A Minimalist Onslaught

There was another poem and another, but one went where poems in little notepads go to die and the other one sits in my head, tiny.
Why Name It?

Today, I'm not oppressed, maligned, or
Screwed, good (well) or bad(ly), hardly.

With no impending prospects,
Some of the dread seems lighter.

Let go; find your way by losing control.
Better you than me.  

This is all shit, nonetheless.

What sort of muse is relative leisure, serenity?
The kind that treats you nicely, asks for nothing.

And so, we give her all we have,
Which really is not much,
Because she says it is enough.
We are satisfied in not struggling.

It doesn't make for a great poem.  


All This Needs Is A Title

Dear Diarreahblogipus-- It's been 40 winks (x3 or so) since we last spoke. Well, since you last listened. I'm light as a bigass board, stiff as a feather over here after using my math degree to its potential, and by using my math degree (BA mind you, so no wonder) I mean I'm sore as shit from cleaning a house yesterday.  Theoretically, that shit pays quite well.

Were it just cleaning I had done, I don't think I would be this sore, but after I cleaned for 8 hours doing what I was paid about 5 hours of sweet houselcleaning pay to do, I agreed to mow and weedeat these folks' yard.  Talk about suck.  I am fireant-bitten, stiff, and have Easy-Off coursing through my veins via a cut on my finger.  Serves me right for using the shit.

I left the spotless house 11 hours after I got there, $100 richer.  Considering I'm typing this from the confines of an employee breakroom where I am full from donuts a co-worker brought in, being paid more per hour to write this...  wait, need 2 minute catnap to recoup from the sugar and the tiredness. 

Ok, that was more like 12 with my neck snapping me awake every 30 seconds.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, this is a better deal.  I am good at cleaning, though.  Growing up with an OCD mom with the neatness variety makes me willing to wash every baseboard in the house, every already glossy white door, every downstairs window ("Open the window get inside, this time."  "Yes, Ma'am.")  I brought a lunch, but the couple is from India and the lady of the house feeds me delicious bowls of grains and little sweet cashew cakes and sprites and, in the end, I let my chicken tamales and avocado (already cut up, dang) sit out too long without eating them, even with an icepack, so by the end of it all, I was jonesing for protein; the vegetarian variety would have been fine, too, but that bit of homemade curd I ate with the hot cardamon rice just wasn't enough.  By 8:30 PM, I was exhausted, sore, and dizzy.  A banana I forgot I had got me through 'til the Popeye's Chicken I got at almost 10PM was able to soak in a bit.  I walked M-TH with my neighbor this past week, and worked my ass off at that house, starting to full-on sweat by 10AM on though, so I figured I could handle fried chicken.  At least I got green beans with my two-piece and biscuit.  "Ok, I'll take a rootbeer, since it's free." 

My blood sugar was not happy with me yesterday, and I awoke from sleep four hours before I was supposed to go to work today, just two after I fell asleep, with a moderate anxiety attach from pesky paranoia that Easy-Off going into a cut means there is Easy-Off in the blood and thoughts of blood thinning and  anyeurisms bleeding had me freaking on the side, while my rational mind knew I was simply triggered in my own brand of OCD, a poisoning phobia.  I've been able to stave them off, in the rare instances I've had them in recent years, by simply noticing, "Wow, that's a trigger for me," then breathing calmly.  In the dead of the worst of it a couple years ago, I picked up a homeopathic remedy that did a good job last night.  I had the back-up plan of calling a nurse at the er for her to reassure me that I was in no danger, which I know was the case, but I would think, "I bet it's possible that folks have had anyeurisms or other unexplained deaths that were caused like that, and no one ever figures that out."  Can you say "sicko?"  I never had to call the nurse, though.  I had even bought Ms. Meyer's all natural cleaning liquid and a host of other cleaning accoutrement, but her Scrubbing Bubbles just sizzled up so nicely on the not-already-white-by-any-stretch-of-the-imagination shower.  Uggh.

This is not a good segue to get onto sexier news by any means, and I don't have any sexier new if one means sex, but I did have one lovely OKCupid meeting this week which was great.  I've been too busy to blog this week, because not only do I have to share the computer with the Baby Bees, and it's the past of least resistance just to cook and clean, but also after my morning walks, I've been pampering myself each day with these showers and lotions, and all sorts of self-care that was much more sporadic in the past.  By the time the boys wake up, they're hungry and this week I solved that by baking.  Banana bread, blackberries and biscuits (like my grandma's), blueberry muffins (replete with crumb topping that an online recipe that reported made each muffin contain 338 calories).  Yikes!  But, I just walked....

That one OKC meeting was the sexiest of them all, a couple.  And, they were hot.  Actually, quite funnily, I actually knew the woman from about 15 years ago, and she's awesome.  Anyway, there will be a dinner or a hike we are saying, so I'm sure I'll share the scoop, unless I don't and/ or I mention this here blog, though that'll get 'em running screaming probably.  I am blogging early today, because I am going to do getting-a-teaching-job sorts of things which entails more apps and fixing up a website that is supposed to showcase my teaching shit.  Right now, it's pretty bare bones.

Hopefully, I'll be so productive I'll have my FFF shit together for tomorrow.  This blog is just my online voyeuristic diary if I don't write something else.  Here's a video.  I don't know which one yet, let's see....  Oh yeah, someone lovely showed this lovely video to me recently.

Learning How to Use the Sauna

I either need a trip to the sauna or to move to The Netherlands.  Maybe, some of my job apps will be there... workin' at a sauna.


If You're Weak, Cover Your Eyes

I'd like to dedicate this post to my dear friend, David Hasselhof. He's been with me through good times and bad, thick and thin.  It's his birthday today and he capped the leaking oil well, so give him some big kudos.  He's 26 again, of course.  Don't question it, damnit.  And, OKCupid says I'm -11.5% giving. I had this big week. In some ways good, and in some ways bad and then the blogging dies, but it's trying here, with this wimper.

I wrote that up there yesterday, but then David and I went on a bender.  Believe you me, the result is not pretty.  Seriously, I'm not joking around about my sobriety/ dryness (not vaginally speaking, of course).  It was really all David.  He's the one that got all drunk, but when he's drunk, you can take advantage of him quite easily.  I bet you wouldn't have guessed that.

So, here we are the day after David Hasselhoff's birthday, 1 ADHD I believe it is in Latin.  fugures.  This week in history, Snaggletooth had his 8th birthday.  Great fun was had by all, especially me, and apparently by the friend of his who uttered, "This is the best birthday party ever."  He was referring to our GattiTown Pizza exploits which felt less consumeristic than in the past.  I mean bumper cars are wholesome and we didn't stick around for the buyer's remorse to kick in for the kids who blew their tokens on credit card wads really quickly.  That's when things get really ugly.  I only had to stop candy stealing dead in its tracks once.  Why a candy machine  at an already overindulgent megalopolopolis, people?  The photo booth, the bowly bits, the dropping to your 7-foot death on a mini-ride they have now.  All good. 

The other thing that kept me away besides my, Lindsay's and David's restrictive ankle bracelets (I better watch it, I hear Keifer Sutherland and Charlie Sheen have heard about scoring at my blog, here) is
 that I had a heck of a case of swimmer's ear.  It weren't the swimming that done me in, though.  It was the baths.  I love baths, and it's not the same if you can't get your ear in.  What am I supposed to do?  Despite my penchant for neglecting to go to the doctor, I went.  I don't have insurance mind you, so I really wrangled over the matter exhaustively at first, for a few days at second, only to walk away with a wee bit o' socialized medicine and may not have to pay for a trip to the er after all.  I'm in that limbo spot.  My student health benefits are expired, and as you may well know, I am seeking full-time teaching employment.  I even put in my resume that I won't get on OKC or blog until my planning period.  I don't know why I haven't gotten any calls.

What else? What else? I have seen my neighbor lady/ friend a couple times since we last spoke.  She's very nice.  We met online, are only nine days apart in age and her birthday is the same as The Lip Model's.  Small world.  Don't we know it.  I am greedy, however.  There was what turned into IM sex in cougar mode last night.  I completely pass on the too young fellows who I now ask, "Why?"  On occasion, I even break out of ignoring them mode to say you're too young for me.  27, too young still, but this Dr. fellow was 33 and sheez.  I feel so dirty.  Otherwise, though, there is a lovely fellow a few years my senior that I'm kinda liking by message and feeling guilty for the bi-ness again.  This is all an experiment in seeing how I do with holding more than one relationship at a time, though none of this is that at this point.  Just dallying, unless it's not.  How am I supposed to know.  I went to buy "The Ethical Slut " the other day at Half-Price Books, but all the other sluts must have bought them out.  I think I've got the slut thing going on alright (with my only one sex encounter, so mostly slutty is in theory, but not necessarily ethical, even in that realm).  I think it will be good for me to let myself get wrapped up in work in the fall.  I'll let them know that in interviews, that my sluttiness is on their shoulders, not mine.  Idle hands.  Look, something shiny.  I feel like eating my lunch here at work and it is merely 11:12.  Live blog, live blog, whatcha gonna do?

Whatcha gonna do when I go put that food in the microwave and pee?  Catchy.  Not catching.  Catchy.  I quit coffee again this week, yo.  It was my right ear hurting and I kept thinking superstitiously that if I 'heard' what I needed to hear, it would go away, and coffee is my only vice, except you, and I'm not giving you up, so coffee has given way to detox tea, and I'm gonna make me some.

Ok, now I am eating a lovely salad with croutons I made out of sprouted grain bread, but now that moment has passed and there is this faux chinese take-out box of goodness.  I wouldn't say I'm bored, but maybe.  It's the restless/ discontent thing.  This evening I'm going to an AA meeting with a friend though.  That should be good.  The friend I'm going with went and saw Bill Moyers's son speak last night, and I'm sorry I said tonight, but maybe there'll be something else good for me tonight.  This is the lady I was seeing when I started seeing Mr. Bee.  She and I were friends kinda, then dated, then she was super pissed 'cause I dumped her for Mr. Bee and she acted like an ass.  I didn't dump her per se, but kissed him and they cockfought or some shit to make me choose and I picked Mr. Bee and that's what I'd rather not be having to do.  I've had one revelation about that.  Probably one that most 14 year old girls know.  When you have sex with someone, you feel very bonded to them, and so if you delay the having sex, then you can get to know that person and get an idea of whether or not you want to bond your juicy bits or not.  I know.  I know.  Your neice already told you this, but she didn't tell me, and even if she had, I wouldn't have believed her.  So, Dr. O, phone sexer, wants to see me, or said he did, but maybe he's feeling the same as me that last night should remain an isolated event.  I'm hoping.  If only there were a way to make money having one-night stands.  Maybe that would make them seem ok to me, productive, whether they are real, imaginary, or projected, no matter.  If only....

So, I've go the Madonna-whore complex all screwed up over here where I'm gonna have sex with the people I don't necesarily want to keep seeing and go real slow with the people I like, of which there are currently two, but one is still mainly in theory, so there's really only one.  The neighbor.  Oh, and I'm going to go to coffee with a french fellow later in the week, a third.  An engineer.  Just in case my grandmother is reading my blog, I'm including vocations.  Anyway, the ex gf went off and got sober and I've been being supportive on Facebook and then she was moving to Austin, and I said, "If you ever want to go to a meeting...," and she called and we're going to one tonight.  I already made amends to her, but don't expect any are due to me, except that she was a lushy lush, but then so was I then, so we're even, I'd say in the world of imaginary endebtedness.  Still, I dont' think I'll be getting any.  Remember, I've got these teenage boy hormones to contend with and no booze or coffee to supress any of it.  Plus, my mind, it is a filthy.  Like yours.

Watched Broken Embraces.  20.4 stars, I give it. That shit is stunning and funny and there's Penelope Cruz boob action for those of you who say you hate subtitles, which I know is none of you.  

Well, I'm terribly sleepy at work and I've got hairstyles to go think up for my Barbies.

Toodles,  F 


Fierce, But Fluffy Care Bear Stares Into My Heart

If I were more scientific, I would be studying this all.  All of it.  Lindsay in jail and in rehab, the part of the brain that alights as one clicks on google searches re: celebrity fashions whilst women are stoned for not getting stoned for cheating on cheating husbands.  It might explain the distractive track that turns blogging at 6:30 AM before my babies get here for the day into a hurried jaunt pouring over random porn stints.  If I decide to make a porn, give me tough love, please.  Ambiguous.  Leave it that way.

What makes someone message someone who writes on a dating site who professes to be bitchy and deep and says if you message me, I won't think I"m better than you anymore.  What possesses me to put that there, even if it's true. People think I'm joking.  Push.  Pull.  Push.  Pull.  I hate that this is now the blog where I account "dating."  It's not, I swear.  I'm not, I swear.

So, after the two guys and R in previous weeks, this shit is getting easier.  I met one lady to walk and one for coffee that wasn't coffee, but a shared meal.  Both were nice and the latter lives fucking 3 blocks away from me.  Huh.  I probably should have just taken a walk through my neighborhood.  (Insert webcam shot of doing dishes/ taking out trash interlude.)  Mr. Bee's still not here and there will be other friends arriving to play with the baby bees, so there is my level of availability ya'll.  The lady from yesterday's shared dinner just messaged me.  What did she say?  Did she say, don't write about me in your blog?  Shhhh.

Ooh, she gave me her addy and said to stop by.  Hmmm.  My childrens will actually be with Mr. Bee again then.  Hmmm.  This neighbor thing could be convenient.  She and I jived in a totally safe emotional way.  Not necessarily what I'm most neurotically drawn to, but that's probably good.  The other lady from the walk was cool and cute and quirky and it was easy, but I had a red flag for me in that she used to go to AA, quit the hard stuff and decided she doesn't have a drinking problem.  Did I mention the sexy sexy lady I was seeing when I started seeing Mr. Bee too just moved back and is getting sober.  Of course, it's my alcoholic duty to offer to accompany her to meetings that I actually don't attend myself.  Red flag yerself, lady.  My women's group gets excited to hear about the antics.  They'll set me not straight.

It is true that the last time I dated, I never would have called it that.  I didn't have internet or cell phones, and sheez, you had to go perusing the neighborhoods.  I've decided I like it better now in some ways.  For one, I can meet someone and then as I walk away, I know that I can meet someone else.  There's something reassuring in that.  I can be totally picky.  Last night I came on home and had chick flick date night with myself.  That's what I expected.  Me, dutch chocolate ice cream and Kissing Jessica Stein.  I admit, I expected triter.  There was a scene between the main character and her mom that was about as real as a scene gets, and I admit to liking it.  Maybe, I even cried a little.  Far more tritely was my reaction to Avatar the day before (like I have to link it).  To that, I cried like a baby.  Oh, the human angst.  If I can't wear a loin cloth, I'll wear black guyliner.  If I can't transfer this human spirit o' mine into a more apt and earthy vessel without the loss of consciousness between (buddhism), then I'll just go on as if nothing ever happened.  Rape me, the kinky earth says.

Baby Bees + 1 for another couple days arrived and I think they're still on that eating kick, so I better get on a dishes kick.  I was on the verge of feeling poetic yesterday, and as my computer gets overcome by video gamery and I put on my Martha Stewart vest, maybe I can put actual pen to paper.  I'm brewing the long stuff, gonna do the FFF thing and job apps this weekend, and for reals get busier.  I didn't quite finish the series Shameless yet, but I am glad my compulsive Nurse Jackie, Breaking Bad, and worstly of all, Nip/Tuck ('cause there were a lot of them) phase is over for a time.  One Rescue Me a week and maybe a Saturday at work catching up on True Blood, but I'm just not feeling it this second, and that's good.  TV on the internet can kiss my ass, 'til it can't.  

My PBS pledge is a poem by the end of the day.  Also, it's Mutual of Omaha's WIld Kingdom around here, since yesterday when it rained, Mr. Bee called and claimed cat in the rain and I nabbed him and we caught up on petting and I miss him, but he's freaking out the kittens.  He's like a lion and last night I was a little scared he was gonna steal my breath.

Oh, let's do another lipsynch video by this crazy cool grrl, lesync.  I'm liking these more than I think I'm supposed to:

I especially shouldn't like this one. I LOVE it. (NSFW, yo):

Neither should you.

Now, a wholesome plate o' french toast? Sure.


Bustin' Out The Talent

(Linsay Lohan is co-blogging this with me from a very insecure, rather disclosed location.)  We've been posting every day here in July and will shortly surpass the number of posts we've "written" all year.  Maybe.  Too lazy to go away again to check, we are, and there are those guards.  Who knows what manner of distractions that will cause.  Single-minded focus.  That's what we're after, here.

Whilst sitting in a therapist's waiting room yesterday, reading The New Yorker's first 2010 20 under 40 installment issue, we felt both disappointment with ourselves and relief.  Of course, we weren't ever really going to make the list, but we felt relieved that it was too late to even try.  Looking for a schtick, we are.  Our things.  We know we've had the mistaken perception that one thing, one writing, one drug, one film, one piece, one compilation could embody it all.  That's good to realize, we see as we lounge here full of prison pancakes.  Maybe there are a handful of things we might like to put in we's cunt to smoke.  Maybe we don't have to shove them all up there at once, you know.

In this, our celebrity prison blueberry pancake, home-fried, carbohydrate-induced reverie, we are seeing the need to keep things simple.  Real simple.  We googled the idea that came to our mind in that office, and low it had not been done, exactly.  No matter.  I'm sure, with our good timing, we'll be right on time in whatever endeavors we endeavor upon, but already, one day later, we're sick of this shit.  Fuck this shit.  It's a stupid idea, and if you could read our mind and jump to the end, you'd agree.  But, tell us you wouldn't.

Tell us how beautiful and gifted and talented we are.  You tell us we're not too thin, that the world doesn't appreciate us, that men will never appreciate us the way we can each other, but that's all gonna change.  Our future is bright, and the magic pancake focus is gonna kick in any second.  Here we are, just gettin' busy, inspired by this that we read in The New Yorker:

"How did these twenty writers end up on this list? We were able to read at least one complete book or manuscript by each writer, and at least a portion of whatever work was coming next. In some cases, we saw an explosion of talent from the first chapter or story: a freshness of perspective, observation, humor, or feeling. In others, we saw a stealthier buildup of thought and linguistic innovation. Some were brilliant at doing one thing. Others made radical shifts of focus and style from one piece to the next. What was notable in all the writing, above and beyond a mastery of language and of storytelling, was a palpable sense of ambition. These writers are not all iconoclasts; some are purposefully working within existing traditions. But they are all aiming for greatness: fighting to get our attention, and to hold it, in a culture that is flooded with words, sounds, and pictures; fighting to surprise, to entertain, to teach, and to move not only us but generations of readers to come." ♦ Read it.

We're gonna get right on that, the raw ambition, after we're done playing with this here cell phone and lighter we sneaked in with we's cunt.

Plus, we're out of milk for coffee.  Sure, the fashions are great, but how do you expect us to work in these conditions... and the burning?


quickie Jr.

I'm pretty sure I'll be detained for this pic, and not in a good way.  We have friends over and I'm trying to muster up whatever amount of caffeine it seems it will take to be in the mood to swim pre 10 AM, hence a 10 minute post.  One french press pot full.  It always takes that when I'm on the coffee sauce, which I am.  Don't 95.34% of posts begin with the professed need for coffee?  Original.

For those of you who will be impacted by this decision, I'm 1,234,345,345th to report on the inevitable and timely illegality of a mullet in Iran.  I'm sorry.  I know many hopes are dashed, and perversely, I rather enjoy being the 1,234,345,345th one to dash them, but it appears as much caffeine as I have, is all I get, because there is literal bouncing off walls and intermittent raving occurring and one again, "NO PANTSING."  We have a 16 year-old former neighbor staying with us  for a few more days in what is coming up on 2 weeks, and I have detected testosterone emerging from The Genius.  There's a meter for that, right?  It's not that I have anything against the stuff, I am just uneducated.  Alls I know is I heard Beevis and Butthead laughs, uncontrolled rrarring, and think I may have seen The Genius flirting at the pool in recent weeks.  Foreign territory.  There's the unifyer.


The Infernal Ubiquitous Twinkie

I don't have one in mind right now, an interesting point, that is, but I am liking the fact that I've been writing each day, however much or little.  Sometimes my urge to write is compulsive and sometimes my urge to write is squelched by its being obligatorily, such as and so forth when it's required in school.  I think I'm at a blessed point where I've dumped out the debris and could write about something.   At one point, or at certain points, maybe, politics may have been an appealing thing to write about, but there are so many millions of people who do it well, expressing exactly what I wish I were informed enough to espouse, that I just don't have those urges.

I tend to want to write the more personal, nay too personal, and sorely need to channel that into some sort of fictional pursuit.  I'm just not feeling Flo Joe anymore.  I'm pretty sure I incorporated her into myself, so I no longer need to hold her afar to gawk at, uncomfortably.  She's in my head.  Yikes.

Cereal and coffee fetching interlude, which required the finishing of the dishes from yesterday.  I'm not going to be hounded the whole time about writing on my computer in my room... this time.  I'm in a squinky place.  A little restless and discontent.  Oops, them's AA words.  I am feeling fiercely independent and the thing that's bugging me is the feeling that some people will want unlimited amounts of nebulous things from me.  I'm good with the finite wanting of things.  Can you do this?  Yes.  I want to.  Can we meet for this and do this.  Great.  Are you going to message me each morning and expect that you own may day?  What?  That's what it feels like with a couple folks.  And, that's kinda screwy.  I'm pretty sure.  I'm not one to tell people to take a hike very well.  I'm more likely to just ignore them until they go away.  But, sometimes I do that with folks I don't necessarily want to go away too, and then I'm glad that they persisted, gently.  I am both attracted to and repelled by that sort of assertion.  I probably just need to take a shower.

I don't really have it in me to think about other people that much right now.  I don't want to wonder what I did or am doing right or wrong.  I like to tease Mr. Bee who tells me he's naked, so call first, that I'll be right over, but I don't want to leave the house.  I want to go do things, even with people, but I don't want to do the things it takes to get there with people, to do those things with them. Of course, I'm on my first cup of coffee.

Complain, complain, complain.  I know myself well enough to know that I'm procrastinating the things I really need to be doing, more job apps, beefing up my consolidated teaching site.  My job right now is to be ready.  The other will come.  I know it.  I'm supposed to meet it half way.  Maybe this applies to writing somehow too.  Though, lately I've been having painting urges.  Maybe I should buy some paint.  This set of emotions.  It's about this set of emotions.  You can't see them.  I'm not really even doing the best job of relaying them to you in words.  They're fickle and fleeting.  They're pointed and painful until they recede to dull and pervasive.  They're vague and gnawing.  They make me want to wear black eyeliner, but I don't own eyeliner.

I was happy to catch Last Comic Standing last night.  I've never watched it before.  I got hooked at an early point by the lady who was joking about her lesbianism and her looks, and how she really only had three choices in life, to be a comic, a UPS driver or something else equally dykey that I can't recall.  She didn't make it to the finals.  I guess, my point, not an interesting one, however, was that I guess it's going to be UPS driver (or that other thing) then, but she'll probably just still be a comic.

Why didn't I study writing, so I know how to develop characters and pace a plot?  Three months ago when I couldn't spend any time here, I had thirty ideas swishing around of things to write.  Distractions.  Needs to be a book, a short story, a holy shit storyline for something performishist.  I don't know how to do that shit really.  I'm feeling rather uneducated.  I know that isn't it per se, but that I haven't researched these things or taken a class that kind of walks me though doing them.  I'm sure you could write a lesson plan.  They're not that hard, but I do know, from experience that to have the thesis, as it were, the TEK, the standard in mind at the onset is the key to making it effective.  The bottom line.  A poem is easy (even if shit), 'cause I usually have a feeling in mind I want to relay.  I don't know that I have a book in mind.

When I was feeling fairly trapped in a shitty marriage in the heart of questioning in a vacuum, I had all sorts of ennui to convey. There's not angst, but for the longings to be close to someone which really haven't built up all that strongly yet.  I might like them to not.  I'm pretty sure that the whole deal with the Mr. Sarturday Night thing was the sick attachment that I made to someone with one mere sexual encounter.  Sex is powerful.  Maybe.

There isn't an interesting point here.  These ambiguities which I so patternly like to resolve with a quick write aren't going away.  I'm pretty sure I need to masturbate, bathe, have more coffee, clean some shit, take Snaggletooth swimming, but I want there to be more, an undertone to it all.  Yeah, gardening and teaching and my family and all that.  Yeah, but I am wanting a life's work thing, here.  One that writing, even if I have to keep my UPS job, can provide.  It's not that I'm not going to keep writing here or that I am.  Not too many people give a shit about that.  And, not too many people probably give a shit about whether I write or not, besides me, but it is me that I have to please in that.  There is an interesting point.  Maybe I can use my lesson plan mojo.  Maybe, I can implore that AA mumbo jumbo and write one piece at a time.  Maybe, since I can't hog our one family computer all day, I can actually put pen to paper.  Maybe.  But, I do still need to take a shower.

Thank you.  I got to it.  Allowed the writing to meet my feelings.  That's all I ever need it to do.  With the oops I did it again tag, how about one of my ten rotating videos.

ok, I'll take a shower now.


A Quickie

Alright people.  We've got 20 minutes.  I've piddled my mere 1 hour internets time checking emails and the like.  I didn't even have time to look for a pic today, but fortunately some fairy put this one on my computer.  I think maybe I'm not the only not so secret blogger in the hive.  The Lip Model has displayed blogging tendencies.  But, do I have time to deal with that now?  No. 17 minutes.  Of course, a Sharky emergency arose in the meantime.  And, I hear there is mango on the couch.  Here, take a washcloth stat.

I got my baby bees back.  Woot, and the like, but some of the day will be spent driving them to play with friends, which is what happens in now 16 minutes.  Of course, The Genius had to squeak in a hug and a peek since I'm not allowed to close my bedroom door without everyone being drawn like moth to flame to whatever I'm doing.  Won't be the case when I spend the rest of this blessed day doing dishes, cooking the meat that I let thaw and better cook before it goes bad (Sexay!), washing and folding laundry, scooping the cat box, vacuuming and wishing my IPod weren't merely functioning (yea- after last year's washing).  I can charge it, but I can't change the content.  I'll have to listen to that Dan Savage podcast again after this year and see which one was so immortalized that the universe thinks that should be the only one I get (no time to correct that mess).  I think maybe I can listen to stuff from iTunes on my phone, too, but with only 10 minutes left.  Later.  Also, I'll check to see how posting here from my phone goes.  Oh, the excitement.  I love that this is the content of my day.  MY DAY.  Not work's.  woot, etc., etc.

With 8 minutes left, the squeeze is on to make something really pithy happen.  I started to write a poem yesterday, but realized after a few lines it was more like a country song.  I've yet to write the Redneck Musical™ that a friend of mine and I who I so rarely see as to to make such collaboration nay impossible.  Flo Joe's jes' workin' at Hooters waitin' fer she's big break, you know.

5 minutes.  STOP PANTSING EACH OTHER.  whatever the hell pantsing is.  It's not allowed, because you're too loud when you do it.

If I could put this feeling in a pill and pop it 
You know I would.
That's what I do
Every time I turn to you.

See, there's the first stanza of my country song.  It wouldn't be my first country song, since that's what happens when I rhyme poetry.  Country songs emerge.

2 STOP IT.  No one appreciates my 2 minutes like me, as should be the case, since I'm the one that arbitrarily created this diminishing timeline, here.

With one minute left, I'd like to thank Sexy Jesus for leaving me to fend for myself again.  That's his best technique.  Makes us stronger.

0 minutes.  Who gives a shit about my countdown,but now it's all gone and done.  I'm pretty sure I'll have a What Would Martha Do moment or two in my day today.  There's that.

Now, at -1, and still counting, wtf am I doing, the universes will implode or something, but my repellant mojo that works inversely to this imaginary waffling timeline, seems to have decayed into something far more intersting going on outside my closed door.

Hey, what are you guys doing?

Plus, a phone call.



Balanced in a Precarius State

As promised, back to regularly scheduled programming.  Actually, I'm pretty sure the intermittent drama is part of the regularly scheduled programming, but I am feeling quite motivated to have the drama be more fictional rather.  Gonna scope that shit out here in a bit.  Fiction.

I did, firstly, want to put closure on the last few days in whatever way writing about it can.  I have to laugh and squirm when I think about what I wrote about my mother in a recent post.  Her intense privacy to the point of not even talking to her daughter (me) about her brain tumor/ cat scan results, and then the contrast that is my writing two full-length 20/20 features about my late period and one regrettable, but nay memorable, sexploit.  Fat chance I have of sleeping with anyone who reads my blog, but that's part of the allure of this little niche for me.  None of the shit.

What I am thinking is not so much about how, oh my gosh, I'm an idiot for allowing someone to use a condom a little sloppily (and yes, there is that), and it's not that wow having sex with men has these different risks involved, or wow I am a lousy one night stand (which I am glad to discover-- wasn't always the case).  I went on and bought a stinking pregnancy test, even after I had a little bleeding commence.  A day late and a dollar short.  In looking at dates for real, in the end my period came on (with the herbs' influence too) a full week late, but it came on and the test was negative.  I should have done the test first, but in order to make the kind of mojo that insures one will never again need one, I bought a two pack and the other can sit under my bathroom sink and go to waste.  That is, of course, until my Baby Bees find it and pee on it for fun when they have gone through the gynormous box of tampons I bought the other day in full preparedness mode. 

I was glad I did the test, of course.  I am pleased with the results especially since I had plans to meet a woman for coffee and had been an emotional wreck prior.  Stress quite easily was a huge factor in this whole debaucle, because as soon as I got a negative result, things started a flowin'.  (I too am waiting for the end of the period references, here.)  I'm glad I went on and was able to be in a pretty relaxed state of mind when I met up with R.  She is 3.5 years younger than me and without children and we ended up talking about kids way too much, mainly because she is contemplating them, and both of us are focused in career ways on working with them.  Also, we realized her cousin and my daughter go to the same school and blah.

It was nice and relaxed and, though I don't think there was a shit ton of chemistry there in person, there was definitely an easy friend vibe.  That could be disappointing, because I sure am surrendering to allowing myself to go there (again), but it really isn't, for a couple reasons.  For one, while I was waiting, I saw a woman go sit down on her own who I thought for a brief millisecond (as opposed to those longer ones) was R and got a little excited.  A "my type" thing, though I have many, types, that is (not that that doesn't beg the equally important question, whose type am I).  A nice mental note to put in my pocket.

R and I had a really good time.  We were both funny with each other and laughed a lot and talked about the bi idea a lot and where we were coming from in that regard.  I am a little amazed since with the idea that it is not about what I think or feel about someone else when I am intereacting with him or her, but what I think or feel about myself that determines how satisfied I feel about it.  I just like who I am in relationship to women so much better in a romantic sense. 

This is where this is so ninja mind fucky.  I know that I am so conditioned to be heterosexual, habitually if nothing else, but what is weird is that it is not about the outer world being fucked up in that regard that matters so much to me as what's going on inside me.  It's me.  Now, you can both shut the fuck up on recognizing that in each and every blog post I write, but seriously.  It's not that men are not supportive people or that there are not capable of having healthy notions regarding relationships or sex, but those are not the men I am drawn to that way in real life very often, and when I am, I'm not very comfortable with it.  I recognized an element of this with Mr. Bee, in that these are somewhat mechanisms that insure that I will remain emotionally or intimately distant from men, but maybe that is good. 

In contrast to the complete and utter neuroticness that I encounter in myself in those situations, I find myself to be completely capable of feeling loving and supportive of women.  It's that Getting the Love You Want/ AA what you can give rather than what you can receive crap.  I'm pretty sure that no matter how many men I encounter, befriend, besex, the love my father never gave me will not be there.  (Five minutes I could look at that sentence and be baffled by the double negative that doesn't seem to negate itself somehow in that.) 

So, score one for a healthy goin' for it experience.  Another healthy reminder is that my not really being super into pursuing the scenario on a romantic level is ok here and when I had similar misgivings about kilt boy, I was completely unable to discern that, to just rip off the bandaid and leave it at platonic levels.  I had to avoid him altogether to set such boundaries.  At this point I think it's for the best, but am starting to learn to hear what ambivalence says.  It's not that I'm unwilling to pursue relationships in the face of not mind-blowing chemistry at the onselt, either.  I can simply notice those are my feelings about meeting R without seeing the need or feeling pressured to decide definitively how I feel about her in that regard.  It just is what it is.  I find it completley baffling that it is not the same with men.  But, it's not. 

So, Mr. Saturday Night, as he will forthwithily be referred to, had the courtesy to call me after I had the courtesy to take a test and text him definitive results that I really regret ever mentioning to him in the first place, except at the time thought I might be doing some other female a favor to encourage him to wrap his bologna earlier (sorry, that's just wrong guys, to call a weiner bologna) in the er sex drill when he opened a chat with me as I was sipping on my ginger brew.  I am trying not to beat myself up too hard though when I realize the only choices I had were to ignore him, tell him, or super fake it and just not mention it.  Though there was little satisfaction in the whole thing, I am glad for the experience.  I am realizing now how it might not be bad to be very bad at being a one night stand.  In his call, in an strange tone that denoted appeasement, he seemed to be trying to reassure me that we would get together again, like he was promising me some favor.  Uh.  I was diligent to erase every trace of his number from my phone so that even if I felt compelled to call him for an easy fuck (note to self: NOT), I couldn't.  I had already defreinded him on FB and, though it would not be impossible to find him pretty easily or for him to call me again, I removed all the easiest brain pathways to him and hereby declare myself feeling closure on the matter.  Oh sure, I'll be keeping up with regular womantime exams and making sure my next one is a little extra precautionary after having spent 4.3333 seconds alone with Mr. Saturday Night's  unwrapped meat surprise (I actually just sat and counted that to get a sense of how long it was because 7.1 seconds seemed a little long. Reasearch, all the cool writers do it, I hear), but (is this sentence still going) over all will take the whole thing as an experience that I am glad to have to remind me not to repeat it... unless I do.


Oh, The Humanity

Warning:  This picture is a good indicator of the content this post will herein contain.  Good 'ol down to earth woman talk.  I'm not sure I can do it with this level of perkitude, but, you  know, with a 'lil a these here ladies' encouragement, I might just manage.

I wanted to write this post, even if futilely on herbal birth controlly sorts of things.  I think when I first thought about such things, the internet was still in DOS, so I don't think it was much of a resource for me, but Susun Weed had put out her Wise Woman Herbal for the Childbearing Year, which was one of my herbal bibles for years.  I don't have it anymore, because I either lent it to someone or gave it to someone.  Sometimes, I do that with books.  Getting the Love You Want, The Dance of Anger, Howard Garrett's Plants of Texas or Organic Manual, The Right Use of Will, Disappearance of the Universe, The Stucture of Scientific Revolutions, and, of course, the AA Big Book are amongst the books I feel compelled to pass on to folks if they express the desire to read them.  I might part with Planets in Transit or my favorite Calculus text, but only for a very special person.  I'm not religious, but these here are the bibles I ascribe to on rotating bases.  I need to go to Half Price Books and scope out some new material while I'm thinking about it.

My bleeding is trying to happen.  Actually, biologically speaking, it might be trying not to happen, but I am gently, but firmly encouraging things to move along here.  I think it was about Tuesday when I first saw a tinge of blood when I wiped after peeing (sorry.  turn back now if you don't want to read this.  I'll return to my regularly scheduled complaining tomorrow, you know.  Or, keep on...).  Usually, I could expect to go nearly a day without a pad or whatever.  My bleeding never starts suddenly like it must have back in elementary (5th grade is when I started my period) and junior high when I used to not know until my pants were soaked through to the rear.  (the universe is perverse that way, you know.)

So, not picking up right away is within normal, but receding bleeding is not.  Sure, one day in the not terribly far off future I should expect some changes in my cycle, but as it stands, I operate as the being I am.  A fertile myrtle who is like a clock.  In high school I used to start my cycle every fourth Sunday when I woke up before church, for about two years.  In other years, the majority, when I have kept track, I have seen my cycle shift from a full moon, to a new moon in the course of a year, oftentimes when awakening after dreaming of bleeding.  Mostly, I keep track, but on rare occasion forget to write it down, which was the case last month, but did recall Thursday what I was doing when I last started my menses (mix it up on the vocab there), and it was the morning after I went out to eat with a friend, I recall, because she started that next day too, she said.  Grrls do talk about these things sometimes, especially this friend and I, and I do with my daughters because we do tend to cluster together when we're spending a lot of time together  (read here), and I'm the one responsible for making sure we have adequate feminine hygeine product-age, even for The Lip Model with her dad.  These issues have also shifted into birth control issues, as well, with her, and very very recently with The Future President.  I'm glad I'm a go-to there, as with the coughs, the bites, the rashes, the fevers, the poops, and the stomach aches.  Being poor with no health insurance for years really makes one take responsibility there to do what one can on his or her own, and be very discriminate (read "cheap") when it comes to deciding to go to the doctor. 

I am not advocating that at all, though.  In fact, it is always a huge relief to my piece of mind to know in the back of my mind that I can pass over the worry to someone who has the job to take that worry on and transform it into right action.  Right now, my daughters have such health insurance, but my sons do not.  We are in mid CHIP-application status, so I am hopeful the boys can be covered soon until I start teaching.  They need dental work.

Anyway, I have dealt with teh preganancy "scare" a time or two.  I have not been a huge fan of the birth control pill over the years, but after Mr. Bee and I had Snaggletooth 8 years ago, I got a 3-year IUD put in,  The Mirena (which is now considered a 5-year device), at Planned Parenthood.  It was fairly new then, and I might assert contributed to weight gain, but there are other factors with my thyroid which make it impossible to differentiate which were which.  I kept that in for the full three years, and then implored of Mr. Bee to make good on his offer to get a vasectomy through Planned Parenthood, if he so chose.  It's a whole 'nother can of worms to go into that one, but Mr. Bee was one of the rare ones who had complications with his vasecotomy, which have mostly been ironed out by now.  In any event, though I was a condom as birth control person for many many years, I have not had to worry one iota about birth control since 1991.  It's been nice.

Now, I did have three children before 1991, but none of them were conceived in conjunction with using a condom, and neither have I had a pregnancy "scare" in relation to using one, and I wouldn't call myself careless there.  I'll just have to chalk this few week's experience into my being a brief poster child for the viability of preseminal fluid category IV status experience.  More optimistically, I'll take is as another valuable lesson in the life of one who is exiting her procreative years, even if not biologically just yet.

I had the slightest blood tinge Tuesday and then yesterdaymorning after some bring it on tea, but not even to the point I would call it spotting, as it wasn't enough to even spot my white fate-tempting panties one bit yesterday.  Thursday night I decided it was time to take action, while I still can.  My same afore mentioned friend had left an unopened package of pickled ginger (random, but apropos accident) at my house a few weeks ago, and I decided to sacrifice it for the team yesterday and ate half of it (it said there were four servings on the package) yesterday while at work.  Maybe, there was a little blood later when I wiped, but barely, and never to the point it dripped down to my undies (uggh, don't keep sayign that, self).  None still, but I am confident that by the time I finish this post that will be different.  Is this live blogging the conjuring of my period?  Sadly, yes.

Ooh, I also found this pic earlier.  Insert.  So, according to Susun Weed there are a variety of herbs that can bring on or dispromote the onset of menstruation at differnt points in a woman's cycle.  Those that can encourage or discourage fertility in the first place, those that can promote and discourage implantation of a fertilized egg and those that  likewise affect whether a fertilized egg remains in the uterus beyond a woman's normal cycle time.  I found this summary of hers online when I was looking up the ingredients that were in this tincture I purchased yesterday.

I didn't have many herbs from this list and from another book I have, but I had eaten a little aloe, and made a tea of chamomile, thyme, basil, cinnamon and nutmeg the night before, in addition to taking 1000mg of vit. C then and yesterday morning.  Still, no blood.  I am now five days late, and have past the point of going back on this pursuit, I know.  After the pickled ginger yesterday (which was yummy), I went and bought myself four Extra Ginger Brews.  If you're about to start your period normally, one of these is definitely enough to make it happen a couple hours to a day earier than it would have otherwise.  They are potent.  And delicious.  I was going to buy some rue herb, either in an herbal mixture or the leaf itself, but could not find it at my friendly neighborhood health food co-op.  But, I knew to look harder.  It's not like rue is banned, but it is obscurely and guardedly used, like lobelia, which I had to order by the pound to procure last year for lung teas I make for my family.  At least there's that.  But, going with the body's natural cycle time is the most easy way to promote bleeding if fertilization has occurred.  Since I was caught off guard here, I did not start taking these herbs a week before, so that it started when it would have normally, though. 

I have implored vitamin C as an Emmenagogue in the past.  In fact, I desperately used 8000+ mg/ day of vit C the week of my late period when I was pregnant with The Future President, but it is such a safe technique that if it doesn't work, it's not harmful to a pregnancy.  Other techniques I wouldn't feel the same about.  Also, in my pregnancy of The Future President, at the time of my second missed period I almost miscarried, and spent a whole day in bed contemplating what it was I wanted in my heart before I actually felt her and felt that she was not going to return, that her coming was about her dad as much as me and I was already in the process of moving out from the first Mr. Bee.  She was conceived on the last possible opportunity, and one of only two that the first Mr. Bee and I afforded her.  I felt reassured that her and my needs would be taken care of and welcomed her that day.  Of course, I will always be grateful I did. 

This is all something I do not take lightly.  Though I do not think it a sin or any such nonsense, or have any idea when a "soul" or "consciousness" enters a young body, I did have the drugged out acid experience of being aware of being "conceived in the twinkle of my parents eye."  I was there on some level.  Blah fucking blah.  I settled on a tincture myself yesterday and with the help of the lady working there verified it was the sort I wanted.  Of course, she could only help me look stuff up about the individual herbs online as to herbal actions; she could not state efficacies.  I know.  I used to work in a health food store.  "The traditional use of ___ is ___.  Some people claim to have had this result with that."  I've read that one should never __________.  (Insert take pennyroyal or rue OIL extracts internally.  Pennyroyal leaf tinctures and pennyroyal oil extracts are two different things.  Pennyroyal oil was avaiable in the past and can be used topically as an insect repellent, but has poisoned at least one young lass I've read about who mistakenly took it rather than the infusion.  I read the same of rue this week.)

I also bought a serving of their vegetarian frito pie and a yummy brownie with crystallized ginger (ginger ginger ginger- on the list).  The tincture I got contains cotton root bark, crampbark, ginger, cinnamon, chamomile, ocotillo, and silk tassel adn is recommended to be taken as needed to relieve menstrual cramps.  It is contraidicated in pregnnacy and contains a whole slew of emmenagogues and abortificants.  I took it maybe one more time than I should have last night as I got flushed either from my brand of OCD-induce poisoning anxiety or from the ginger which was the only herb of any I had ingested that said anything about possible side effects.  That and the cinnamon, likely, made me feel flushed, and I felt the point when I had to lay down while I felt a faint sense of the feeling one has in "back labor" that I had gone past the point of going back.  I had a heavy emotion wash over me, one I allowed and cried over.  If the herbs did not work, I "knew" I would have to get an abortion.

I decided that I would be more gentle today and implore the use of vitamin C packets throughout the day and try to quit thinking of the price tag of getting professional help in this.  I'm into my third so far and a couple hours ago, I saw more blood.  Not flowing, but bright red and there.  I have had a ginger brew and pickled ginger on my bagel this morning and just took one dropperful of the tincture, but am taking it easier.  I communed with the little egg thing that I am fond of it, but now require help in such matters.  Help that comes readily and easily to me.  If there's anybody out there/ in there that wants to come back with better back up, I suggested that I, perhaps, might be willing, but that is such a slim chance, we might as well say good bye now.  Such an ambitious soul/ thought is a daunting, but appealing one, after all.  The Future President is a determined person.  Always has been.  That's why she got my vote.

I'll not update further today.  I am confident that I am well on my way to cronehood, and likely mourning more than what was all-too explicitely written in this post.

Back to our regularly scheduled inanity tomorrow:

Mr. B (as Martha) and Mr. T Slice and Dice Onions Like Real Men (Who Wear Pretty Chains) + update.  Mr. Saturday night opened a chat with me after another week of nothing, and I told him what was going on with me, and I just ended up feeling stupid for saying something before doing a pregnancy test, which I am hoping won't be necessary here at all.  Shouldn't have said anything.  I just ended up feeling humiliated, though it did seal the deal on rejecting any hormonal misgivings.  Crap, Bee, be good to yourself and erase all contact.  Done.  She talks in illeisms when she's upset, you know.

Me and Technoforwhati Try and Make Nice


Trying this again.  Maybe since I'm back to blogspot, it will work.  If you link to me, I just don't know it without these fuckers.


Zen And The Art Of Faking It Til You Make It

Today is a day when I'm glad my readership has gone so far down to you two.  Not that it was astronomical before, but now it is abysmally small, and that's kinda good.  Besides writing poetry when I was quite young, it was the diaries which matured into journals that I was most diligent about writing.  I did not trust my mom not to read my journals though, so I used to keep them with me, and then, when I would fill them, I would throw them away.  I'm pretty sure that my anonymity in writing now probably has a lot to do with the fact that she is one of the people I would least like to read my blog, but I am glad right now for the ability to put such private things in public and not feel like I'm going to be totally screwed for it... yet.
Oftentimes, I have excuses imaginings that it will be after my mother and step father are dead that I will come out with an aweosme, honest, mindblowing memoir or other absurd piece, not about them or anything, but about me (for you two to read, of course).  It's kinda morbid though, to be waiting for such a thing to do what one wishes, especially since my mother has two terminal illnesses going on, though they are ones that can drag on for quite some time.  Which is great (sounds morbid, but I want every second).  I know I've mentioned one here, a genetic immune deficiency condition she discovered a few years ago, one that is treatable, but did a good deal of damage to her lungs, which sporadically will bleed from lung infections for which she'll have to take antibiotics for months.  Not fun.  Last year, she found out she had a brain tumor.  She's immensely private and I only found out because my cousin told me about it.  That was while I was visiting several of my family members in Florida last Thanksgiving, and she told me all about it then (when I asked), but hasn't brought it all back up to me since.  She mentioned a cat scan in a message last week, but when I picked it up and asked how it was all going, she never mesaged me back.  Cunt.  Not really, but seriously. 

We talk every couple weeks, but I have realized I can't talk about communicating with my step father who raised me after I was 7 without her abruptly getting off the phone after he screwed her over in their divioce.  They're both a little fucked up.  He was the one drunk texting me on the verge of suicide from what I could tell, only to act like it was no big deal the next day a few weeks ago.  I'm not responsible for them.  I know.  I love them, but want to be a different sort of parent in so many ways. 

I know I am in most ways, tending to oscillate to the other end of the spectrum.  I'm an "I don't care how uncomfortable it is, I want to talk about it" person to a fault, or at least I used to be.  Now, I like to think that I neither seek nor avoid confrontation.  Not sure if it's true, but I have found that's where I'd like to be on this imaginary spectrum.  I think my chess playing strategy is my life strategy.  At each moment, I like to stay calm, and just do the next right thing before me.  Whatever was happening before doesn't really matter anymore, and what will come remains to be seen.  Zen and the art of faking it til you make it. (Just made the title, zing).

So, where I am at doesnt' seem to be too tough a place in some ways, but in others it's feelin' crisis-y.  I know it's like when you're ridiculously tired and that's the day you're going to run away and leave it all.  Quit your job, say I hate you to anyone in your way.  All those things we never really do except maybe once or twice ever, but really, I'm not that tired, and really things do not seem insurmountable, just out of my control on many levels.  Not all, but many.

Today is my 7th day of working in a row, and when I thought I only had two left, I was told today (glad I asked) that I am working for my boss Monday, as well.  I mean, it's more money, and rumor has it, I'm getting holiday pay for the first time ever for 4th of July on Sunday and this week 24 of my hours are overtime, but, still, I'm gonna complain.  (96 hours in 10 days.)  It will be a fat paycheck and another beefed up a bit and that's great.  And, money makes so much of a difference in how I feel about my security and being in the world. 

For instance, this was the week I finally got paid (6 weeks later) for substituting my butt off those two weeks in May.  Granted, subbing doesn't pay what my security job pays, which isn't all that (except this time and a half shit), but it was bonus money as far as I'm concerned, and considering the fact that I've been really skimping the past few weeks, I am feeling quite alright... for now.  This week.  The next few.  Which is as far as my financial plans ever are looking to the future.  I was able to get my hair trimmed yesterday, an appointment I wanted before graduation in May, but had to cancel, when I couldn't afford it.  Long side bangs and sleeker hairs are us.  Plus, leave in conditioner and remind me to tell you about the epilator I sprang $24 on at Walgreens, an investment that will pay for itself in a year, not doubt, since I've been back on the shaving sauce.  Hate. Shaving.  It's not that I feel obligated either, but ever since Nair backed me into that damned if you do/ damned if you don't corner when I was 17, I've had a love/ hate with it.  I expect my recent modest investment to solve all my problems, though I've decided to wait to splurge for a real ironing board, as opposed to the towel that sits on my dining room table, and a big trash can for my miniscule kitchen to solve the rest of them, for now.  The dumster is a 20 second walk away.  I mean, really.

Yesterday, when I came out of my haircut and started to drive home, and then felt that my tire was flat, I was all like, "Hey."  I filled the tire with air and went on over to the hood guys that are open til 7, knew it was another faulty valve stem (damn recalled tire notice that I ignored several years ago), and actually had $10 to replace it and be on my way.  No lost work time.  If I didn't make it to my hood guys in time, I was just gonna go buy a haudralic jack, FINALLY.  Note to self, buy one anyways, dear.  I had a few extra dollars to do such things, and when you don't things suck.  Of course, I may be back to that, but not right away.  I paid one of the tickets for no inspection I've gotten for that headlight (after I sent Mr. Bee's dad the monthly money I am paying him to keep the van.  grrr), and can see paying the other one and ordering the replacement headlight itself with the money I am earning as I write this right now.  What is this, my longest post ever?  It's 11, and I have to go get the mail around 12:30 or so and deliver it to the front desk guy and then sign a couple sheets and then take on the final three hour encore sitting performance of the day.  I'm not complaining or anything, you know (except I am), but in the weekdays when there are tons of folks here, I do feel the need to fake it that I'm really busy sometimes.  I mean right now, whatever I am typing must be important, right? Security reports?  C'mon.  I'll do one for my boss the day before he comes back, but sheez.  I'm the Johnny on the Spot, though, and I did go in and do some big tasks that I was able to get a little direction on for a change the other day, and I guess the next three and a half days here will just be this and applying to more area school districts. 

So, while there are things that are going just as I expected and my more drastic actions regarding employment or my future prospect of lacking it are really not within my current scope of action beyond those job apps, I am facing one issue that is the heart of this here post, the thing I'm hoping only the true diehards of this here blog had the endurance to get to, that my stinking period is late.  FUCK.  It's not totally late, in a sense.  It should have come on two days ago, and I know those of you who aren't me are saying, "Dude," but here's the deal.  I spotted the taddest tad two days ago and then nothing.  Crickets on the bleeding front.  This. is. not. good.  I have four children, twenty eight years of menstruating experience (on my resume believe you me), two teenage daughters, the equivalent of an herbalist's knowledge base, and (wait for it) apprenticed with a midwife many years back.  This. is. not. good.  The thing is, there're two things.  Firstly, I have to say, we used a condom, but here's the deal:  (I squirm with the awful erotic potentials) the ONE PERSON in 7 months, the second male in 11 YEARS (after Mr. Bee's 5-year vasectomied beauty), this okc dude, the one I have a couple mutual friends with, but has BLOWN my ass off full-on, even after emailing me to say, "Hey, why no keep in touch," then keep in touch, then nothing back (whatever), rubbed the head of his hard penis around the outside of my vagina and poked just the head in when I said, "Wait, I've got a condom," then no more nothing, but some good fucking (sorry no deets there) with condoms only, and my period's freaking late.  I mean, really.  I know that a person assuming he was gonna have stranger sex without a condom with me (is that the case?) is himself a gynormous red flag (and, I let that other happen), but I gave him my horny benefit of the doubt that he assumed every chick he bangs is on the pill (or shot or what have you), but also know preganancy is the least of the dangers such a cock possesses.  Moms know these things.

The thing is, I am looking back and can see that I was two weeks into my cycle, must have been ovulating, which I sadly wasn't attuned to, but kinda explains my whole going with the whole thing a bit from a horny biological perspective, and then now.  I made myself a tea of the appropriate herbs I have and am going to buy a vat of ginger brews, ginger teas and some rue (aptly named) at Whole Foods when I'm off work (plus a pit stop to go ask someone at CVS to open the pregnancy test lock), but this is not something I was expecting to have to deal with at all.  I'm trying to stay zen about it.  Yesterday, I laid in bed in the morning giving myself solace with the words Planned Parenthood.  A mantra.  Thank Jesus for Planned Parenthood.  (This reminds me, I also masturbated (for good measure to bring on my period, you know) and saw a video online that I meant to go back and screen capture and then got, er, distracted.  A woman with two dicks in her mouth only wearing her cross necklace around her neck.  I thought Jesus would be pleased for me to post a picture of that on my blog.  I'm also, wearing white panties with no pad or nothin' to tempt the gods, for good measure.

This is related to the tire thing, now see here, in that this fat overtime paycheck is like the only one I could think of in a million years that could enable me to pay for a very expensive abotion pill, c'mon sliding scale.  So, there's that.  A little security.  But, who wants to spend her Hooters money on 'bortions?  Somehow, I've managed to never get an abortion.  Oh yeah, I have four kids.  I'm not opposed to them or anything, but it is one thing to say they should be available (THEY SHOULD) and then to go for it.  It is probably hormonal delusion, but when I try to wrap my math degreed mind around the probability of this whole set of events, it is hard not to feel a little awed by the shear improbability of it all.   I mean, I postponed one coffee date with a lady yesterday (she did too, mutual and then the flat tire made me go, shoo-ee), but I have one with a woman on Saturday night that I am actually excited about.  I'll not go too much into that, except to say that she is also an eight years sober bi woman who works as a counselor in her day job (not also on the counselor part, of course).  She's irreverent and sexy as fuck and our messaging has flowed easily and entertainingly.  I mean to say that this could be the one that turns me for reals.  Of course, it all may not work out at all, but I figure there will be a female lover I have eventually that will secure me in the knowledge I needn't go back.  Or, she and I (hypothetical woman now) could screw guy(s) together or be open or not.  Don't know about all that, but I'd really rather buy a strap-on than RU3596539y156y.6 with my Hooters money.  So, you see, the last possible chance (which it really probably isn't) to be pregnant makes me suspect something of a divine order and I really hate that I can think like that, even if it is one of my strengths at times like when I think back on how I was born to lousy teenage parents who did not have abortion open to them at the time.  

No, this is the longest post ever.  There are aspects of each of my pregnancies here going on, and I now enter into chick-flick zone that excuses, nay begs, near everyone from continuing further.  Even, me now that I think about it.  I have a choice and my whole logical being says yea bleeding come forth, and then there is an illogical, sentimental side that can't help but feel other, even if idiotic, things and I know I would be within my entitlement to implore sperm daddy to pitch in for his half, but there are two things in that.  Humiliation, the remote remote possibility that he would have the audacity to claim wishership rights (so doubtful, and then secondary to my wishes), and then humiliation that he might claim some sort of not his thing, when, in fact, there is not other way, unless we've got a reclaimed virgin birth situado.  But, since we used a condom after 7.666 seconds, the disbelief is kinda understandable.

Of course, the best thing of all would be for me to be stressing over nothing.  This would be a nice time for that.

Hey, look at that, I didn't even complain about overdosing on caffeine and too many breakroom donuts this week.  There's always tommorrow and then the next day and the next and the next, but after that, there will be not more chances for it for a whole five days, so I'd better get to that mail and those donuts.  For fodder sake, of course.  I'll keep you apprised, but, of course, then, we will have to erase your memory, me and Sexy Jesus will, that is.  His cock is in my mouth every step of the way, and who wouldn't find comfort in that.