that was at Mr. Bee's feet the night before to be the portion I snuggle up against my cheek, and call me picky, but I prefer the soft side. Apparently, these are acceptable accommodations, and just as I am allowed to have "my pillow," night after night, covers are a non-issue now. As much cannot be said for the ceiling fan.

When I awoke last night, having accidentally fallen asleep after ten minutes of tv watching- as was the case tonight, I adjusted the ceiling fan and got in bed. My neck hurt from falling asleep without my pillow, and remaining on the couch was not my preference, as it sometimes is. We have a very comfortable couch. Mr. Bee, in a house without children, fell asleep around 8 o'clock when I was on my new nightly walk, never having adjusted the thermostat from my daily 80 degree setting. When it's 95+ outside, the 70's just seems excessive, and I loathe a setting that keeps our ac constantly running. Call me stingy; call me frugal. You say tomato; I say tomato.

Early on, I came to learn that the ceiling fan was a place where I was not going to get my way. I had an eardrum burst as a child, and still to this day will wake up with an earache if I've had arctic air blasting the side of my face in my sleep. Call me frigid. I don't care. Mr. Bee, however, will awake as though he's been dreaming of being in the desert all night, covered in sweat, without some sort of air blowing on him.

In Ayurveda, there is the concept of "doshas," the three of which are pitta, kapha, and vata, which are like constitutions of a sort. Fiery, damp, and airy are their corresponding basic natures, and identifying them can help a person to recognize which sorts of foods and situations are ideal for his or her own dosha- or mixture thereof. For instance, I'm definitely vata and kapha near equally, with nary a pitta in site. Coincidentally, the symbology corresponds to the elements of my astrological positions. I have an air sign sun and moon and an earth rising sign- hence, this is how I appear to others, reliable, steady, earthy when in fact, I am really the charming combination of mental and fickle.

Of course, these are all my own private Gweneth Paltrowizations, but what are ya gonna do? I reserve the right to have my dogmas be fluid, interspersed, and inauthentic. Mr. Bee, however is Pitta and Kapha, Leo with Sagittarius rising, our relationship single-handedly dangling from his Libra moon. Blah/ blah, but suffice it to say, he's hot. I'm cold. We live in Texas, so I claim victory. But, if I've learned anything in this shackin'-up marriage, it's that being right does not equate to being happy... usually.

Though I should have long ago purchased one of those industrial-strength wind tunnelmabobs, and placed a protective curtain of Saran Wrap™ from ceiling to mid-bed, ceiling fan set on low usually suffices, unless Mr. Bee gets greedy, which he did last night. He insisted that he required the ceiling fan on high despite my plea that he just adjust the thermostat a bit, so he poutily moved to the couch himself. Oh, well.

Are these the real issues? Is heating and cooling really the source of our incompatibilities? Mr. Bee went out of town last weekend, even taking a rare plane ride to St. Louis to meet up with two of his best friends. It was where he and his Austin best friend met on said friend's way down from picking up a car in Chicago, staying with an old friend of both of theirs in the middle, and Mr. Bee keeping his A-friend company for the last half of his drive down. He deserved a little vacation.

He came back with what everyone hopes to obtain on such a jaunt, a fresh perspective. After spending a weekend with his friends, married for seven and sixteen years compared to our near eleven, I didn't look so bad, it seems. Of course, this has been my point all along. Some guys would kill to have a wife that wanted to have three-ways with him. Not Mr. Bee. Some guys might wish they lived with a scantily clad nympho, even if her summer hair resembled a punk rock zombie's. Not Mr. Bee. My version of supportive involves telling him to take or leave his job if it's oppressive; quit it even if he wants to go back to school. Surely, I'm not the only wife who wants to have more sex and begged her husband to join a band. "Go. Quit your bitching."

We've got a little typical gender-role reversal going on, which I'd like to embrace. Not Mr. Bee. We met for the second time, the one where we caught each others' eyes, when we were both in drag for Halloween. Me in my suit and drawn on mustache, he in his dress and bright red lipstick. We were meant to be. Kinda. There was the little matter of my being there with my girlfriend at the time, but true love doesn't give a shit about those little details. Right?

Last night before I fell asleep, I programmed our new coffeemaker to make him a pot of coffee right before he woke up this morning. Since I'm sitting only a few feet away from the kitchen, our loud keyboard, no doubt, irritating through our energy-efficient, privacy-destroying wall holes, I'm pretty sure my efforts won't be appreciated quite as much as if I'd been curled up next to him when he woke up and smelled the coffee, but since he's up now, I'll go put on my Home Depot™ apron, make him some flapjacks and sausage and give him his well-deserved blow job before he heads out the door into that cruel, cruel world he so gallantly works to shelter me from, in the form of taking the one and only vehicle we now share to work.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go turn off the bedroom fan and rest my pretty hair, so I can be at my best when I awake to either look at one-bedroom apartment ads on Craigslist or write my groundbreaking relationship handbook, You Scratch Your Back- I'll Scratch Mine: A Guide for Couples Who Barely Give a Shit. As Mr. Bee says in his booming announcer voice, "GET TO KNOW ME!" ((((with reverb))))

*We're butt touchers™, btw- which is entitled "Zen Style" in Advanced Sleep-Position Divination Therapy™ circles, which is just a fancy mustard way of saying, "You don't read my blog, and I won't nag you for spending your weekends playing World of Warcraft while the kids run amuck." The Compromise™.


This Here's Zen

Some people are more ambitious than others. I accomplished something yesterday that I haven't been able to do for quite some time. I was able to get my Google Reader down to 0. Today, after watching only two more episodes, I will have watched the entire first 5 seasons- or series, for those in the know of Brit telly as I now am, of Peep Show. Bullocks. Care for a fancy?

It's funny how, when kids are not around to complain about all quirkily how one's life can seem completely meaningless- which is the resultant of either not having one or not searching for the meaning. There is a very geeky vector joke in there somewhere, but with my first cup of coffee at noon here, I'm not quite up to the challenge.

I do have in my sights, however, to earn a massive $16 writing an article, though I'll procrastinate that until I end up blowing it off. Pitiful. I will walk today. Tonight, when it's cool. I will load up my iPod with songs with faster beats, a walking track. Some might call this leisure, but it just feels wrong. The reality is that we emptied a loft full of "storage" six months ago, and the boxes have been living in my room, and declutterization is a daunting, but necessary task. All that meaningless crap talk was just a not very clever procrastinatory device, and this crap post is yours. Bullocks.

Well, it's time to try and at least be carbon neutral today. Solar panels should absorb the kW's necessary to keep my pastry ass cool- since I am trapped inside, where I haven't seen any rattlesnakes, though I killed another scorpion last night. I'll try not to discover the female form of auto-erotic asphyxiation- which would surely involve drowning with one's clit under a shower nozzle while being electrocuted from a waterproof dildo gone wild.

Something political. Something political. How'z about them douchebags.

Oh, gotta catch Stephen Colbert.

Did I tell you I'm forsaking sugar? If there's a thing or something, I'll not be terribly dogmatic, but it's the easiest dietary change for me to make, so being lazy it is. If faced with doing something or not doing something, the not doing something shall prevail. It's a part of my whole new Zen thing.

Coming soon...
  • The Incredible Lightness of Peeing
  • Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Gang Maintenance
  • The Tao of Poo
  • How to Maximize Your Potential Friction
  • Lessons Unlearned on the Path of Most Resistance
  • The Wordless Book of Deeds
  • The Subtle Art of Making Something Out of Nothing (Eureka- This is what I'm naming my Memoir!)
Featuring: Tha Florence Joe Diaries: God Provides fer He's Childrens: 11 Ways ta Pay You's Rent in a Hour on You's Hooters Shift Wit'out Even Havin' ta Clock Out.


A Rattle, a Peep and a Slew of Obligatory Paperwork

Wednesday was the last day of public school here, and come Thursday I had my baby bees ready to go to their grandparents' house. I would have preferred that it not be so soon, but as it ends up, it's probably for the best. Mr. Bee took a rare and much needed visit to an old friend in St. Louis, which will be followed by a stag show on wheels return- if I know his cohort, which I do despite Mr. Bee's keeping us ten-foot poles apart from each other- for proprietary reasons, no doubt.

Because of the perfect storm of my working weekends, Mr. Bee's being gone, and generous and loving in-laws, their summer of the monkeys has begun already. I am a free woman. I was hit with a profound loneliness when driving away from them Thursday evening, but seeing as Mr. Bee's work truck has now been ripped from his sweaty palms for financial reasons by his employers, I will spend much of my summer blissfully stranded at my cuntry deathtrap- which is not terribly conducive to normal children's doin's, like swimming, having friends and riding bikes in cul-de-sacs. Sure, there are black and white beetles to hunt, scorpions to de-tail, and sticks to stab each other with, but seeing as a three-week venture to Montana is even in their near future, I'm going to chalk this up to a win-win and begin the slovenly debacle.

The lip model will be visiting her birth father in a properly remote location- away from her current boyfriend, aka "Lipring," and so, it is the case that The Future President will be with me (spending the night with friends half of that, no doubt) every two weeks when I will be forced to take her bowling, to babysit and all manner of costly endeavors. She's truly fun to be with. I am looking forward to our Summer of Mother-Daughter Bonding™.

In late June, I will be house sitting in Austin proper- though merely watering plants is my prerogative, as well. If Mr. Bee decided to delve into the sauce as deeply as he's been heading, I will take my three-week bus access locale to find real work (arrggh) and a bitty place in Austin. The irony though is that most of the things I want to spend my time doing right now involve investing my time in our lovely home area. We have discontinued wood flooring straight out of Ikea that detoured to our house on its way to a construction dumpster, and so our not-white-anymore carpet can come out at an ideal time- no school, no kids, no muss, no fuss. I am most interested in de-clutterization, which is a good step to take whether I stay or go, so that's where the slew of papers (and, that's an understatement) and my sexy new used file cabinet come into play.

I have been on a Peep Show marathon. If you haven't seen Peep Show and you are going to heed even one tiny thing I say for a change, go to YouTube, and start from Season 1, Episode 1 and laugh yer pretty ass off! I discovered it over at Hulu, but they only have the first season. The first five seasons in their entirety are on YT. I recommend going to watch it now before the bastardized US version is made and spoils it. Mark and Jez are wonderfully inept (pictured above) and perfectly debaucherous. If you got this far in one of my posts, you will love Peep Show, because it is actually funny. Go! Do it!

So, to make a long post longer still, when I got back from meeting the in-laws midway between Dallas and Austin, as is our usual MO, I began my bachelorette padding off with Super Extreme Lazing™. My lovely dog of 14 years was having her own bark-fest, and every once in a while I don't stop her from howling at the moon like all the cool dogs do after I go out and have a Lassie heart-to-heart with her to make sure an escaped marijuana criminal isn't going to steal a pie out of my window sill, but by midnight, when I knew it was really time to put a stop to it and I went to call her into the house, I saw our kitty with the people name, Isaac, with tail puffed-up, strongly considering pouncing on a certain special something I then heard rattling. Barbecue and Applesauce, my good children with fur ran into the house no problem, but Isaac really wanted himself some of that rattling goodness, and would not heed my frenzied cat calls and attempts to spoil his certain death wish mood (for the third time as written about here and here). So, in a move of extreme stupidity, I ran down our porch stairs, grabbed that sucker cat by the fluffed up tail and ran back into house to call a sure to be either jealous or disappointed that I didn't get bitten Mr. Bee like a whiny little girl.

He asked me if I had killed the rattling rattle snake- which is the most absurd question he's ever asked me. Thoughts of bludgeoning the creature with a broom until it bit me were my best ideas until he suggested I might be able to run over the undeserving creature who probably only wanted a little sip out of the dog's water bowl like a good little snaky pet. By the time I weighed the pro and cons, with broom in hand, I pole vaulted into the passenger side door of my van and backed up to see that the perp had either left or was currently traveling up the exhaust system to bite me through the air vents. The rattle snake round-up ended, and I could not be more thankful that my Baby Bees are having a very vanilla concrete summer in the suburbs.

Even though the last time I rode a horse, for reals, I was bucked off and had her stomp my shin bone in what was likely a fracture I never had treated and is now a bump on my bone, yesterday I got right back up on that Rattlesnake Hunter horse and discovered my new hour-long walking trail which involves a trek through my hood's communal woods, the first of the many I will take in this, my heretofore deemed Summer of Fitness Frenzy™.

Stay Tuned for the Further Rustic Redneck Adventures of Freida Bee, Cuntry MD:
  • I Hope You're One of Those People Who Thinks I Smell Good When I Get Sprayed by a Skunk
  • Coyotes are Cute: Fact or Fiction?
  • The Legend of a Sleepy Wallow
  • I Was Awakened by the Sound of Two Vultures Fighting on My Roof as Was Visible Through My Skylight*
  • Translations from an Owl Whisperer
  • Guinea Hens and Peacocks Getting it On- nsfw
  • Emus in the Big Apple: God's Glucking Goons Take Manhattan
  • Excuse Me Kind Sir, But Could You Remove that Hockey Mask and Point me to the Nearest Outhouse?
  • I Smelled Fire and I Smelled Rain (Which was a Relief Because I Thought the Smell of Manure Would Never End)
  • No Officer, I Had No Idea Them Cowpatties Had Mushrooms In 'Em; I Only Wanted Ta Burn 'Em Fer Fuel
  • Ladiez of the Prairie Gone Wild
With Special Guest- The Florence Joe Diaries: Flo Jo Gets Arrested For Singing "99 Bottles of PBR in the Fellowship Hall" in Church

*This one happened a few days ago.


I Feel Like Writing, But Don't Have Anything to Say

Sometimes I feel guilty for my lack of political prowess. Other times I feel guilty for feeling guilty. Usually, I just feel remorse, a deep and abiding remorse. I should be more pretty, more friendly, more perky. That might make someone happy. As it is, no one is. I shouldn't say that. There's probably someone who thinks he and/or she is happy, but I seriously doubt that person would be reading my blog. Did you google "Corduroy Fetish" to get here? Yeah. Swoosh swoosh swoosh swoosh. The friction of your boner against my corduroy pants is making them wet. Swoosh swoosh. I think there's a poem there, but you know how lazy I am. I'm All dressed Up in This Corduroy Blazer With Nowhere to Go is the poem I want on my gravestone. I bet the anonymous atheist in this picture requested cremation and this was her husband's revenge. I bet she also requested to not not live in eternity on my blog. Swoosh swoosh.

Did you know that those who searched for "slut" also searched for "whore," "skank," "bitch," and "hoe?" You heard it here first. I don't feel like being a teacher any more. Am I going to become one of those people who quit college with 170 hours with only one three-hour class to go? If someone offers me enough money, like in that Woody Harrelson movie, hell yea's. But, this carpal tunnel is telling me I'm more likely to make my first million crocheting halves of scarves for Sorority-Slut Barbies. They get cold, you know! If only I could just learn the lesson and put out more, maybe then I wouldn't be awake at 3 AM after having fallen asleep from 9:30- 12:30 reading Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing- which is the book I will share with folks on over at that books I recommend thingymadoo. That is the extent of my reading. If you write long posts, I'm sorry. What was I saying? Two summers ago I read the first 6 of the Clan of the Cave Bear books in a matter of 3 weeks, but they're all smutty and pseudo-fictiony. They look like they took a lot of work to write, but they were amazingly simple to read. I am more likely to write stuff that's amazingly simple to write, but extraordinarily difficult to read, unless, of course, we are referring to the four paragrahs I made $2.68 writing re: the advantage of dealing with that oh-so yummy burning sensation one can get from eating a peppermint patty on a causative level, rather than in a superficial manner- this sentence being my case in point.

Am I lonely? I bet if I were hot, I wouldn't be lonely. Just look at Paris Hilton. Even when she's not saying something profound and quotable and being followed around by teh Paparazzi Pizza Delivery Stallions, she's still got that cute little doggie in her purse. All's I have is this cute, but dead little rolly polly and a rogue scorpion on the loose. Where's Jack Bauer when you need him? That's what I'm saying. If I were one of those people who won the loteria, would I be one of those people who end up commonlaw divorced? Isn't that why they were investing in lottery tickets in the first place? I'm just sayin'. Don't call that the failure of the lottery ponzi scheme. I need to know this first hand. If I don't think of something quick, I'm gonna be working at the Taco Bell drive-thru and then getting arrested for putting that little dog in my purse.

I forgot to mention something. My mother-in-law has offered to have my baby bees up for the entire summer. I think it's her way of saying, "Get a second job, damnit, you lazy slut." The thing is, I am pretty sure this is how it's gonna go. I'll miss my baby bees, but as my father-in-law just got a yet-to-be determined-how-awful-diagnosis, my m-i-l has said that they know realistically, my sons will not be interested in such things forever, and I'm thinking I shouldn't feel bad for wanting to have just The Future President half the time. She even asked if I would take her and some of her friends camping this summer. Hell yea's. And, I will go into my new-and-not-necessarily-improved-but-available therapist and say, "I'm a lesbian. I'm bi-sexual. I want to leave. I want to stay." And, rather than listening, listening, listening, she will, not like my therapist I should marry, call my bluff and lead me down the path and then I'll go a little and then say, "Oh wait, I should go back, I lost the breadcrumbs following that wonderful smell," but we all know when Mr. Bee goes out of town this week, my first order of business is to go to the Austin Gay Pride Parade. I wonder if I should flash my titties or wear a thong bikini? It depends on whether or not I'll be able to shoplift a toy poodle in my purse, I suppose. I need a haircut.

In conclusion,