Housewife Log Stardate Operation 666.Bad Hair∞Loop: Down to The Wire™

Not a one of these ladies has bad hair. How can women live up to these impossible standards?  I know it's not all in the hats, but I do wish this picture accurately depicted a representative sample of the percentage of women on the whole in the meat world who wear hats like these.

Oh hi, you're here, or not.  I'm so glad, 'cause I am bustin' at the seams from homemade beef stew with excitement to tell you about my day!

Heck, it can be like you're here with me thanks to special liveblogging™ technology.  Wait right there while I go load the dishwasher.  (If that maintenance man comes over to finally wet sand the area where he patched the sheet rock (thankfully, well enough above eye level as to not be a real menace, though the area where a water leak from above was begun to be repaired two weeks ago is large), so he can texturize, then paint, as was laid out in the 2056 Geneva Convention brochure,  he's not going to want to see my dirty dishes, and that is at the center of my concerns on this day— even though he's not going to come (I really need to write more complex (run on) sentences, you know).)

Ooh, .75 hours later, I'm thrice as caffeinated as before (you do the math), my dishes are done, I've listened to a podcast, and really my urge to blog left.  Darnit.

I've procrastinated a whole whole lot of make up work that I've intended to get done during the break, and a friend lent me the first season of The Wire to view while I go through papers, papers, and more papers.  Being a teacher involves not only being a content specialist and decent ambassador to that content and being an adolescent psychologist, but it also involves having strong secretarial skills, which I kinda sorta have if they involve stacking and stacking papers and then starting new piles when the old ones start to fall over.  Gonna hole up in my room and gut it.  It is necessary as I come up on renewing my lease for another year.  I'm gonna sink my feet further into this place which I have deemed clutter free.  In most of it I have remained successful, but my room has been the martyr, the place where things get stacked.

OMG, the excitement of this post is getting me hard.  Yes, yes, let's insert some sex.  I will reward myself for all my hard work with a little visit from my vibrating bullet friend who hath propelled me in recent weeks into the category of multiply orgasming women.  Oh my, nothing is off topic here.  Congruently, I really better email that mom as I promised about her daughters' homework assignments.  See, we're fair and balanced, giving the wholesome and the unwholesome fair air time.

There is more news in hairville than I wish I had, but I decided not to settle for bad hair and went to MY hair lady finally, but went with this mish-mashed conglomeration of desires, and came up with the weirdest half-baked haircut yet.  I was inspired by this site which is the ultimate site for awesome short haircuts.  I'm really motivated to have not vanilla hair, but I went too far, and am realizing my hair lady, though she has mad skillz, is someone I have outgrown in this way.  This whole year has been a bad hair year for me, which is a shame, and for which I take full responsibility, but it's got to stop people.  I had her do a fun assymetrical thing Sunday after I got off work, but I really look like that mask dude with half a personality on one side and another on the other.  It is a haircut that inspires wonder, and fortunately, she is willing to cut off more on the longer side (behind one ear, but not behind the other, which is the wrong place to be different) on Thursday.  I'm planning on holing up until then.  It's really ridiculous, especially because I was out and about all day yesterday, and only perceived myself to be looked upon with pity by hipsters in the same frequency as usual, but mostly they were just avoiding eye contact so they wouldn't laugh, I think.  I  had a good friend over last night and she convinced me of what I suspect: it's not the right kind of weird, the attractive kind.  So, my hair will be quite short before long, and I'm glad.  It's like going home and that's a good place to be, especially now.  Plus, plan b is a friend-assisted hair suicide, ie. a faux hawk.  There are worse fates, people.

In the meantime, I am going to play deliberate hookie from my women's group for the first time ever (great call, Bee) and kick butt on this holing up shit and get crazy on The Wire, reportedly one of the best shows ever™, according to my friend.   I have one friend, apparently.

Well, my vibrating friends, have a good night and if I make cookies with music affixed to my bra and no pants, be sure in knowing they will be wholesome thoughts, the ones I am having.

Blog Posts Coming Soon to a mumble mumble Near You:
Fat Bottom Grrls, You Make My Minivan Rock The Best, So Be Careful Not to Knock Over That Double Boiler of Black Eyed Peas We're Taking to the Potluck

Love, F


Spreading All the Holday Cheer Allowed by Law

LOL and the like.  We here at Beeville want to thank you for stimulating the economy.  I can already feel your good cheer trickling down upon me (I wish).  You see, as luck would have it, I find myself in the fortuitous position of receiving "time and a half" to type this here post.

Lest my greeting seem bitterly clad, I assure you great fun was had by Baby Bees everywhere this Holiday Season.  Some went to Canada for what was surely a godless Xmas and some are now on their way up to see their grandparents in the Metroplex for a more Jesusly spoiling, seeing as last night's was such a smashing success.

Snaggletooth and I prepared a raucous feast of turkey meatloaf, homemade squash soup, kale, cornbread, fried green (homegrown by folks that aren't me) tomatoes and crock-potted even black-eyed peas for what was a quaint reunion of our nuclear family unit, wherein two young boys saw the definite benefit of shackin' up divorce in action:  double presents.  Maybe, not quite double, but it was close.  And, fun.  Snaggletooth's snare drum completed our gift from two years ago and he got art supplies, Hot Wheels, and evil corporate Spongebob™ pajamas out the wazoo.  The Genius is being socialized to be more geekly with his full-set of Mr. Bee's sci-fi series, a robe and slippers, and a video camera with the current caveat that we may not be negatively portrayed on the YouTube with it. Little does he know there are other video venues, but for now one rule has us covered, at least that's what David Hasselhoff says.  My grrl Bees will return for their holiday encore at the turn of the arbitrary New Year.  For now, we're texting our seasons' greetings. 

One of the benefits of working on Christmas is that when you're not surfing the innertubes, you can walk around with your unironed shirt untucked and eat chocolates every time you pass the bowl in that one office.  Wait, that's just a normal day here, but there are fewer people to bear witness to the debauchery.  Pretty soon, I'll be naked under this esd smock and none will be the wiser.  Especially me.

There's some other stuff, you know, but who really has the next 6 and a half hours of feeling justified in not doing one lick of work to write it?  Hell, I could write a meaningful and pseudo-artfully crafted short story in that time.  I double dog dare myself to even think of doing something so productive on this day of leftover turkey meatloaf for breakfast.  I'm sure there will be no takers.  I'll waste my time however I see fit, whether it be facebook scrabble or filling in ten more words than the obviously stupid people who leave more unfinished than mine crosswords on these breakroom tables.  Of course, there's enough over-caffeination and sugar comas for all.

I already felt like the day after that moon thing was the new year, so I'm all discombobulated over here, but suffice it to say, Mommy has a new tea pot, a cleaner than usual house, and a buttload of belated iTunes 10 drama with her four year-old iMac and her new Ipod thanks to Mr. Bee.  Also, my boss just called and said he's dropping something off here in a bit.  Oooh, what will it be?  One year it was a MagLite™ knock-off, in other years gift cards to the grocery store.  I thought this, the first year I'm getting time and a half for Christmas, I wouldn't get a gift proper from my employer.  I'm so excited I can hardly contain myself. 

Wait for it.  Wait for it.

While you're waiting, you can watch this video.  It's sure to be a holiday classic: 

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c
It Gets Worse PSA
Daily Show Full EpisodesPolitical Humor & Satire BlogThe Daily Show on Facebook

From here.

Ooh, a $25 gift card from Macy's, which is conveniently where the ugly purse (shh) my mom gave me (along with some other more rockin' stuffs) is from.  I should be able to go return and splurge and get something right fine from the men's dept. on Monday when everyone's quietly at work, right?

Oh, be well and have yourself a very merry secular festivus and whatever hell else you wanna make of it day.

Best, Bee.


Where's the Fire, Boys?

Alright.  Stripper pole.  Check.  A slew of firemen.  Check.  People at my work eating macaroni and cheese on their 9:00AM break.  Check.  Something fucked up is on order.

Coffee as a free commodity is history and if they expect me to just sit back and take it, they've got another thing, er, coming.

Where's the Fire, Boys?

I was just walking around in my bikini one day when a man asked me, "Got a light?"  I pulled the lighter I always carry around to please my man out of my cunt and lit the joint he held to his mouth.

We did that thing where I inhaled his exhale a few times and he watched my ass as I walked on my way.

When I got to the bra store, I told the lady, "I want a bra that will make my tits rock."  She fondled my rack and after a couple minutes, she said, "You're a 34C.  I've got the bra for you."  She grabbed my hand and I followed her as she took me into the dressing room.  She unfastened my bikini top, took it off, and walked out of the dressing room with it in her hands.

I waited for what seemed like forever for her to return.  It was at least three minutes.  When she finally came back, I had already called 911 to have the police come save me.  I had just told some man or woman (I couldn't tell which) where I was being held hostage when my would-be captor returned.  I hung up the phone and surreptitiously slipped it back into my cunt.   

When I saw that my bikini top was in one of her apron pockets, I relaxed, but only until she pulled the most gorgeous purple lace bra I had ever seen out of the other one.  Then, I got excited.  "Turn around," she instructed.  As I giddily complied, she slipped my arms through the straps and very gently made sure the underwire was in its proper place.  Of course she didn't have to do this, because my breasts are the very prototype bra makers use to design their underwire, but still I enjoyed the consideration and the way her face felt against my back, as she whispered, "How does it feel?"

I looked up into the mirror and saw my tits looking more marvelous than ever and leaned my head back to say, "It feels really good, but how does it look?"  I turned in her arms so that her 36B's and my 34C's were pressed tightly together.  We paused for a moment before our lips touched.  Her skin was soft and her Cherry Chapstick less sweet than it smelled.  As our tongues slid along the lengths of the others', along our whitened teeth and into the backs of our mouths as deeply as we could manage, I could feel my bikini bottom moisten against her thigh pressed into it.

I was startled when the fireman approached.  On the other side of the red velvet curtain, I heard a man yell through one of those electronic megaphones, "Freeze."  As I always do, I obeyed.

When the curtain gently slid open, I was relieved to see the man in the helmet was smiling at the sight of my tits in my soon-to-be new purple lace bra.  "Hello, officer.  What can I do for you?" asked Jody, as her nametag betrayed.

"We received a 911 call reporting a hostage situation at this location, ma'am."  "Oh, I'm not old enough to be a 'ma'am,'" Jody corrected, to my great relief.  "Oh, that was me," I said, suddenly realizing that the he/she at 911 must have taken my call seriously.  "Has she returned your bikini top, ma'am?"  the fireman persisted.  "Well, no, but...," but he wouldn't let me finish.

"Take your hands off her ma'am!" he shouted,  "Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs," he insisted.  I wasn't sure to whom he was barking orders at that point, so I followed Jody's lead and stood with my hands on the wall, my back to the officer.  When I spread my legs, I was worried my illegal lighter might fall out of my cunt, but it's tight and once again got me through a rough situation.

When the fireman realized that the bra store would be left unattended if he detained Jody, he made a decision not to take her into custody if she would return my bikini top.  Reluctantly, she handed it over to him, but not without a tear in her eye as he began to escort me out of the store. 

The alarm sounded as we exited the store and as Jody reached for her tag removal gun, the fireman threw me to the floor and pulled an axe out of his cargo trousers.  Realizing his folly, he allowed her to approach slowly and remove the tag from the bra.  I was just about to offer to pay for the bra when the fireman asked me if I had.

"But, I, I...," was all I could get out when the officer, looming over me, handcuffed my hands behind my back.  "I'm going to have to take you to the firehouse for questioning for suspicion of the attempted shoplifting of a purple lace bra, ma'am."

He instructed me not to say a word and felt the deep and burning need to hold me down on the seat next him as he drove us two blocks back to the firehouse where a group of firemen seemed to be awaiting our return.

"Put this on," insisted the fireman throwing me my bikini top, "and tell us exactly what just happened over at that bra store."

I pretended the pole was Jody and reenacted the whole scenario.  As the crew searched for clues in my cunt, one by one each came to be satisfied that I was not in any further danger and finally let me go on my way.

As I walked down the street in my bikini, I felt happy knowing, with my lighter in my ass and my new purple lace bra in my cunt, I was going to look great when my uncle took me bra shopping the next day.  Plus, I wouldn't disappoint him when he asked for a light this time.

(pic from this cool site.)


Housewife Log: Stardate ¡∑(87.29+πx∞%)!®*

Well, well, well, isn't this like olde times?  Me and my Baby Bees home all day.  Sadly, it's so rare that it's like days two summers ago that it reminds me of.  I'm pretty sure I'm expecting to get all of the domestic work of my vacation done today.  Right.

As we virtually speak, Snaggletooth is racing hotwheels down a guitar case in an ultimate 7 car race-off and I'm pretty sure he's going to win.  There's no way I can keep up with him.  The only way is to bring him into the fold, and I just don't have the charisma for that. 

It is, however, preferable to the debates The Genius challenges him to.  Yes, his logic is superior to an 8 year old's and it gets old.  He's got a cell phone, I'm willing, why isn't he asking to hang out at the mall or something? I guess this isn't so bad in that light.

The Future President and The Lip Model are going with their dad on a two-week trek up north through Detroit, then Canadia, then more remote parts of Michigan where the ex Mr. Bee's dad lives.  I'll have an extra cat during that time, and will miss the hell out of The Future President.  I already miss The Lip Model as she's got one foot out of the dependent door and she is hardly ever staying with me these days.  I've got rules.  It's not that her dad doesn't or that I really think I have more power to enforce them, but The Future President and I are able to discuss her freedoms.  She virtually gets to do anything she wants, but I like to think because we're going to talk about it, her requests have already encountered the internal filter that makes them most reasonable on the whole.  I can count on her.  She's doing very well in school.  Fuck, she even lettered in a sport and is seeded as a Sophomore to be the number one player on the Senior Varsity tennis team this spring.  She makes it easy.

The Lip Model, on the other hand, is very secretive and it's the communication aspect that is lacking and she just does whatever the fuck she wants and won't communicate or negotiate about it.  She's nothing like me, I'm sure.  At her dad's she may or may not meet less resistance to that, but she chooses to stay there.  Also, she thinks I suck.  I do know that when she's having a hard time, she calls me.  I'm emotionally safe, but she's not always choosing emotionally safe.  That makes me feel a little failure-ish, but I am hoping that in a long-term sense, there will be a seed planted she will be able to draw upon.   I'm pretty sure that this is all a vague skimming, but that's all I'm up to right now.

I know that this is just the area where I journal as I have done all my life, but with the little bit of voyeurism it provides (which I appreciate) sometimes it does leave me feeling a little cheap.  Maybe, by the time I'm 50, I'll be mature enough to hone this here inclination to a craft.  Why can't going to school be a free and ongoing pursuit.  I mean, I'll do shit.  I'll do laundry.  I plant community gardens, I'll even scrape up shit or whatever, but now that I've gotten a math degree, I know enough to know I don't know much.  I'm ready to focus on creative writing, beginner's piano and guitar, acting 101, and painting.

One thing I do appreciate and support the Lip Model in is that she's a very talented singer and picked up guitar quite easily in a class at her fine arts academy and paints very well and she's gone a bit from being extremely shy to wanting to do open mikes and jam with people and and.  I think this is great, but with a fuck-you attitude, it's not really something one wants to sustain for her without a little cooperation on her part.  She'll be 18 in February and she's been looking forward to that day since she was 12, so it will be interesting to see what changes.  Of course, it may not be much at all.

Well, I'm going to put Dan Savage's podcast on my ears and listen to it through my $3.00 Jet Blue headphones while I chop the wood and carry the the water that makes the whole world sing.  I want to write a book, or a screen play or a compilation of erotica gone awry, but I don't think I can do that shit here, but I haven't had the discipline to do it elsewhere.  Oh circular circle within a circular fuck (ah, fuck), I am also in a time like The Lip Model's.  There is no way I can maintain this low paying job thing past the summer.  At least I'll have my teaching pay lasting through the summer and have that time available to go work somewhere else.  Landscaping?  It's good that I'm using this time (ha, my sometimes working 7 days a week, half-time single parenting time, uggh) to explore, but it's time to get serious here, people. 

Hall and Oats, Supertramp, Queen, Dan Savage, REM and Modest Mouse will be my whip it into shape soundtrack for the day.  Oh, ok, Devo.  Oh, now I'm thinking of all the yoga, meditation, and elliptical or build up to running shit I've got on my mind.  I'm sure I just don't know any better.

Quoth Roy, my boss from my high school Burger King summer job, "If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean."  My entire life's anti-motto.

Splotchy's back with a vengeance and a soundtrack.  Somehow, I missed his premier film in the spring.  It's really good, so go watch it!  He twittered this song yesterday, which I got stuck in my head, so I'm paying it forward.  You're welcome.

*Of course, I don't live in a house, nor am I a (shackin' up) wife anymore.


A Very Special Staycation Special

This is kind of day one of vacation for me. Kinda. I won't be teaching or subbing for the next two weeks, though there are still my part-time weekend proclivities. In those places I've got this impossible list of things I've put off to accomplish in this time. Grading stuff, lesson planning, a new school blog, writing, writing, writing, knitting, cleaning, organizing, resting, exercising, all the bonding and socializing with friends, family, and other.  I'm pretty sure in that blogging, sleeping, cooking, masturbating and showering are implied.  Oh my.

The thing is, right now, I'm really not giving a shit, and if I were to solely vanquish this cluttered head, or, as one of the teachers at my school referred to it to our students during yoga time yesterday, this monkey mind, I would probably be accomplishing more than all the other combined plus blowjobs.

So, I got the kids to school, I had some phone stuffs, I did my two errands with no bra, and I came home and slept.  For three hours.  Granted, I was a little deprived, and this did mean there are fewer cookies for The Genius's class's party (oh, the mommy guilt), but seriously, seriously I'm not even going to finish this sentence.

I've been having a bad hair week, but for once, I mean that literally.  I asked a friend of mine to cut my hair for me, a woman I know to have good taste and such willingnesses.  And, she did.  Of course, thinking I know more, I took the awesome shape she began and tweaked it.  I got happier with it, though it did get shorter than I intended, but still it was not really ever going to be done, and peace of mind is more important than that other (unclear antecedent) shit.  I hadn't cut my own hair in many years and I must confess that at age twenty five, after I'd once voluntarily shaved my long-haired head I felt the need to do so again after I went to cutting it one dark night.  That was the last time I cut it myself, and though I was going for the imperfection of it all, redneck punkrockery, you know, I'm really just a poser.  I'm not so happy with it even now having taken the first warm body with a beauty school (and special ed, incidentally) certificate I could get my hands on, but who really gives a shit, right?  I will hereby and forthwithily vow to nevermore betray my hair lady lady, but still I'm sated.  I'm done.  I don't like to think about my hair.  But, last night when I went out to a fun event, with the couple-hour old, not all that good haircut, I was a weirdo hair toucher all night.  I know better than this people.  I know not to wash my hair right before going somewhere besides work, where being unsexy is just part of teaching math or keeping freezer temps secure.

Oh, I got that out.  The thing is, there were many things about my night that rocked.  There were people and the piece f*bomb read at last night's Bedpost Confessions, was absurd as all fuck, hence hot!  I'm going to keep this boy in mind (not what you think, you dirty bastard) as I further my interest in my whole redneck erotica schtick.  His was a piece on fast food erotica, and I need to go leave him a link to my own Wal Mart Erotica™ or Erotica Gone Awry™.  But, probably not.  Yeah, no.

These blog things are fleeting.

Here we are back to the pure and evil circularity that makes writing this drivel worth the while.  I get something out of it.  Sure, I seem imperfect, flawed, I have bad hair blogging days, I write about the fact that I am to meet the intermittentnet person here at my house somewheres between 8AM and 11PM.  WTF and all.  He didn't interrupt my nap and I appreciate that, but if he thinks he's gonna interrupt my Baby Bees performing in their winter hullabulloo tonight before there is a boy slumber party from hell, he's got another thing, er, coming.  What?  Oh, yeah, return to the now, grasshopper.  Adding meditating to my to-do list up there is the new first thing on my new and improved to-do list. 

I should thank the angst, but fuck you, angst.  I feel like there is a load of things that are just beyond my reach right now, but closer than they've been maybe ever, and the only way to deal with such viscerality is with a poem.  Or, with sex, but unless that cable guy is unusually hot and kinky and doesn't mind bad, unshowered hair, I think we're gonna have to go with the poem:
Is there something hard to press against,
To push and shove, to break and love?
Is there something warm to sooth the stark,
To break the fall, to end that all?

Were it that you told me "Yes,"
I'd trust you more and trust you less.
Were it that you told me, "No,"
I'd want to prove you wrong, you know.

There's nothing more to say, it seems,
But a chance to be viewed anew
With slightly more accepting eyes
Makes me write this shit toward you.

There's more than that, the hot and cold,
This impasse in my very (sic) soul.
But, words, they are bound to fuck me now
They say too much of nothing at all.
Not my best, and oh, the mush.  I've got coffee to go smell.

Coming Soon (in nine days, in fact):
Santerotica: Santa's Dick in the Mashed Potatoes Erotica- a Christmas dinner surprise you can't miss (even if you try).


In The Event of My Eventual Demise

Dear Reader of the Future,

In lieu of preparing to be where I'll be when you read this, coaxing the self-twisting of pre-adolescent arms with merely the hint of the inherent allure of numeric proportions, I am here attempting to do what I've never had the minor discipline to do. 

Remember when that herbalist made me go buy The Lip Model a chicken dinner that time?  Remember how she suggested I prepare that list of food on Sundays, the lentils and the potatoes and whatever other stuff she said to prepare simply, individually, with whatever butter is necessary for it to appeal to wee tot Lip Model who was the pickiest picky eater ever?

Good, 'cause that's what we (well, I) are (am) doing here and now.  Buttering up this here blog.  I know, I know, you're skeptical.  I was far more likely to post three times in a day and then not again for a month than I was to parse out this scarce commodity, my meamblings.  I know, I usually don't hold back my yummy blogwad, but here we are all mature with this supportive mustache*, ready to get real or surreal or whatever might pertain to the unpenetratable spriteness of, uh, weeing.  Wee?

As I send this message of love from 1971 to you in the future, let me remind you to pick up the almond milk, to praise Frank Zappa, on this the 10th Day of Zappadan, and to go forth and make the meals that make the Wal Marts burn, preferably by way of stopping by my apartment and chopping up those locally grown broccoli greens my CSA gave me.  I didn't know they were edible either, but whatever my CSA gives me, I will eat.  No.  Questions.  Asked.

As you are or are not reading this, my students and I are or are or not plotting the destruction of the dominant paradigm with the pure power of knitting.  You're welcome.

John Lennon-Frank Zappa RARE - Watch more Funny Videos

Supportive mustache pic from the supportive mustache zone.


Dear Lady of the Subway

Dear Lady of the Subway,

Remember when we were doin' that stuff?  That was when it was warm and you were wearing that hat when I slipped my hand up your skirt and got your blood on it.  We walked and walked that day.

That was before the internet and we didn't know what we didn't know.  It was before cell phones, so we didn't  have these brain tumors yet, but somehow, without GPS, we still managed.

I miss that day.  We laid on the grass in the park and our young skin didn't think to get itchy as we kissed behind the meager obscurity of our backpacks, which were still light.

Rebellion those days meant wearing both straps on our shoulders as we hiked about town in a society still beyond war.

You were here and my days off work were not pre-filled with the minutia of ulterior ambitions.  With time running out, all the guilt of not accomplishing this perpetual visceral list is wearing me down though this time is not without recompense.  The exhaustion of keeping our pipes full, of rolling fags we didn't yet know to call as such, of fearing the obligations of the future is all behind us now.

There is relief in that, I suppose.

Oh, and the blue eyeshadow, too.


Button, Button, Who's Got Her Slut On? *

Dearest Monster in My Closet-

You know I would not be writing to you were it not for the fact I want to post the contents on my blog.  Sure this could be a letter to Jesus or Meghan McCain or some other minor celebrity, but they wouldn’t imaginarily read it like you will.  Even as we don’t not theoretically speak, I am appeasing your half-cousin once-removed in the form of allowing Snaggletooth to clean the living room and dining room, so that I can get to the floor to vacuum, for the wrongest of reasons ever.

On Monday, I let The Genius do laundry (these are convoluted allowances on my part, I understand) for pay. Pooled with his money from doing last week’s laundry, he had enough to walk to the corner convenience store and waste my former money on two bags of crappy convenience store spicy wheat puff things (with red #3453097, no doubt) that he is eating now and for snack at school tomorrow, and, yes, is not obligated to share. Oh, the socialist torture.

Yes, Snaggletooth earned money last week himself by making my lunch for work the next day (25 cents extra for the wonderful salad topped with nuts he cracked himself). It was a steal, really—though I don’t feel so bad in light of the three thousand million meals I’ve fed him up to now. I was just glad for the help, sure, but the thing is, Snaggletooth might make 75ç here and there, but he loses it every time. In recent weeks I made space for him to place his special stuff in his and the Genius’s collective bedroom space, and we’ve now discussed how that’s his space and no one is allowed to go in it, unless it’s me dropping something in there, but that'll be for the future. This is now.

Now (thanks to the wonderance of time lapse blogtography), Snaggletooth has gone from hopeless, despite my offerings to make popcorn, to jubilant while he re-makes his money cleaning all I didn’t manage to clean in my entire day off for 75ç as I lie here and type this, so he can supplement his sole quarter and pollute his body with a bag of crap inferior to popcorn. I’m pretty sure this is a strange win-win for me, or you, since I’m electing to stay out of the way by blogging. I don’t have the heart to tell him he doesn’t need to clean out the coffee cans I had on the table to recycle or re-use, as he just seems so happy doing twice as much as I might expect for those three quarters, even if they will be part of my tide me over to Monday gas fare.

Monster, those are all the childrenly things to report. They aren’t exactly what I’d intended to write about. There’s the other, the personal, the adult. Nothing specific. Nothing juicy. Today, I’m feeling aggravated. I’m menstruating (there was a previous post beginning pertaining more to that), for those keeping track. I got my hair trimmed by a friend. It’s more interesting. It’s more like it used to be. It’s not as perfectly even as I’m used to, and I keep tweaking it, though.

I’m emotional today, uneasy. I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to do, even though since I started this, dinner's been made, the living room is cleared out ready to be vacuumed, the boys' homework is done, spelling words have been been quizzed, neighbor child has come and gone. I've recently taken b vitamins, crampbark, a tylenol, and a cup o' Tension Tamer™ tea.   This isn't usually my night. Mr. Bee called the other day, and while I am willing to negotiate the schedule we've had in place for 11 months, it was the second time in two months he insisted we work through it by way of changing the schedule exactly as he insists the moment he insists it. I feel bullied and abused, and by the end of a two-hour ordeal the other night, I just gave up, not really happy with wasn't a compromise at all, convinced he was drinking and glad I don't live with him anymore, but wishing we could have made something kinkier out of the power struggle. In the end, there are a few ways he screwed himself in it all, and I could tell by the way he called first thing the next morning to back off his assholish-ness and talk to the boys, he was trying to allay some of his guilt and I was glad I stepped off that roller-coaster, but I feel bruised by the aftermath. Some of it is avoidable, and let's hope he got what he wanted and I'll get what I need, but not from him. Mainly, we each have the boys half time, and while my new schedule has me with less going out time and hauling them around at 5 AM before work one day, I am glad I'll have the boys less on the days I teach.

Now, it's the next day.  I dreamt of going down into the longest, deepest tunnel ever (sigh, vaginas, vaginae),  and now I'm subbing for an art teacher in 30 minutes.  This is how I go so long between posts.  There was the start of a poem this wasn't complete without.  I guess this post will just remain incomplete.

I don't have any holiday spirit this year, except to say Happy Zappadan, dear reader.

Plus, this is just one of the many reasons I love Austin.  The talent. Meow.

Awfully Confusing - Mistress Stephanie & Her Melodic Cat from Adam Sultan on Vimeo
*Not me.


Is That a Snow Globe in Your Pocket or Do You Just Want Me to Butter Shake It Up?

Well, people, you can now rest assured.  All is well and safe in America.  I have holiday traveled and not only was I not inconvenienced by any waiting or fondling, another snow globe smuggling was thwarted.  Also, an elderly lady and not me was x-rayed.  My declining to be x-rayed fell upon only slightly irritated ears.  I was told I was lucky I wasn't chosen over someone's great grandmother, else I'd have been manually searched.  He said it with such a threatening tone, I wanted to challenge his authortiah, but apparently neither my uncool haircut, my Black Friday fat pants nor our mutual complacency riled up the kinky exchange.

In other shocking news, there was pot on Willie Nelson's tour bus, but don't worry we're safe now.  That's just Willie doing his part to manually roll back the George Bush Tax cuts on the rich.  Speeding tickets for Ferrari drivers, tax revenues from diamond ring polishing services and mink stole repairs are at record levels, so pretty soon we working class peons will be trickled down upon, you can be sure.  Snow globe moguls are only a blip in the well-oiled machine suckling the teats of our earth and Jack Nicholson dry.     

Tell me, anthropomorphized Jack (the name my mother would have given me were I a boy, incidentally, same as my grandfather's), what happened to us?  Have we lost our edges, we two?  Things that aren't supposed to be round are round.  When did we fictitiously become curmudgeonly and stuck in our ways? Besides the fact that you are an alleged bazillionaire and three-time Academy Award winner who dated Angelica Huston for 16 years, we're like two peas you and me.  We need new haircuts.  We need new looks.  Trainers.  I'll report you to "What Not to Not Not Wear" if you report me.  Pinky swear with a cherry on top.     

Jack and I, well, not Jack, but I haven't had too much difficulty staying sober these past several years, but with the news of this new menace on the streets, I'm a gonna hafta bump up my security level to red this holiday season.

Whether it be from short stacks of pancakes or blow-job slumber parties, lock up your daughters and be on the look out for these jivetalkin' breakfast treats:

Alcoholic Breakfast Products Coming Soon...
  • Absolut™ Frosted Flakes 
  • Captain Morgan's™ Oats-n-Such
  • Kahlúa™ Grahams
  • Bacardi™ Frozen Daiquiri Waffles
  • José Cuervo™ Breakfast Burritos
  • Jägermeister™ Instant Breakfast Bars
  • Bud Lite™ Egg White Omelettes
  • Michelob™ Wry Dry Toast
  • Jimmy Beam™ Sausage Links
(Scientists I just made up recently discovered that bacon made from alcoholic pigs packs a real punch, so beware of that, you know.)

Next time...MacGuyver Maneuvers That Are Sure to Get you Frisked!

Go forth and spread the Whipped Lightning™ or the Greased Lightning™.

Greased Lightnin' + Born To Hand Jive
Uploaded by abbalistener2003. - Explore more music videos.



Zombie Robot Hottie Bitchez

I am mindnumbingly tired and this is what I have to show for it.  The pic.  Not too bad.  Were I $40 richer, off work, not tired and picking my kids up right after work, I'd also have some sort of asymmetrical/punk/ and or mod haircut to show for it, because because.  As it stands, there's this popcorn and terribly banal conversation that I am aggravatingly (to myself) engaging in here at work.  Really, I don't give a shit about where you go wash your car sweet person who I have little in common with.  I'm just waiting for you to get off your break, so I can watch more Christeene videos to relive last night's Tranarchy.  It was delightful in the most delightful way.  Be warned, the videos are wonderfully awful.  I must say they are far better live, too.

A musician I really liked a lot was Queen Kinz.  Seriously. Also, there was a hamburger meat performance that involved eating hamburgers out of bras and panties and all sorts of stored areas.  Did i mention my friends deemed packing the only appropriate accessory for a tie and waxed on mustache.  Otherwise, I was just my same 'ol everyday self.

Do I have anything to add?  There are pears, and like I mentioned the popcorn and the tiredness and there was one cup of coffee.  I found 2 RedBulls to be a suitable replacement, when there wasn't Kombucha, for alcohol.  It was nasty and syrupy, so the flavor fooled me.  Plus.  Caffeine.  Lots of dancing was had or done or waged or whatever.  My legs are sore and I'm crushing more than I was then wasn't on my dance partner, but you know there was a lofty thought about how I would write about how that shit's in me.  How I'm oh so grateful to have more inklings of what I want rather than more drive to discover what I don't want.  Still, it's vague and seemingly unattainable and in that secret bullshit way already perfect just like it is.  You know the drill.  Still, my faux mustache begged riders (sic) and a different haircut.  The night was hot.  And fun.

Now, it's feet on the ground time.  Or, at least sleep time.

Maybe just not brushing my hair for a while would be better than cutting it.  Really, I don't think about this shit, usually.  Also, I don't usually blog two days in a row or cuss this much (ok, I do that), but I'm in this super lazy ass mood.

What I am going to do right now is request requests.  If you have a certain honey that you want me to write a story about or your annoying boss or co-worker or father-in-law or a certain something you wish would happen or something you like to think celebrities or you should make happen, but you know it never will, leave a message and I'll see if I can't write you a little ditty about it.  Maybe even a poem or song for your honey.  This time's free and all you have to do is send me a little semen or sweat in a bottle.  It's that easy.

So, go for it, because as it is, that's all I have.  La la la.  I mean it.  Seriously.  Bye.

Ok, here's a robot video I'm saving for Snaggletooth (who has long grown out that name).  It really should be performed to one of Queen Kinz's songs.  Pretend.  Pretend.

Plus, request already.

Amazing Robot Dance! - Watch more Funny Videos


Are We High Enough For This Yet?

Fortunately for me and some lucky male and/ or female security personnel, I will be flying over the Thanksgiving holidays.  Unless the new TSA body scans involve a free breast cancer screening as part of the new invasive Obama-care socialist programs, I will be opting out.

I know.  I know.  You think I care about not undoing all of some of the avoiding irradiated food you think I've been doing.  You think I'm standing up for my right to party and not to be violated.  Or, you know me better and you think I haven't been felt up in some time and this all sounds kinda kinky.

I've been squirming to be handcuffed, you know, and what better way to make that happen than to put my new vibrating bullet in me cunt while I recite The New and Improved Texas Pledge™?  If they insist, I can take it out and remove the batteries.  Picky, Picky.  Actually, I've never managed to get tha little sucker past the gatekeeper before I keep it put, but that's neither here not there.  It should be easy enough, getting manhandled by a stranger, right?  I'll just plan to take an extra seven hours to travel, 'cause you know that when they meet resistance, they like to make sure to show you who's in charge.  I told you they're kinky.  I'm looking forward to it.  In fact, I plan on moaning.

In other sweltering news, I shall be drawing a mustache on myself to attend this event this evening.  This will be my first make-up purchase in several years, a black pencil thing, but I see it as an investment.  Oh, I wish I had a vest.  Also, I technically have a week off teaching, though there are only 10,001 -1 related things I need to be doing.  You might expect a post from me sooner than later, but that's really on you if you want to raise your expectations.

Which reminds me.  Regarding politics, I'm apathetic over here.  People aren't going to learn until they learn, and they're not going to learn.  Except me, of course.  Why yesterday, I learned how to remove semen stains (when someone gave me this awesome book).  A little too late (see that there double meaning:  I have four children and I'm going gay for the holidays).  Really, prevention is best here.  Swallow that shit, bag it up, or avoid it all together.  That's what Miss Manners says anyway.  When will we ever learn?   

I'd settle for unlearning even, people. 

Let's find a video, shall we?

Hi I'm Carl from Jack Tew on Vimeo
I'm being video surveilled as we don't not speak.  I'm sure we're all the safer for it, especially me.


Does this Job Make Me Look Fat?

Good morning.  Would you like a donut?  I see you're eating a donut.  Would you like another donut?  I see you don't have a Sausage McMufflin.  Do you need one?  I see you're eating a Sausage McMuffin.  Would you like a donut?  Don't worry.  I ate an apple and there's no doubt that drinking a cup of hot chocolate now is worth not picking back up the coffee (and milk) sauce every day, right?  Can you feel me?  Really, it's easy.  There's more of me to love and I'm slower.

This has been a week.  A week of meeting a very fetching lady, having my two boys be sick, being scoffed at by Dr.'s because there's whooping cough at the school where I teach and I took them to see him/ her (examining/ attending) when they were virtually well again, just to be sure.  I cleaned my van, which may sound like a tidy little chore you do here and there, except it took me an hour and a half or more.  Ten year olds were mocking the (un)cleanliness of my van.  It was bad.

On the second day I kept my sons home just to clear them with a Dr. before sending them back to school, we had a cleaning party and my apartment is feeling pretty nice.  I just have a no man's land closet, and a corner filled with papers from hell mostly from my student teaching last year, but other than that and the closet door that's propped up in my sons' room, it looks great.  Well, there's the ironing pile on the ironing board in the dining room right to the left when you walk in the door, but it's hardly noticeable if you don't look that way.

I've also been cooking this week.  It started with herbal teas and that turned into an apple pie.  And, with apple pie, one must have a dab of vanilla ice cream and then whole mouse cookie scenarios must ensue.  There were all those veggies from the CSA (community supported agriculture farm (thing)) I must cook, lest they be wasted.  Kale, a turkey burger with locally grown lettuce, a couple turnips with butter.  It's all good.  Only the fried and slightly burned eggplant was too much.  I actually threw some away.  Bad fake cop.  No donut for you (only because they're all gone now).

I have a proper date tonight.  Funny how meeting one lady I like made all my bi questioning, fucking around, poly bullshit seem like just that.  Fucking around.  I'm not sure how it'll all go, but I am just glad to have seemingly regained my capacities for unrealistic romantic fancies.  Don't worry.  Romance comedies still disgust me, but my insidious leg shaving has ceased, at least temporarily, as my more dykely ways resurface.  Grrls who dress like boys are hawt and while I like that in the ladiez, it's harder to like that in myself.  Though, The Future President and I had a fairly in-depth conversation about whether or not I am a crossdresser.  Inconclusive, but the magic 8 ball says to check back in a few days.

Well, there were 17.34 more things to say, but being as it is that I've sat on this post right here to this point for three hours now, and have contemplated chucking for a do-over, I'll just post the mother fucker.  I love you or hate you or something.  Best. xoxoxoxoxoxo.  P.S. Call me.  lol,  terrorist fistbump, real disco bump.  Heyyyy, let's do a coming soon list.

Coming Soon and Forcefully...
  • I Licked the Sheriff, But I Did Not Fist the Deputy

That's all.  No wait.  A song. 

Dolly Parton - 9 To 5
Uploaded by jpdc11. - Watch more music videos, in HD!


Typical Quiet Grrrl

Enough of that other mushy stuff.  Enough of not knowing what to say.  Doesn't really matter anyway.  Just matters that I write.  I've been mulling over what sort of extended thing might suit me.  Memoir, novel?  Erotica gone awry definitely needs to happen at some point, but one day last week when my mind was in lala land while I was driving around, I thought about something I heard when I went to see a speaker at UT last month.

That speaker was talking about a writer he had seen speak, Mo Yan, who had written about the history of China in a mocking tone in Life and Death are Wearing me Out.  He was saying that it was hard to pin subversive intent onto him, because the book was written largely through the eyes of reincarnating animals.  I'd love to read it!  It got me thinking anew about perspective in writing.  It got me thinking about the voices I'd feel capable of speaking through.  A child, a mother, a student, a woman, a teacher, a substitute (I think a recent subbing experience was also the culprit in this mental dalliance).  I even feel like I could write from the perspective of a male, especially a teenager, particularly as I begin to situate myself as a seasoned passenger in for the ride as my own boys begin their adolescent reign.

This made me think that writing an adolescent book might interest me.   Maybe I'm not really stunted in still regarding Roald Dahl, Judy Blume, and Jerry Spinelli as my favorite authors.  Maybe, I am well-suited to the genre.  As I have let this idea clink around in my mind, it's started to take root.  I feel so much less daunted by the idea than I do a "grown up" book.  Pretend, humor, simple sarcasm, and absurdity are my strengths.  Would I include sexual aspects?  Maybe basic elements.  Questioning.  Holy fuck, from the perspective of a gay teen.  Huzzah.  Not that I couldn't not not use my own tomboyish ways.  The confusing nature of bisexuality for a teen living it.  Cha ching.

It's in the air I'm sure, and would be written even better by a teen, I imagine, but what about with a little "It Gets Better"  as seen through the other side?  And, do you want to come out at 40? Of course, there are teens that are way more empowered to be who they are sexually than me, but there are many  who I am just like in my own adolescent identity questioning so many years later.  Am I gay? Am I bi?  Why do I like penises one minute, boobs the next?  Where are these blow job parties and can I bring my girlfriend?  See, not too big a stretch.  Plus, drugs, alcohol and eating disorders.  I've done 'em all.

I've got a lot of work to do, and material is gushing into my head right now.  Maybe she'll do Nanoblowme after all (she says again, but in third person this time).

I'll leave you with a video, a song I was listening to yesterday.  Ariane Forster of The Slits died last month.  Most sad.  I just heard this weekend.

Muchos besitos xxxx.


Virtuous Smirtuous

Stunning, striking,
and other words
that conjure violence
as flattery
suit her.
A sharp tongue
and wit that insinuates
pain and survival 
imply a proximal safety 
waiting to go awry.

Misunderstanding the risk, 
my hand imagines
pulling her supple midriff
to my own,
an act
which could only cause 
a clandestine incident
to ensue.
With disheveled hair 
that I could eat 
framing her poignant features, 
irregular smiles as reward 
find my own lips
hungry for a taste.

It's not the normal niceties 
that conjure the sight
of her imperfect teeth, 
but rather my accidental kinks, 
those others find peculiar
or even uncomfortable, 
that bring us closer
to each other,
connect us.

Were it that
it did not end here,
more I could tell you
of love, desire, companionship,
but being in my head
and heart
as it is,
a reality
still not unfurled,
this remains in the ideal,


Touchy Feelie

This past week I've heard smidgens of peoples' stories (one even referred to Personal Best, here.)  They've left me wanting more, and to write about a few things myself...

I recall my mother pulling my brother and me out of school the day she left my dad.  I had just traded school photos with the first friend I made in 2nd grade in Omaha.  I remember leaving that photo in my school box, not realizing I wouldn't see it again.  My mother has told me that I was uncharacteristically happy during the whole overnight drive it took to get us away from my father.  This is no surprise.  I recall the hellishness of wanting to be gone when they fought.  She told me that it was when he started to hit me that she knew she had to leave.  I don't remember any of that.  I learned to become invisible, to be good, to put my deeper needs aside for the sake of safety in a moment.  While I am comfortable in my own skin and oftentimes amongst women, being myself with men is far more difficult for me.

Over the years, I've suspected this might be what being gay is... for me.  I'm attracted to women and men alike and while emotional factors really push me toward women, my physical pull toward having sex with men is not something I've really ever been willing to deny, so I go with bi.  Like every female and male my age, I had major crushes on Kristy McNichol and Jodi Foster when I was a teen.  I'm not sure if I wanted to be like them or to touch their breasts or what, but irregardless, their tomboy appeal definitely resonates with me.

I was a tomboy myself, and how.  Within the first year of moving in with my grandmother in Arkansas, I ended up on the front page of the sports section in Alma, AR in a shot that found me leaving the next runner far behind at an elementary school field day event.  (No news is good new, I suppose.)  I had been made to change schools time and time again through my early school years and running faster than anyone else became my schtick.  I resented people who threatened what became my identity, just ask KT whose kick back broke my leg and delayed my early entry into the Jr. High track scene by a long two months in 6th grade.

The summer after 3rd grade and on through the next seven years my parents sent me to an all girls' camp in East Texas that lasted for five weeks each session.  I was suddenly exposed to all sorts of new experiences I'd never even considered; it was riding horses that moved me the most.  I remember those first moments on a horse quite precisely.  I had never been allowed to do something so thrilling in all my life.  Though I was painfully shy that first year, I wanted to go back the next summer with all my heart.  The horses helped.

Returning home after camp was always difficult; extracting myself from such an ideallic environment was excruciating.  We swam in the lake and shot bows and arrows and rifles even.  We water-skied and sang.  The talent shows performed and war games fought competitively across arbitrary, but lifelong, tribal lines were both fun and intense. Perhaps best of all for me, was temporarily living deep in the lush pine forests of East Texas.  Five weeks just wasn't enough.

My love for the outdoors began when my mother, brother and I lived with my grandmother after we left my dad that day.  Her house in Arkansas was atop a mountain at the base of the Ozarks and I used to pretend I lived in the shallow caves on the back of the mountain behind the neighbor's barn.  I didn't have much concept of property lines at that time, and when my mother got remarried and we moved into a house along horse pastures in Fort Smith, they became my new stomping grounds.

My 5th grade summer after I'd gone to camp, I casually asked my next door neighbors if I could ride their horse sometime.  One or both of them said, "Yes."  I didn't really even mention it to either of them again, but what I did instead was to go find their horse and ride him bareback without any adults knowing about it many many times over the rest of that entire year.  I was 11-12.  That was an exquisite time in my life.  I wandered over those pastures on the back of that horse, holding on for dear life.  At camp we had ridden English-style, so I cantered on that horse for as long as he'd go, just barely staying afloat without reins, stirrups or a saddle, moving in a most pleasant gyrating fashion and scared.

That was the same year my friend and I found a big ol' stack of Hustlers by a tree in one of the fields not far from someone's house.  We looked at those bad boys a good long while before anyone else ever found out.  Conveniently, there were Hustlers for ladies too.  Life was good.  I didn't fall into the icy pond which I'd teeter out on from time to time that winter, the same one that had held fascinating tadpoles the previous spring.

I tried to avoid riding my neighbor's horse near the road, but those Hustlers weren't far from one, so the route had to be taken.  On several occasions, as I was riding my horse (as he was in my mind about then), I was hollered at by men driving by.  That was the year my breasts really growth spurted, the year I started my period, and the year I had a tied-on spaghetti strap shirt come untied on one side on the play ground at school, completely exposing one of my embarrassing breasts.  I was completely mortified.

After I went to camp that next year, I didn't ride my neighbors' horse again.  I became very self-conscious about my body, and no one talked to me about sex or all of the changes that were happening to my body.  There was one period talk aimed at catching girls before they started their periods, but it was too late.  I had already started mine as I was sliding down the laundry chute at my best friends house.  Her father was more helpful to me that day than anyone else, besides Judy Bloom, in helping me to know what was going on with my body.

I had started to make out with boys and made out with my best friend a few times when we spent the night at each others houses.  No one ever called me a slut, which is surprising with the breasts and all, but I was quite tough and athletic and really neurotically awkward at times.  I've never really been a girl who threatens other girls, I don't think.  No one was worried I was gonna steal her boyfriend.  I just wasn't that ambitious.  Or, I was just fine with having the interactions I had with people without having to call them this thing or that.

The guilt I had in those beginnings of sexual pleasure are somehow directly related to an eating disorder I developed shortly after that time.  When GH said I had a good body in 8th grade, he verbalized what I feared, that people were noticing what I was ashamed was going on with my body.  And, as far as other girls went, I just always felt different.  I thought my shoulders were too broad.  I felt awkward in dresses and wore skinny ties and got my hair cut short and spiky after that.  I never knew homosexuality was as an option.  I got hot and heavy with some guys, but the ones who really liked me, I blew off... until high school when drinking and smoking cigarettes acted as a buffer between me and my sexuality, especially as I spent every walking moment of my senior year with my then best, now lesbian friend.  This is, incidentally, the first time in my life that I have been dating (uggh) sober. 

I think this all came up for me when a friend and I went out to an organic farm yesterday.  A little happened between us once, but, in general, things between us have been platonic.  I get easily discouraged if things aren't very mutual and easy, though friendship is.  There is also a man I saw for a bit in the last couple months.  He was easy to be around and we had a really nice time together, but nothing was overly compelling for me, until one evening he and I spent together at his house. 

We had lots of good sex and talked and were sort of wrapped up in our own little world.  A big old ball of feelings I haven't felt in a very long time rose to the surface in me.  It was really quite nice, and I am so glad to be reminded of that, even if the intensity was a little much considering he's not someone I see a future with.  I initiated some texting a bit the next couple days which he responded to, but I didn't want to push things, and figured if he felt the same way he would initiate contact after that, which he did a little, but not to my satisfactions. ?  And, I just let it all peter out.  Or, didn't push the river, maybe.  Grr. Hulk want to push river.  What I learned from my relationship with Mr. Bee is how very much I really don't want to be the only one initiating things.  There are a lot of feelings of rejection that come from that in the long run for me. 

The farm guy that showed my friend and me around was very sexy to me, a sort of reminding me of something I like (in myself, probably).  He was very earthy.  There is something inside me ready for something less fleeting, more serious and involved (with myself, probably, dammit).  I have been feeling a little lonely lately, and while I have many, many fulfilling things going on in my life and I am happy to be alone with myself, even to an extreme at times (I'm jealous of myself).  Maybe, I want more, want to hear more of someone's story than what fits in the space of fleeting social events, without the unhealthinesses that were present in my shacking up marriage, of course.  Closeness.  Fuck.  I'm not putting this shit on my blog.

Well, I'll be back to more objectifying before you know it.

Coming Soon (and Explosively): 
  • 10,001 Ways to Avoid Eye Contact at the Bra Store 
  • How to Worship the Penis Attached to the Man You Barely Know Attached with Handcuffs to Your Bed Frame 
  • Hi, My Name is Not Not Freida; May I Fondle Your Breasts?    
  • Paper or Plastic or Get My Damn Hand off Your Ass?  
  • Do You Consider a Condom a Pocket Protector?  If You're Not Gross, We Can Help.   
  • I Want Your Mumble, Mumble, Mumble
  • You Say Vagina, I Say Vaginæ
(Note to self:  Buy a bed frame.) 

There, now balance has been restored.


So, Do Ya'll Rembember?

Oh my gawd, I'm so jazzed I'm using the word jazzed.  I didn't back out at the last minute from reading at the Bedpost Confessions, and I'm so glad.  It was like a great poetry reading on Viagra™ and, in general, that's what poetry readings usually need a little more of... viagra, right?  Uhh.  I'm even choosing to blog right now rather than watch tv online, but not for long.  Actually, while you weren't looking, I went and sold my soul to the devil and called in to get cable.  I mean, I saw an ad advertising it to cost only five dollars more to have both cable and internets rather than internets only as I have it now.  See, it's already degrading the quality of my blogging.

I am happy to say that the three pieces that I read are pieces I wrote here, here, and here.  I actually think the crowd might be ready for Florence Joe and I'm afraid some new material is on order, as I'm now hooked on Kombucha and reading smut aloud to a crowd.  I'm pretty sure I know to whom I'm going to write my next Love Letter to a French Arthurian Men I Don't Know, even.  Also, I am wondering if more celebrity three-ways might be in order.  Oh, the shame.

I survived working 19 days straight and even busted a move all day today, but tomorrow is a true day off for me.  I'm so excited, I just can't shut up.  Did I mention the latest episode of Weeds has a hot little sex scene?

Well, I'm actually winded over here.  It's past midnight and that means sexy dreams are calling me.  Excitedly enough, I had two good sex dreams last night.  That was after I wrote this quip on a piece of paper right before I fell asleep:
"it seems like a cruel act of reverse psychology for The Powers That Be to tell gays they can't serve in the military or get married."
I mean seriously, there are about a thousand and a half things I would far rather have the right to do than join the military or get married.  I far prefer the idea of boycotting these institutions. but you know, it isn't up to me, now is it, Mr. Smarty Pants.

Did I mention I got up on a stage with confidence with my trapper keeper in me cunt.  Yes, it's lady time.  You have that to look forward to.  Goodnight with the music of the day/ night/ morning.  STFU narrator.

Oops, while I was feelin' around YourBoob, I found this band.  I like how they overlay 10,000 pieces digitally:


Workin' on Whelmed

You'll have more of me than you ever could have hoped for after tomorrow or the day after that or the day after that, especially since working 19 days stright sees me eating like crap with virtually no exercise. I've somewhat goodly, somewhat not goodly been falling asleep super early, so even the last of my teaching prep is going to happen at 5AM in the morning. I can't blog. Nope. Can't. I am hoping to hit whelmed right about this time tomorrow and slide into some days off later in the week.

For now, here is a suitable replacement for me. Did I mention my apartment looks like shit. Of course, there's the laundry. Don't forget the laundry. 5Am is early enough to wash and dry a couple loads before I have to change my adult diaper and drink my metamucil.

Stay classy. That's what I always don't say. Plus, I better push go over here. I've got half a post dying for naught in my saved posts last week. When will I learn beggars can't be choosers? Oh yeah, never.

I think this one might be my favorite, but really, it's impossible to choose...

Go see the rest of the 237486 of these. They are brilliant!


Don't Worry Your Pretty Little Head About Pesky Governnmental Concerns, Dear

Update: "Don't worry your pretty little head, Part 2."

The Seven Deadly Teacher Stamps

I picked this picture while I was watching the movie Seven last evening for the first time... to my great psychological detriment, I'm sure.  I actually fell asleep about halfway through; the remainder just situated itself into my psyche, I imagine— like all those infomercials and episodes of Growing Pains.  Shudder.

I fell asleep sometime before 9PM like I might normally do at midnight when I've stayed up later than I should, but I needed some down time after the kids went to sleep, so Fuck It™. You see, I went back off the coffee sauce on Monday and  there is this deluge of sleep catch up I am dealing with, it seems.  So, all week, I've slept quite well and much, but I am still kinda tired.  Last night I woke up, like a normal person might at 4:30AM with a blessed hour and a half still to sleep, but it was only midnight, so I went back to the other half of my sleep.  This is a very sexy lifestyle.  Time to shift to having dreams about sex instead of having actual sex?  I hope not, but my 12 day in a row marathon work schedule just turned into 19, which might make this work/ sleep thing a way of life, I think.  Shudder.

So, there's my weekend security guard fluffing, my part time teaching job and the one that seems realest of them all, the substitute teaching which I theoretically do on Thursdays and Fridays, but usually blow off because I need the days off.  This past week and now next, I agreed to sub for teachers I know at my children's school.  This post isn't about lust at all, I'm afraid.

Wait, there was super juiciness to report last weekend when I was way too busy to blog.  Sleep deprived was the old sexy, I guess, and Monday found me feeling unwell and hence the circular coffee sauce offageness.  A young gent (I'll call him being three years my junior) and I have seen each other a scant number of times, but there is a very nice rapport that turned extra spicy last weekend.  The thing is, I felt quite swooped up.  I don't know that he doesn't feel the same way, but as a busy week for us both went on, I found feeling so intensely about such matters to be nearly painful.  Pre-occupying, at least.  Pesky lust.  Oh goody, the pic does work.  I'm not sure I want to embrace such suchnesses (though of course, I do).  And, worsely, I feared he may not want to, so displaying them might not be apropos.  He did reply and even thank me (?, but sweet) for sending a couple flirty texts early in the week, but then I went into teenage boy mode and decided that it was his turn to initiate, and... crickets.  sheez.

While, yes, on the one hand, I'm not interested in scenarios in which I do all the initiating (and, duh, he initiated 3 out of 4 of our previous "dates" (sic), but who's counting), I guess the thing to do is just say how I feel.  It's been a comfort to me to give myself a channel for lustful thoughts by allowing myself to aim my lust arrows in other (oh so productive up in the sky) directions when I feel maybe my needs aren't being met in a certain sense by one blah blah... at least in theory.  But, then I think that's probably what he's doing, and oh my gosh, got vague and estupido.  Will.  Send. An.  Email.

Just a sec.  Gotta make the donut round.  (Also, trying to get this out, before I really buckle down here at my other job and get to work on some teaching stuff I'm in a crunch re:.)  Alright, then.

This week in review part:  So, I'm subbing Thursday for a class with 7 special needs students, and I get to my car with three of my own children in tow, ready for school, and my tire is flat.  Almost completely.  I decide I can drive it to the gas station a block from my apartment in hopes of airing it up, but of course, the seal has been broken and it cannot be aired, plus I just ruined the tire, I bet.  This is thirty minutes before the morning assembly starts.  Mr. Bee is Gracious enough to come from his 5-10 minute away place and give us a ride to school (fortunately, I was subbing at my sons' school) and drop The Future President off at her dad's close by from where she was already planning to take a bus, since this was all a little early for her high school's starting later deal.

He's gracious enough to come, but not gracious enough not to not act very put upon.  The store agreed to let me keep my van there for the day and Mr. Bee picked me and the (his too) boys up from school (on his usual pick up day), and because I didn't really want to be asking someone who seemed he would be pouting about helping the whole time to help, I dropped him and the boys off and borrowed his car for the couple hours it took to go buy a small hydraulic jack (finally— my shitty van one bent and collapsed earlier in the summer).  I easily got the tire off, and took it to my favorite east side tire store, took it back, smashed my hand a little (kiss it) and got the tire back on.  I'm dirty and tired, but in good spirits considering and easily let Mr. Bee know I didn't want to quibble about his quibblings.  "Thank you so much for your help," is all I said.  I'll see you on your free tutoring on Sunday evening this week, you grumble grumble.  I'm just happy, I suppose, to receive these little confirmations about my decision to leave and my own inner dykinesses.  I don't need no stinkin' man.  A car, maybe, but... oh well.  Even drama doesn't have to be drama, you know.  I had a school potluck after that, and got pulled over by a cop and got a warning (never happens).  It was a very mixed up, but not awful day, Amelia Bedelia.

The good thing about subbing is that you just show up and you don't have to take it home.  The class I was with Thursday and Friday was fun.  They were a wild pack, but they were fun.  Some of the lesson plans/ assignments the teacher left weren't all there, it seemed, and we did our best and sometimes the children seemed like they were actually learning, so in the afternoon when much of the class is gone out to reading and other support, five children remained in the class.  I had quietly played Tchaikovsky on Thursday while the children read or worked on these stories they were writing, and Friday's Enya prompted a beautiful and serene dancing time that really moved me.

Each morning at the school where I am teaching we do Yoga and sing songs at an opening circle.  There, it was a rare thing to be afforded that space, and yet, if I had to choose, I might say I liked being in that subbing classroom more than I am liking my job.  Maybe it would be the fulltimeness of it, the not feeling like I just got started and then, wham it's over, too soon (with our shortened academic week), or maybe the better theoretical pay.  Or maybe, I don't walk away feeling like I should have done more instead of that we did so much, even if it's not all I'd hoped it would be.  I think I just feel more needed, fulfilled, in the public school setting, even though I am getting some positive feedback from some of the parents re: my own students.

Something similar happened when I moved back to Arkansas for a time after having lived in Austin for five years.  I went back and was the weird one.  The one doing things differently, but in contrast, in Austin, as in my current school, I feel like I come off as the conservative one.  Shudder. 

Well, I'm getting catnappy, and I have thirty thousand things to do here at work.  Grade papers, prepare for student /teacher/ parent/ administrator conferences on Tuesday.  Plus, I've got movies to watch, people.  There are movies to watch, plus let's have a song.

Oh, I've been listening to The Flaming Lips' remake of Dark Side of the Moon a lot lately.  It is stunning.  Plus, as blogging fortune would have it: Wayne Coyne= Lust.  Trust me, I'm a "mathematician."

The Flaming Lips & Stardeath and White Dwarfs//Breathe from MMAFT on Vimeo.

The Flaming Lips - Dark Side of the Moon - Wellmont Theater
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