We Be (Koolaid) Jammin'

Wanting to go somewhere, but only because of the vague sense of dissatisfaction in not so doing?  Perhaps, somewhat futiley?  You know what you can do when you are just working to support yourself working?  You can count the money they are promising to pay you to occupy the space in which you work.  There's that.  And, get paid to apply for other jobs while at work.  Also, donuts.

But, donuts don't make one feel better except for during the fleeting moment when one says, "Yes," to the donut or maybe when one is about to take the first bite out of the donut or so say the two I ate to fill the gaping hole earlier. There's the devilishly handsome young man right there next to me eating cheetos.  He likes it.  And, the 23-25 year old guys who have recently taken to trying to open chats with me on OKC.  Why?  I mean really.  I bothered to tell one, "You are too young for me (translation: either 'You are closer in age to my daughter than to me,' or 'I'm closer in age to your mother than to you')."  <= Some people would back away from that grammatical configuration.  They must sense that I don't.  Also, there's my cougar chest.  The pool at my apartment is helping to speed that along. 

Or, maybe it's a procreative urge.  They sense my slutty, gooey center, and the fact that my eldest offspring is going to be in a high profile fashion magazine that comes out August 1st (holidng the "With" sign in the "Don't Mess With Texas" pic.  BUY IT, DAMNIT).  Doesn't matter if they're tall.  My shorter genes will prevail, though.  They don't realize that what they are seeking is a quest more spirtual in nature.  A quest that, if they choose to accept it, they will surely regret.  So, I just avoid such contact altogether.  They should not reply, "I really prefer older women," because what they don't realize is that that just makes the gooey center even gooier for older mens, even if they are womanizers.  You're a womanizer.  I'm a womanizer.  Womanizer.  Womanizer.  That's what working gets you.  Some of it's good though.

Remembering what it's like to work more than the donut shifts has reawakened my willingness to go home and unwind.  To buy into the 9-5 culture that makes me feel able to clean my house in 1.5 succint hours.  To go to happy hour, even though I am not giong to go to happpy hour.  It just fit.  One over achiever, according to his OKC profile, meessaged me about going to an 80's dance night thing on Sunday nights.  You know, maybe, just maybe, working for the man might find me wanting to go give my money back to him... in 2 weeks time.  He promises he'll pay me then. 

It's just this is what I can do at work.  I should be reading your blogs, but reading personal profiles is even shorter attention span reading.  I do have a coffee date Thursday night with a lady.  That's good.  Just holding that up before me makes me feel virtuous as I hunt down Libra men who will seemingly never give me what I must think they have the potential to offer me.  Sorry Libras.  I have an Aquarius sun, Gemini moon and seek a freaky Uranus 5th house conjunction to make me complete.  Oops, I geeked out on astrology.  A bad sign.  d'oh. 

How 'bout that oil spill?  Crickets.  Speaking of oil spills, I went ahead and procurred a blog for "What Would Martha Stewart Do?" antics.  I'm gonna post Friday's recipe and may even ask Bustednuckles to pass on his sage pancake advice, though it does bring to mind something the universe chose to enlighten me with at the brunch celebrating my graduation.  Mango Pancakes.  Seriously.  Seriously.  When you make your usual pancake mix of choice, simply add a mango that you've sliced (better be fresh, damnit) and a tad of cinnamon and nutmeg, and then just pretend nothing happpened.  I promise you a flavor sensation™ that will make you say, "Hey."

I have some writey things in mind, but have to say that they are much more vague in nature than they were a year ago.  Memoir, poetry.  My ass.  Do I care?  Am I scared that all I will ever write again are lesson plans?  That I'm a has been and being featured on The Writing on the Wal is the pinnacle of my writing fame?  It's okay, now I just get off on procuring blog domain urls.  Even if I don't do anything with them.  It's ok as long as no one else can.  Not that that would stop a person (like me). 

Ooh, I just helped someone unload a trunkful of good and bad snax mixed for the employees who are working round the clock to meet imaginary quarterly deadlines.  Tostitos, tiny muffins, Koolaid Jammers and Jalapenos, apparently, fuel the masses.  But, you knew that.  Didn't you?


Your Toilet Paper is Not Safe with Me

Dear Internetsy-  None of that there this is why I'm writing fluff today.  Don't ask. Don't tell.  All the things swimming around in my big fishbowl; A Job, The Paperwork™, Money, Avoiding Communicating, What Not to Not Wear, Feeding the Masses names a few.  If I were inclined to write a classic eight paragraph essay, there would be my thesis statement and consequently my outline.  How's that for convenient, Miss Manners?  Fuck.

Don't compare.  Don't Compare.  Beware.  Prepare. Care. Bear. Hair.  There's a nice ring to that.  I have not given myself permission to sink my feet into this, my summer vacation, it seems.  Each day that I am not working or not hired, I have time to do the oodles of things that I have been waiting to do.  Plus, my house is clean or actually thoroughly cleanable in two hour's time.  We put that one to the test yesterday and actually had company over and we swam and cooked dinner.  Fun.  The kids of the mom I was schmoozin' with loved my food inordinately, and it was only spaghetti with little turkey meatballs and whole wheat linguine.  I did my trademark maneuver- "which of this assortment of veggies do you want most?" that kids can't resist, and young little cutie was lamenting that there was no more broccoli left.  I was subconsciously insisting my Baby Bees take note.  Though they are good eaters.  Oops, went out of order.  This is the Feed the Masses paragraph after all, or Money.  Whichever.  How do you spell Blighmey?

It's just, "I'm hungry," cosntantly and I kid you not, Snaggletooth has literally uttered: 1) "I'm hungry," while eating and 2) "I'm hungry," as he puts his plate with food still left on it in the fridge (the drill). (wait.  coffee.)  But, despite these best attempts to starve him, he's growing like a weed.  Two of my children have an unusually tall grandparent, and he's the one I'm thinking is gonna shoot up and beat us all.  My baby.  

The Lip Model is lamenting my genes today since she was honest to god scouted by some hip model folks (the ones referred to here and here) Despite her being 5'5" and their being willing to stretch that to 5'6" or 5'7" and knowing she's too short, they wanted to meet with us and took some pictures and want to work with her still, but I feel bad, because she is the kind of gorgeous people have always said is about all that and she's identity invested in the idea of modeling and she has a rare and great opportunity to have the right folks notice, but she is too short for the big stuff.  And, and.  Some of that's just as well.  With uncanny talents in singing and art, I'd just as soon see her do more to achieve recognition, but there is a chance she can work in that field on a smaller (Dallas) scale or that she will be able to let go of "what ifs" and make mashed potatoes.  If that's not the universe dropping down and sayin', "Hey, look," I don't know what it.  Now, go fix the oil spill, damnit.  Worry not random chaos still prevails.

I was just going to say that the universe never comes in and makes things that visible to me, but there are two flaws in that argument besides the fact that I'm not arguing (or am I?), which are: 1)  All this is not to say these things are clear to The Lip Model and 2) Am I not the one who wrote the long missive to kilt boy telling him I lied, telling him following my heart meant not seeing him anymore only to have my internet connection slip between writing that and pushing send and then the next morning waking to a text that said, "I want to see you."  People don't usually say that to me.  It's that damn ninja psychology.  I've had little to no contact, trying to figure out the deal, and that's what appealing, America?  Figures.

Well, I had to go make eggs in the interim (between that paragraph and this).  Things are lean until I get paid Monday.  I subbed for two weeks after my student teaching and do not get paid for that until June 30 and my last two paychecks straddles the weekend I took off work to graduate.  This is going to be a toilet paper stealin' kinda day.  My Baby Bees will be with their dads as I embark upon my impending nine days of work straight as I look to sub for my boss the whole next week.  I'll probably iron my security guard shirt consequently, though I might be hand washing it until I can get my paycheck cashed.  I figure I have just enough gas money to make it there and back three times and I have two bags of beans and a bunch of herbs and veggies I've harvested from gardens I've been watering, plus pancake mix and cornbread makings.  Maybe all that time at work will find me online submitting the excessive number of applications online that it will apparently take to get a job.  I'm in a year lease though December, but the fall may find me commuting to podunkville until I can move there in the fall.  Might be nice, though that's just the limited amount of milk in my coffee talking.  I love how close to everything I'm living right now, and this whole pool that I just get to step out into thing is pretty cool.  A couple kids we know came over to our apartment after we'll lived here a bit, and the younger said,"Hey, I didn't know you moved into a hotel."  It's like that ya'll.

In other on-the-seat-of-your-pants-news, I made the best stew ever.  Seriously, it was.  It was a beef stew.  Since PE agrees with me that "What Would Martha Stewart Do?"™ is a good question, such a good one, I want credit whenceforthwithily.  Maybe a new tagline.  I did google it once, as Martha Stewart would, and it's mine all mine.  Well, she would, undoubtedly make a video of herself making it, and that may be my future ya'll, installments of "What would Martha Stweart Do?"  Post a recipe is the next best thing.
Freida's Cheap and Easy Beef Stew
Firstly, the ingredients:
  • Stew Meat (Cut up beef chunks.  I got it 'cause it was the cheapest. However much you want, yo.  Mine was $2.71 worth.)  
  • A Slew of Potatoes (I probably used 4 medium sized, of mixed variety is my fav.)
  • Can of Diced Tomatoes (A garlic seasoned one is even better)
  • Half a Bag of Frozen Corn
  • A Can of Black Beans (Trust me on this one.  It's the accident that made it brilliant)
  • Half an Onion (Slices not dices.)
  • Three Cloves of Garlic (Diced or sliced.  Go crazy.)
  • A Bay Leaf
  • Paprika
  • Cumin
  • Dill
  • Salt
  • Oil or Margarine (Can't remember-either way.  Margarine is probably yummier.  Actually, butter is probably yummier, but margarine is 79 cents for four rectangular prisms.)
I started half of a pot of water to boil with the potatoes cut up in it while I sautéed the meat.  Don't you dare peel those potatoes.  Let's say you use margarine, Use that and think about lightly browning the meat.  While you are doing that, add salt to both and an ample amount of dill, paprika, and cumin to the meat.  It's a little coated, browning nicely, and now you're thinking what a waste it is to have those herbs stuck to the pan a little, so you put the can of diced tomatoes in with the meat and warm it a bit.  While that is happening, put the half bag of corn in the pot of water and potatoes, then go to your cupboard and put that can of black beans that's been sitting there for a while, juice and all into the big pot.  If it's other beans you've been hoarding, use those, but black beans are always the best forever and ever amen.  (If you have a can of coconut milk sitting on the shelf like I know you do, you could add half of it, too if yer kinky.)  Add the meat and tomato mixture to the potato and corn mixture and then add add the onion and garlic.  Fill that pan as high as you can, set it on low and put it on low and go swim with your 7 year-old while the 11 year-old makes sure the house doesn't burn down, and voila, when you return, the soup it shall be ready and it shall be good and yummy.

Well, now, we have been invited over to afore mentioned friend that visited yesterday's and The Lip Model needs a ride to that big photo shoot after all to be an extra.  These things throw a monkey wrench into my gas money plot, but I'll go do the day.  Plus, I'm tired of being ridiculed for asserting that my writing my beef stew recipe on my blog is a private matter when, in fact, it's just The Genius's way of bullying his turn on the computer.  Peach pancakes and more and more coffee had, as noon approaches, I shall open blinds and face the day's mission to acquire more toilet paper.


People in Top Hats Could Solve the Oil Spill Crisis

This picture doesn't really have much to do with anything right now, except I kinda wish I were in it.  They seem to be doing something important.  That's what a top hat says.

That was the start of a post I wrote yesterday, and then just erased for its shamefully pathetic content.  I should have posted it, though, to present the contrast in my sanity after attending my women's group where I can say this smut for reals to real people, 'cause... ya'll are too good to be true.  I promise, I don't really prefer the meat world.  I just pretend I do so I can keep my job, so I can blog.  "Circle of Life."-- as a wise cop just told me.  Seriously.

Without Mr. Bee to complain about and without school to complain about, all I really have to complain about is that I'm not wearing a top hat and mustache.  My lovely dog of 13 years, who was 15 years old, died shortly after we moved into our apt, and then my beloved Applesauce ran for the hills or under a car or somewheres where we can't find her, so on the first day of the summer vacay, my baby bees and I went and adopted the cutest kittens from hell ever.  After a few name sets, Cosmo and people name Chloe were settled upon by The Future President who is, appropriately, our best decider.  Speaking of which, how's about that oil spill....


You know, I generally consider myself more a Macguyver of tostadas, but seriously, if you were paying my ass to be down in the gulf with any resource in the world at my disposal, I think I might be able to figure this shit out.  Hurry, someone make that shit a reality tv show and get some peeps on it, dude.  Loolly lolly.  At least Kevin Costner tried.  Maybe if we melt a bunch of humvees, we can cap it.  Go make a big air bubble around pipe channeling the oil out a hole all the while and and melt the humvees on and weld a cap on there.  You're welcome.  And, that's just one of the many things I can pull out of my ass at a moment's notice.  Those execs should be checking YouTube; the solution has probably already been posted.  What would Martha Stewart do?

Well, now I feel a little bad about the environment and that we're all gonna die soon, but I'm going to go swim with the baby bees in our apartment pool.  Unfortunately for you I only started reblogging after they transformed it from its temporary cesspool status.  That shit was nasty, but I saw them drain it with my very own eyes, and it's back better than ever, so I didn't actually ever call the Health Department.

This is all the blogging I can mustard for today.  I'm going to go wear a top hat and lounge around the pool, so I can work off some of that there sprouted grain bread french toast, kinda like little Cosmo here is doing as I type this.


FFF #34: Father's Day Tribute

I owe my right nut to FFF for taking me back, even if they don't know it or don't really claim to have standards that big or anything.  Still, maybe my left nut, too.  It's already FFF #34.  The last one I posted in was #17.  That's half of FFF's I've missed, which is to say I've been a bad father, missing half of my bastard god child's life.  Well, it's never to late to change that.  This all makes this really rather appropos since it's Father's Day and let's bend the numbers just enough to say that the last time (first since I was 7) I saw my own biological father was sometime in the vicinity of age 17 and when I was somewheres around the age of 34 I found him after several more years to tell him he had four grandchildren and they were cute and he said oh cool.  Keep in touch.  Then.  Nothing.  I appreciate the fathers I have in my life today.  Just, not that one, unless staying gone is a virtue, and surely this might be one of those cases.  I have a step-father who is the person I consider my father, and he's helped me a great deal, but for whatever reason the whole thing makes me feel even sadder about it all.  He does and he doesn't consider me his child.  In some ways I was and in some ways I never could be.  I was already too screwed up and traumatized by the time I met him to get anywhere close to a father, and I've seen, guys not wanting to step into a role they feel is not theirs to step into.  That's understandable, and even downright respectful, I'm sure, but there are occasions when it is fully approriate and I am fortunate for the two men who help me raise my children, because both have stepped in to take on responsibilities that were not theirs to take on, simply because no one else had, even is as is the case with my step father, it's not perfect.  He's an alcoholic with a "real" son, my brother, who is near daily in life or death situations with drugs, having overdosed and survived several times, miraculously pulling through when we all want to shake the baby and wake him up to what it is doing to him and my parents, especially my dad.  At least for today he is in rehab and safe and sounding happy.  I just graduated from college, and even though I should have started a few new paragraphs by now, I know were it not for my dad's financial assistance in my last semester that I would have been trapped in my dying marriage in a way that very well would have sabotaged my well-being enough for me to possibly not have made it through.  Thankfully, he doesn't read my blog.  Thankfully, neither of the ex-Mr. Bees read my blog either, and up to now none of this had to do for shit with FFF, but I am a writer damnit and I shall pull feathers out of my ass now and dedicate this FFF to them.  The challenge is to use sculpture, culture, cult, and cohesive in a fictional piece. This is supposed to be hard.  This is supposed to be gruelling, damnit, but I aim to make it even harder, even more grueling, damnit.  I shall even use these words in the SAME ORDER.  I know.  It's an homage the one thing my birth father did give me, damnit.  BALLS.

Why Big Balls?- by Spencer Travis 
Sometimes people ask me that, so I often tell them about this life-changing experience I had back in 1990: 
   "How long are these fags gonna stare at me like this?" I thought as I tried to peer around the room with my eyes, which is all I felt I could move, besides my sphinter to keep from farting, nude, in front of this room of artists, or pardon me, sculptors.  I was being sculpted, and it was oddly arousing to see men kneading the clay that would be my balls and my dick.  I could hardly wait to see what they produced, but even more pressing a matter was doing my darnedest not to get a boner.  It was getting harder and harder.  I could see Tom's sculpture, in the periphery of my right hand view, giving me due justice, but the one directly in front of me was starting to make me nervous.  I couldn't see the genitals on that one, but I did know that each scuptor had the same amount of clay to work with, and from the looks of my head on that one, he wasn't reserving enough materials for the rest. 
     There were a few women in the group, but fortunately, the ones I could lay my eyes upon were the sort of granola hippy girls that didn't even shave their legs, and probably didn't shave under their arms, kinda like I would have imagined girls from that counter-culture Moonies cult to be, so there was no danger of arousal there... on my part.  There was a chance there were hot chicks behind me, because I heard two women come in late speaking to each other, but I couldn't turn my head at that point to check them out.  The urge I had to get a cohesive look at the works being fashioned after my likeness and the people fashioning them was overwhelming.  I decided right then and there that if I ever became an art teacher, which was pretty much impossible since I was an Econ major (but I was good at drawing),  I would require anyone observing a nude model to him or herself be nude, as well.  
     I think Tom and that experience really influenced where I am at today.
(Spencer Travis now lives in Sunny California with his partner Tom and their three children where they own the multi-million dollar clothing-optional living facility and resort, La Bolas Grandes.)


For a Limited Time...

The next person who follows my blog will be in the 69th position.

Not a bad place to be.

Pent Up Much?

Dearest Blog-  You know I'm not going to come back here and grovel.  I'm gonna let this guy do it for me.  Keep it up.  Keep it up.   You know I'm just gonna come back here whenever the fuck I want.  Seein' as I finally found some Chubby Hubby at the South Congress HEB, I guess I can't deny, it's a sign.  I figure I've neglected you long enough that everyone else left, bloggypoo.  Not that I don't like for others to come watch us, but you know the drill.  One day at a time, Sweet Jesus.  I just wasn't feeling it while I was putting out for the man without all the Pretty Woman perks.  But, now I'm all graduated and just one of many in the blow job pool.  Plus, I got a phat new bed as a graduation present from my mom.  Thanks, Mom.  I know you were really trying to be supportive ("get my back" and other mattress sales euphemisms) of my being a lesbian now.  Sorry.

You know I'm not one to go kissing and telling (shhh), but I got myself a little some some angst to blog about, so here I am, a fair-weathered friend.  I have seen that not all of you removed me from your readers.  Thanks.  As of Friday I officially went on my first date since I was like 16.  My first date ever was when I was sixteen and he was a cute geeky boy who took me to go see Peewee's Big Adventure.  I know.  I know.  I'm just talking the same shit I talk all the time, even after all this time, but when that's one of the only dates you've ever gone on and it's so badass, you're gonna relive that shit.  Wholesome.  That's what that dating shit is.  Plus, I didn't have money to go see a movie and this sweet freaky guy who even wore a kilt took me to see Get Him to the Greek, I think it was called.  Cute.

Not sure about that guy though, 'cause I originally went back over to OKCupid to meet teh ladiez, and there is a hot milfy lass I've been crushin' hard on (not there, but in meatsy), but she's in the same situation I just left, and not that I mind, I just know where she's at and it's probably not goin' anywheres anytime soon.  Also, a kilt schtick is a lot to live up to, wouldn't you say, but is this blog only to talk about my sexual antics, or (formerly my) lack therein?  I know.

I've been doing a blog in my real name with teaching stuff like lesson plans and shit on it, and started a ning for future students and reserved a few spots around and about where I could have my students blog, but what I've really got to go do on the job front  is write and rewrite my teaching philosophy over and over again as I repost my inpertinent employment history and upload cover letters one after another, which only vary by which HR dept they are addressed to, all the while avoiding runon sentences. Not.  I go back and forth about emphasizing that I want to be a garden club sponsor somewhere and help students organize community gardens, 'cause they prolly don't want the drama of someone motivated to change shit and shit, just someone motivated to teach math.  So, I am inclined to want leave all that shit out, but then maybe, just maybe I can be selective and teach somewhere where I can do the things I want to do.  Having 5 of 7 middle school math positions be filled in the past week in the district with nary an interview says differently, though.  Maybe I tested "psychiotic" in the Teacher Insight questionaire (which is way worse than mere psychotic and less convenient than psychic.  The math whisperer?).  Maybe, they want kiss asses who say they've never broken the rules.  Maybe the finer nuances of my preferring not to state I enjoy making decisions for others can't live in symbiosis with my ability to do so in necessary and appropriate situations, and so I appear inconsistent to those who are allowed to see the results of my scientilogical questionnaire.  Or, maybe, they're hiring the teachers with experience first and I'll be fighting off the succubuses off any second now.  One can only hope.

So, you only know me in the realm of Mr. Bee and me with the one lovely daliant exception (hope you don't mind being called that, love- come visit so I can call you something sweeter, like slut or dinner ), but my re-re-re-re-re-relaimed virginity is lost.  Not by señor kilt, however, though he is kinky in some ways I need to explore for shizzels, but by another sweet lad in a manner that happened rather randomly, kinda Flo Joe-style, but without the booze and the shame.  What is this thing you call sexual freedom?  The world seems a different place to me since I got shacked up married 11ish years ago.  For one thing I don't have liquor to make it slicker.  Why did I avoid a call from kilt-boy who promises to tie me up sweet and proper like (after he bit my neck just right), because I was gonna do some straight on shaggin?  It was yumm.  No one owns me, nor does anyone want to own me.  Anyway, I already blew the dowry on infinite amounts of cereal for the beehive.  I can sleep with guys and then sleep with grrls and ain't no one gonna come steal my bi card, but I kinda wish someone would try, really hard, topless, naked  and in the mud..., but I digress.

Am I socialised heterosexually or is it shear volume or am I gonna have to live in gray zones (ding ding ding)?  I can list myself on OKC as gay for three months with two or three messages, and then list myself as bi and have (mostly kinda creepy) guys beating down the door.  The path of least resistance to getting laid is certainly appealing.  I'm liking being sated on the exclusive thing.  I like that I can date both a guy and a grrl now.  I can return to my in-recent-years-idealized state of having a few fucking friends and live my life as my own.  Ok, that's what I just needed to type.  So simple and true.  I was doing more of a serial monogamy thing in the past, though, and ending things more frequently, but I like the idea of folks who are poly or seeing other people (especially if they don't really put labels on it, but are just doing that), 'cause the last thing in the world I want is to be any one person's everything right now.  But when I had cute kilty guy who's not blow my socks off cute, but gonna dom my sub shit just right wanting to come over, I lied.  Said I needed to sleep-- which I did need, but didn't do.  What kind of weakass shit is that?  He wants to meat up (hmm, oops) tonight now, and I just don't know.  When we talked about monogamy 'cause we did when we were super early in a movie line (uggh), he said he is into it, and then I said I wasn't sure, but look here already.  Maybe, I just need to say the truth and suck who I want and buy a vat of condoms and let this cute kinky guy, who certainly is in no positon to be requiring loyalty of me yet, bite me.  Either way, it's a win win .  Just trying to sort this out and this is where messy goes, right?  I don't want that shit in my head, and like hells I'm gonna bring this to my women's kinda like a coming out, but psychotherapy group.  Shit, that's what I'm supposed to do.  No.  "My bi card!!

It's not that I don't have the means to satisfy myself.  It's just that I now have this super fine bed to offer.  Things sure are easier when you just watch online tv shows 24-7; Shameless is what I am now recommending.  (Seriously, drop this shit and go watch it on Cast -tv.)  I don't want to be a whiny bitch.  I'm ok with being a bitchy bitch, but not a whiny bitch.  But, I am.  Therefore, I blog.  I missed you.  Truly, I did.  I just needed some space, and now it's me here with the crickets.  Chirp chirp meow

Coming soon...
"The Further Misadventures of Florence Joe in 'The Cavity Search'"
"A Barrell o' Monkeys Got in Me Cunt, and Now I Can't Shake Me British Accent"
"Debbie Downer Goes Down on Dallas on Downers"
"I Harnessed Punk Rockery in a Little Blue Pill and All I Got to Show For it is this Lousy Tattered Sleeveless Tee™"
"My MILF Boobs Go on a White Water Rafting Expedition And Wake Up Being Fondled by Sleestaks"
"Freida Transitions into Frederica, but Changes Her Mind Back and Forth and Back and Forth, Ultimately Leaving Frederica Holding the Snipe Bag Whilst Wearing a Strap-On.  What a Cunt."
and finally, the one we've all been waiting for...
"Freida and Frederica Mud Wrestle to The Death of a Latex Salesman on vinyl"