Some other future blog is lurking, but it is as of yet a mystery.


Get Off Mah Lawn

Lovely, lovely folks, as the head hancho of this here establishment it is with remarkable decisiveness that I announce I am closing up shop round here. 

Of course I will write, but it ain't been happenin' here and I feel I need a new start, a quieter space where I can reclaim my virginity, as it were.

I will start a new blog soon, under a new pseudonym for times when I need to journal in semi-public, as I seem to have need to do, hopefully get back to cheesy-ass poetry.  I am going to be starting a blog for the school where I teach in the coming week that I am hoping will really engage students and parents and will document our coming year.  No doubt this will be time consuming.

I will keep Freida on twitter and many of you are friends with the real me on facebook.  No doubt, I wish to revive FluffPo, not only to counter balance this menace, but to express the utter angst Mimi will feel if she has to choose between Rick Perry and Sarah Palin.  Of course, that doesn't mean it will happen.

Don't know what sort of mojo my writing needs, but I have been writing a ton of curriculum sorts of things, and really hope to submit more short stories to people who send out rejection letters.  I haven't been rejected by The New Yorker yet, but from what I know of McSweeney's and the former Fresh Yarn (who threw me a bone that one time), I get off on the kinky rejections of locales which promise a reply, it seems.

Think I'll set this all to private, to which many of you had invites in the past that will remain, but seriously doubt I'll update.  I'll send out a new url when I have one, or send me an email and I'll reply with one.

I think maybe this, the blog that chronicled the demise of my marriage and the insanity I endured to finish school, served it's purpose, and I'm ready for something new.

Much love and thanks to everyone who read and commented here these past few years.  You and this blog have meant a great deal to me. 

Freida of the Bees


Mixin' Up Them Amendments

Yeehaw, Church, State and Guns.  I like to mix 'em up!
If I were a teacher or parent or taxpayer or human, Texan, I might be outraged by the way Perry's mixin' up all this Church and State bullshit, but at least it's not on the state dime this time.  Right.  Neither would a presidential bid be, not while education funding has been hacked to death. Right?  I was reduced to pseudo-attending mock attempts at counterbalancing holier-than-thouness with debauchery on Facebook.  I just hope Amurca's not so dumb as to fall for it all (again).  Not likely?  Dang.  There is nothing holy about prioritizing war or corporate profits over providing food, healthcare, and education for the people (haha).

Up to now I may have mislead you that this was going to be a political post.  Or, maybe you thought I had garnered an iota of discretion in my furtive absence.  Or, mayhaps, you think I know what mayhaps means.  Perhaps, you think I've been reinventing the education wheel by trying to write my upcoming science and math curriculums from scratch.  Silly me.  No, I haven't been writing for better reasons than all that.  I've been very busy being a good example to teenage girls and flossing my teeth, you know.  (None of it had anything to do with this article, though every bit of it should have.)  You see, it seems my bangs are now once again long enough to be tucked behind my ear, and would it not be for naught were I not to blog it?  I ought.

There's the usual nothing and everything going on, of course.  Personal Angst Galore (my porn name) with a Lil' Dab of Reflection that Makes it All Seem Worthwhile, which all sounds very vague and mysterious, but rather this is a laziness, an unwillingness to back up and tell the story, or a story, whichever the case may be.  What'll do ya?  Back to School Tales?  My Impressions of the 2012 IKEA catalogue?  Fantasy Romps in the Wildes (those are British ones, with the e's) of London?

Or, maybe you'd rather I publicly contemplate my upcoming haircut (this one's gotta win.) or the state of my romantic affairs.  Or, maybe, just maybe, you get off when I ponder my existential worth, which is, of course, inversely related to my reliance upon Arizona Green Teas with Ginseng.  Or, or, or....  Make up your mind!

Actually, I'm at my weekend job again and this is getting depressing, proverbial people.  There's only so much Bejeweled Blitz I want to play while getting paid, and believe me it's a lot, but we're way past that point.  I could espouse the offerings of my 12-step program du jour, outline the most uncomfortable features of my bra or my skin, or fuck it all and just eat some garlic.  Really, I could and you know it. 

Apparently, this is a post about potential.  The potential of a particular blog post sure would be a convenient way to spin it, wouldn't it?  It had suspense.  It had promise (albeit an empty one).  It had poetry.  Oh for God's sake Rick Perry, pray for some poetry, cause I got nothin' else.  



Good and Greasy

It would be all too easy to metablog over up in here, if you do or don't know what I mean.  Readers or no, a point or no, here it is, the definite need to write.  Whether it be to avoid a Bedazzled Blitz or merely procrastinate more major progress in syllabus writing for the coming schoolyear, I need something more personal... stat. 

There was a staycation that involved rearranging closets out the wazoo, muchly needed thank you very not-sexily much.  There has been a return to my beloved 12-stepness, with a vigor that can only be explained by desperation or a cute guy that makes me gushy, which I suspect is a trick my unconscious, far larger, hence "higher," within, of course, is playing upon me, to get me back to ways that help me feel grounded.  Fuck this gay shit, fuck OkCupid and dating and my open relationship tendencies, I'm a Liz Phair song wobbling out of tune over here, and frankly there is some relief in that.  Not, that any of the crushiness is reciprocated, but I feel a quiet certitude that needs nothing.  It's not about anyone else, but me.

After 10 years in a pretty bad relationship that produced some pretty badass results, I am feeling as though my bi-ness is intact, and it is my skills that need to be honed more than my (sic) "target." After flirting with the idea of dating a "drinker" again, even if not alcoholic, I have realized the utter nonsense of that.  Not because of any drinker's invaluability, but rather my own insufficiencies.  The language of Bill spews forth here.  Last week it would have been Deadwood.  I want to fuck Deadwood, succubus that shit.  It's so good.  Last week any language less than proper would have found me wanting were it that cocksucker were not a part.  Mumblemumble.

Of course, any and all of that paragraph prior might at well be complete and utter bullshit, seeing as, I feel now qualified to move out of an age of exploration into a willing matte of foible; I do not not intend to make mistake left and right of it all, but with both feet in, perhaps.   Or not, that is the beauty.

There are 6,034 more items I was going to mention, but then something shiny, nay Bedazzling, came along and stole my resolve.  Dirty cocksucker!

You'll have me when you do, and you won't when you don't, but I assure you, dirty talk does help.  Hence, the mattress ( from here) to get you in the mood.

Many thanks and, as always, I appreciate your prompt reply.


Home Makeover- Extreme Cleaning Edition

As the summer really sinks in, I am finally thinking I'll be able to shift my focus to matters of true import such as eradicating my fridge of half-eaten bananas.  An inkling of a screenplay and a rehashed-to-death-over-the-years book-thing are trying to get together in my mind.  I am fully willing to enable this hot mess.  Of course, I haven't really had a moment to breathe yet, but I do foresee that changing.  This is probably the hectic-est (knocking on some wood, for reals) my summer will be.

As was the case in December with mid-year assessments, every time I've thought I was done, I wasn't; I'm in some sort of weird limbo.  Deadline Friday.  I need til Sat. noon.  I get done at 5, and then the next day all of us are charged to write comments over there, and I, who was the only one who had done that already with half the kids, am struggling to finish those others, when the other three teachers (who were also asked) are moving on with their summers, apparently.  No response from emails.  Even my bosses have moved on with their summers, and I want to say fuck it, but I seem to be seeking permission to do so.  Fuck it.

That was a boring paragraph.  You should probably just skip it.

Also, I've had other work encroaching onto the scene.  I bet I could work myself into working full-time in the week through the summer, as well, subbing at my weekend job, housecleaning.  There's some prospective tutoring.  I just want some time at home.  I've had some, but the summer started off busy with my daughter's-with-me two weeks of the month starting the day the kids' school ended, aside from the Lip Model who is officially GED'd with a part time job these days.

It's taking all my strength not to snicker at her, "I hate work," comments, especially when I know she has one of the best jobs she could get in Austin, getting 9 an hour at a first job at a cool locally-owned boutique that sells costumes, lingerie and obscure oddities.  Maybe, as she spends less of what she makes on their awesome wares, she'll feel it is worth it.  Her independence is looming large, and while she has the possibility of community college available to her this fall, she's pursuing being a magician's assistant... and who the hell could blame her?

Those other lovable three are justifiably chillaxin' to the max, and I can't clean up faster than they're messing it, especially without all this pesky work.  Also, today's seeming-to-become-a-habit behavior of waking up at the crack of dawn with the thoughts-a-flowin' seems to culminate in a nine o'clock tiredness that begs another hour and a half of sleep.  (Recall, I sleep in hour-and-a-half OCD increments (if not in reality, in intent).)

So, as the kids wake up around 9, I'm snoozing off the let the Lord of the Flies (I originally accidentally put Lord of the Rings there, which is really funnier) ensue, so I can wake up to never-ending dishes and wet towels (since, the Future President has been having throngs of teenagers over for hopefully not too drunken swimming in the evenings).  This is vacation.

Snaggletooth and I bought paint to paint the boys' room, and even though their room teeters on being just clean-enough for that, these kids keep needing to eat, damnit.  We attempted one of our exercise-til-we-get-to-water outings yesterday, but am afraid the splash pad at our neighborhood park (which has an awesome real pool that is closed for the second year in a row, grrr) was a little less than a glorified sprinkler, mostly.  Snaggletooth enjoyed it, as there was one boy his age there, but it was really for toddlers mostly.  The Genius and I did have a nice time chillaxin' (over-used word of the day) in the shade under a tree, once i finally bribed him (to stop following his brother around asking if he was ready to go) with the usually denied foot massage.  I had done some stretching for a while priorly and the whole scene we had ridden our bikes to was very mellow and nice.

That's what I'm talking about, people.

Well, I'd best get back in bed for a spell before the shenanigans get started back up.

The girls return to their dad tomorrow and the boys will be with the ex-in-laws for their yearly three-week trek to Montana here in a few weeks, so I foresee some marathon cleaning sessions motivated by the promise of potential sex-romps.

A mother's work is never done.

How about another single-sentence paragraph, just to be nostalgic.



A Quickie

I just have a minute.  I woke up regretful of all the metablogging lately.  I guess right now the important thing isn't so much where I'm writing, or maybe even what I'm writing as much as that I am writing.  Plus, where else am I going to complain that I will be at work tomorrow during the SlutWalk here in Austin?

Last night I attended another wonderful (albeit crowded) edition of Bedpost Confessions, and amongst some really high quality smut saw the wonderful organizers of SlutWalk read out 10 ways to avoid rape which were directed at perpetrators.  Is there really anything a person should have to do to avoid being raped?  No.

This has been a weird week to me.  I've been menstrual and emotional and seemingly non-productive, unless gorging on episodes of How Stuff Works counts.  I think it probably should.

This is my week in links, I suppose.  I accidentally cleaned my van very quickly after forever and 6 bales of hay just so my fam and I could cash in on a groupon to go eat some chicken and waffles with a friend... only to find the place closed.  Frankly, I was more excited to have a clean van than any amount waffles and fried chicken could have satisfied.

Tomorrow at noon is my extended assessment deadline.  I'm gonna clean a house today, and then starting tomorrow, I'm gonna change.  Really, I am, Baby.  I'm gonna write.  I'm gonna treat you right.  Tomorrow.


Even Awful Awful Chemicals Aside... Monsanto is a Menace!

Repost if you're inclined.  Snarkipedia and No Cure For That are projects I am very thrilled to be involved with. (Plus, that's a pretty darn good Sarah Palin impersonation.)


I Wear My Sunglasses On a Tree of Humans with Great Hair

What happens after you're chased (in a fur coat) holding crack, weed and a gun? If you're lucky, you wake up with a stand-up comedy bit (that has nothing to do with the dream) that won't stop running through your head until you finally write it down. (non-sequitor)
Dear Blog,     I'm having some angst. I feel like our relationship has become stagnant and old.  Predictable.  I'm not sure you're meeting my needs anymore, and, I'm fairly certain, I'm not really meeting yours.  
I've tried spicing stuff up.  I mean, take a look at this font.  It's kinky, or at least kicky, right?  I know we have some history now, and this may be a little insensitive given we're a week from our four year blogiversary, but this all just has to be said.  
I'm sure this relationship is giving me exactly what I'm putting into it, but I don't like the shame that underlies it all with us.  I mean, we've had some good sex here, right?  I know, but I go out into the world and pretend that's not me.  I know we could eroticize it all, but I think you know how lazy I am.  If anyone does, it's you.
I don't think I would be being true to myself in a sense to ignore these parts of myself, and I'm between a rock and a hard place here (sigh) and this closet is getting a little small for the both of us.  
I don't want to pretend you never existed, neither could I, but I just can't take you out in public, and blah fucking blah.  I'm not telling you anything.  You just sit here like a lump.  You're not even real.  I made you; I can....  
Fuck, am I talking to my blog again?  We need some help, people.  See, it's much more palatable for me to anthropomorphize my blog, to have a cohort in all this.  I think I might like co-bloggin, yo.  Anyhoo, I've played around with some new blog names, and some new user id things, to maybe uproot and all.  I did start blogging first weekly on MySpace and I liked that.  My friends and my mom read it and though it was definitely different, it served different needs.  My mom even said my writing reminded her of Erma Bombeck's.  Ugggh.

Maybe keeping both is the answer.  I know I feel like there's not enough of me to go around as it is, but you know, doesn't that Slut book refer to all this?  There is not a limited amount of creativity in me, and for a little this summer I might have a tad more (after I write 324902834-98 assessments) time on my hands....  Given the fact that Erotica Gone Awry is my favorite of the blog names I came up with, and Freida Bean was the best Blogger ID I found (so far), I'm not so sure I'm all that ready to change here, damnit.

There was more, but the Baby Bees have just been delivered for their first full week of Fun with Mommy 101 M-F.  Today is actually a day home, and chore charts have been revealed.  Oh, the excitement.  They chose their chores last week, and I just typed them up and if they get it all signed, they'll get an allowance for a change.  Snaggletooth is at a cute stage of wanting to do the hard hitting chores.  The dishes daily, washing the laundry.  And, he just took out a book voluntarily.  How can we contain it all??  Honestly, this is great, but sunset will likely find me running them like dogs, to avoid the stir crazay.

Be well, and stay cool in Riviera™. 

(Also, I just saw Run Lola Run for the first time last night.  Why didn't you tell me?)


Oh, So Much More

Hello Beautiful.  Yesterday, I really wanted to be here, decompressing, taking off my bra and settling in to be holed up for days on end with plenty of coffee and half and half, incentive to write, and a new bullet vibrator.  Interestingly or not, not the point, I have been pondering owning my blog(ging) in the meat world, inviting the folks I know to read my smut... elsewhere, most likely.  I will be returning to my same school next year, which may be the one school on Earth I could get away with a slutty alter-ego.  But, probably I really couldn't.  I've literally asked, "Would I want my mother to read this?"  Likely, she would be like a number of people I know in the meat world who know I "blog" and don't really give a shit or read, but I just can't give up my bulletesque statements up there, and neither can I imagine the parents of students I teach nor my mother loving me the same way in light of them.  True or no, not the point.  There was a conscious decision made to continue this on without paragraph breaks, just so you know. 

So, what happened?  To the plans to hole up for days on end in 12 hours, yesterday?  There was a computer incident on my work computer, the cause of which is shameful, thankfully.  I imagine that playing some inane fb game allowed some trash into my system, and things looked like a hard drive crash, but only on my account, and already this story is boring me.  Push come to shove when you get right down to it when the finger's on the button down to the wire, it may and/ or may not have been caused by that, but really, it's better that I think that, so I quit wasting my time with such nonsense.  And, it probably was the cause.  So, yesterday, I didn't write this, but this wouldn't have been this, whatever is is, without those critical 12 hours in between, only 4.5 of which were devoted to sleep, but this is preferrable to 5 hours, even, since 4.5 is a multiple of 1.5, and if you don't understand that, consider yourself not told the importance (there is none).

I think I was riding on a high horse when I yesterday wrote something to somebody about not wanting to stoop to making the past wrong, but, I'm pretty sure, that's what I do near incessantly.  I'm all about living in the present, in theory, and I think I do a pretty good job of it when I'm alone, but oh, maybe there's something to generalize there, but instead I was interrupted by a nice conversation with a fellow at my work, and the angstful moment slipped away.  In order to save this post, to have the Southpark lesson, I'll have to recharge on the ennui, but for now, meh.  Incidentally, I just watched an episode of South Park with my kids the other day (incriminating, but not so much as another thing*), and their "We're Gonna need a Montage" song has been stuck in my head below the surface ever since.  It's quite good, and if I knew where a good copy of the video was, I'd link to it, but I don't.  Not offhand. 

*My son and I have been enjoying the soundtrack to the Broadway musical The Book of Mormon.  (OMGLMAO) I'm pretty sure I'm gonna burn in hell for buying it almost for him, but for me, too.  It seems I'm going to have to explain what, "Man up all over yourself," means.  Or maybe not.  He asked, but I really coudn't have answered him then, but maybe I shouldn't.  Or, maybe, information is just what it is and it's a good segue to talking about masturbation in some parental responsibility capacity, but maybe it will be clear enough when it is, and eww, washing brain with soap.  I could ask his dad, but I'm such a part-time control freak, I imagine I would be more sex positive, but who the hell are we kidding?  We aren't even a we.  It's just me over up in here.  "Permission not to decide right now and not to feel bad for not deciding right now.  Permission granted."  There, in the spirit of The Book of Mormon the musical, I have shown how Star Trek as religion has entered my psyche.  They're more Star Wars.  I'm more Star Trek (Next Generation).  We're accepting of those beliefs around here, though.  That imaginary we I've slipped back into.  We're gonna need a montage. 

Have I mentioned how, now that my school is out, once I undo the pile of wrap-it-up stuff I have to do to really finish the year, I'm gonna make everything better!  I'm gonna declutterfy and rent a carpet cleaner and paint and walk daily and catch up on sleep and blog and cook and go to AA meetings and clean out that closet and camp and swim without getting water on the brain and visit my dad and do yoga and meditate and make kombucha and make money and write a screenplay and ride bikes with the boys and get them together with their friends and read books and make a budget and write erotica and don't forget poetry or to start early to lesson plan for next year. Summer vacation. Somewhere in there I'll become suitable for consumption, ie. sex, again. Once, I'm worthy. I'm not like the lady in the picture (really). She's actually thin imagining she's not. I've definitely lost my groove/ gotten more realistic, and consequently less ambitious and almost depressed, but that's just the work work work of the end of the year talking (and the ice cream belly).

That was a good place to stop, but apparently, there's more.  Oh, so much more.


On Perry for President

Good lord, I hope I haven't been right since before the 2008 election when I asserted (as many have, I know) that Rick Perry would put his hat in the ring in the 2012 election cycle. What could be seen 3,000 miles away is ever closer, and for once I wish I were wrong. He is sooo slick and cruel. Just the polished sort of candidate the GOP needs.

Check out this video some of my fb friends have been sharing of Texas Representative Senfronia Thompson who is fed up with the sort of treatment women have received by the Texas legislature, under the leadership of Perry.

This is on the coattails of Perry's prized Sonogram Bill. While schools across Texas are closing due to budget cuts, Perry put this forth as emergency legislation (along with stricter voter id standards) which requires a woman to get a sonogram before being able to get an abortion in Texas. It's another financial obstacle for a woman already going through a hard time, which is the way of those in power.


I Really Want to Tell You About How My Van Was Raptured...

... but it seems I have one more week of tribulations before I catch a phat ass break.

I shall see you and be with you, in the biblicalest of senses, before you're finished with your looting.

-Freida of the Bees


The Things Mothers Do For The Ones They Love

"Don't worry Oscar, Lenny, Brenda, and Travis.  If Mama's goin' down (pun only partially intended, but not really because there are the offspring fish to consider and that's just sick, ya sicko), you're going down with her."

Happy Mother's Day.  Of course, you had your slightly burned, but slathered with love, waffles long ago.  You called your mother, and your grandmother, for good measure.  If you're a real suck up, you called your mother-in-law and made her day.  She still talked about you to her sister, like she does every Sunday, but this time she felt a little more guilt than usual, so kudos on that.

Of course, these are all of the things you might be experiencing if you fall for those stereotypical scenarios, willingly or otherwise.  I'm sure I'm in the middle.  "Of what?" you might ask to which I'd have to say a jelly roll, but you know I'm a liar.  I'm actually sitting in the middle of a big fat turd flake, today.

Here I am at work on Mother's Day.  Boo fucking hoo.  Here I am sick.  Did I cry today?  Yes, but that was probably only because my body said no coffee and you know there's all that suppressed tiredness that got me jumpin' the shark on up over in here (whatever that means).  Coffee is my last vestige of addiction (if you don't count food, sex, kombuchas, whining, my phone, tv, and the internets), so I am allowed to mourn the loss of her java ways.  I have avoided moving into full-on anxiety attacks this coffee go around, but we all know it's only a matter of time before she turns my cruel alertness to matters best not thought about, like how fast my heart is beating while I'm dying.

I suspect I am mourning things other than coffee, as well, but my co-worker who replaces me just showed up, so I probably won't go into all that.  Suffice it to say, another McSweeney's List was submitted and last night I laughed my cajones off watching Ladiez being funny.  Right off.  Catharsis, people.  Catharsis.  There is one three-day school week left and two four-day ones, a field trip to NASA with a bunch of hormone infused tweens (including The Genius) and probably no sex until school is out.  (How clever to slip a complaint about no sex in there after all this time, though upon re-reading, quite ineptly, since it's adjoined to a sentence about chaperoning a field trip of 6th graders.)

But, seriously I'm in a hurry on up over in here.  I'm just gonna flip this swi

SNL Covers the GOP 2012 Undeclared Candidates Debate... Perfectly


A Week in the Life of the Entitled

Oh hey oh.  Just livin' it up over in here at my work, chillaxin' on a Sunday mornin' comin' down on the internets.  I can't directly speak for the entitled, unless being under a financial hardship student loan deferment qualifies me, which I don't think is the case, but having been formerly entitled, and currently the parent of the entitled, I feel, er, entitled to speak for the entitled.

I couldn't rightly tell you what my entitled children are up to while I'm here at my work, because I have been working nearly every weekend for the past five years and don't see them on Saturdays and Sundays, but I assure you it involves decadent amounts of cereal that no doubt you, the tax payer, are paying for in some indirect manner (most likely through funding overseas wars that make the gas his dad used to drive to the grocery store to buy the cereal possible).  The socialism of it!  I know. 

My two sons are spoiled by the fruits of this great country with their exorbitant CHIP coverage.  I know I should be ashamed, but it's just such good health care coverage that I am hardly sorry.  There, I said it!  It's not too often we use their healthcare coverage, twice a year, but I did go fill that prescription so Snaggletooth could have Epi-Pens at school, his dad's, and my house in the event he gets stung by a bee and has a life-threatening reaction.  I'm a greedy fuck, I know.  Also, there was that time I went and got him diagnosed as colorblind from that theivin' socialist eye doctor.  I know, and I'm sorry.  Other than that, we've been meager entitled people.  My children are dutifully healthy and save for one bout of pneumonia The Genius indulged, I've been a good mother.  (That was several years ago, so I hope you won't hold it against us.)

You see, though I work 60+ hours a week, I am not able to provide my sons with health insurance.  My daughters are covered by the state, but that is because the ex-Mr. Bee works for the state and they are covered though his employment.  I'm not sure if that's socialism or not.  That's a borderline scenario, but one might say the whole lot of 'em, the ex Mr. Bee and my daughters, are entitled, as well.

I, however, am blissfully not entitled at the moment.  I may need dental work, but I patch together enough pay to survive between part-time teaching, security guardin', tutoring, housecleaning, and the occasional trick*, but believe you me I'm not doing it with an impeccable smile.  You're welcome, taxpayer.

I was formerly entitled.  I shamefully received Pell Grants and unsubsidized student loans I thought might even be forgiven since I went into that socialist racket called teaching, but lucky for you, taxpayer, so many public school cuts have occurred, a middle grades certified math teacher with a math degree from one of the premier teaching programs in the US cannot find a job these days.  Lucky for you, teaching positions are being cut right and left.  You Libertarians might be happy to know I got a job in a private school were it not for the fact that it's a non-profit with low-ish tuition that struggles to keep its doors open enough that it cannot afford to provide me with health insurance.  What up, private sector?

I was once a shamefully entitled whore.  I selfishly got myself dumped by the Mr. Bee before the ex-Mr. Bee and became a single mother at 23.  Though I cleaned a midwife's house (for years!) to barter the home births 
of my daughters, it was with Medicaid in hand that I selfishly transferred to the hospital during my labor of The Lip Model to have my 24 hour labor induced.  I know, and I'm sorry.

While the Pope is washin' my feet over in here, I might as well say that I got my thyroid removed on the taxpayer's dime during a three month period when Mr. Bee was unemployed and we were doing bonafide welfare that one time 8 years ago, shortly after Snaggletooth was born.  I'm sorry I'm not a crazy hyperthyroid (albeit skinny) loon any more, but I pulled my entitled self up from my bootstraps after that and went back to school for the next six years to get where I am, now a (whole lot in student loan debt) single mom (with fabulous equal custody baby-daddy support) with four children.

Let's not devote a paragraph to my relief that in some Tuesday in the next month I can skip my sliding scale women's group to go to a once a week clinic that will renew my thyroid medicine, and if I'm feeling really selfish, look into this bruised feeling that's been persisting the last few months between my left breast and shoulder blade. God,I hope it's not breast cancer or some shit.  Ok, we won't.
This week my single-parent family unit departed from our usual entitled routine a bit when our mini-van broke down.  Since mommy can't afford a new alternator until she gets paid (after she pays the cell phone bill so she can keep the cogs going, after she pays the rent, after she pays the electric, after she buys a new Cadillac), she went and spent money borrowed from her 11 year-old (clearly, entitled) to buy a bike lock, so they could ride their commie pinko bicycles to school for a change.  (The third person references are no doubt side-effects.)

I did cash in on the sweat of a lass more fortunate (has a running (and cute) car) than me by accepting a ride to my weekend job from my lovely neighbor who pitied the prospect of long by bus rides making my 2 12-hour weekend workdays 16 hours long.  She's such a socialist, and I'm thankful for that.

The funny thing is I don't really want a car.  I don't, but I will begrudgingly be spending my precious hard-earned pay to fix the damn machine threatening my children's futures.  (The Genius himself commented on how much cars make the air stink when we were riding our bikes to school Friday.)  But, with our new bike lock, and de-flattened bike tires, we will be adopting riding our bikes to school two days a week.  I'll see how it goes getting to my teaching job Monday- Wednesday via bus, because save for the self-inflicted cruelty of 16 hour days, I'm hoping to stick it to the man (with the equivalence of a feather tickle) by cutting back on my gas-mongering as much as I can.

That's what up in the world of the entitled, but don't take my word for it, check out Cassandra Bang's newest Snarkipedia entry about Entitlement Programs

And, check out her Snarkipedia Channel on YouTube-- All Snark All the Time.

 *Support No Cure for That by spreading the Snarky word and the linky love, por favor.


The New American Idol

Here is another of those lovely Snarkipedia videos I'm co-writing. You can tell this one's co-written by Dennis, as it has his perkiness written all over it. I'm not nearly as optimistic that the American Empire is in his final days. Plus, there's Cassandra Bang who makes the imperfections perfect.


Climb up a Tree, Fall Out, Repeat

whoa cheetah,

let's make excuses.  getting 10 months of pictures off my phone today.  that's what I did that made my back stiff and my mind glazed over like a donut melting in your mouth.  

never enough time to clean it, parse it, devour it.
sink in hard.  grind it down to the nub.
set it afire, so we can inhale the fumes
and pretend they fill us up.
that's not really smoke leaking out of the holes where you poked me with your prickles.
it's not.

never enough perfection to last.
get filled up again and again and again and again
and you still have to do it again and again and again.
is that good or bad?
ask the sage writers of words on tea bag paper.
that's a job with pressure, lives in the balance,

where do I put this sublime offering?
I neglectfully held it for this long and forgot the procedure.
step one: breathe.
step two: breathe
step three: breathe harder
step q: let it consume you.
at least, that's what the tea bag says.

this is the part that must surpass all that other previous inadequacy.
it all comes down to this moment.
I must meet it, friendly or no;
it and I must meld and martinize my mind with vulcanic precision.
instant results fizzing up to the brim....
breathe, sink, repeat.  breathe, sink, repeat.
no pressure.

I let the glaze melt in your mouth,
let it all wash away.
my back and this steel blend,
so I am stronger,
even if less concentrated than before,
able to embrace the contradiction
it seems this is so long as I forget the steel is me.

groovy book pic from here.


"Hark," the Harold Angel Sings.

Look, I know I have good taste in the pics I steal, and I'm sorry I've gotten so callous about it.  I have, in the last day, (which is a lie, but only for this sentence's sake): 1) put a post back into draft status because it was generating the majority of my views (yes, the whipped cream pic) and 2) stolen yet another picture from I have no idea where from I don't know what (clearly obscure absurd-- that was the search term) movie.

All that aside....  Oh, hey.  How are you?  I'm feelin' pensive over up in here.  Me-n-my sheep.  I am supposed to finish my dishes and clean out my closet, so I can put my stuff in there for The Future President (Austin Tennis Champ extraordinaire) to have my soon-to-be former dresser. Oh, contain your excitement, will ya?  There's oh so much more I am trying my darnedest to say without going off on something shiny, and yes, I haven't eaten dinner, so I probably should go do that and all the things between here and there that catch my eye.  Baaaaa.

So, when Randal said (you would know where if you were a good reader) ....  Wait, what'd he say? "Oh, I would suggest one of those writerly plot spreadsheet template things, but that's just way too publishing conglomerate orderly for such a artistic spewing." And, that's how he said it, in those tiny letters that require big black glasses this sheep lady should be wearing.  I listened to him, you know, and, well, one thing lead to another, as things on the intertubes are wont to do and we were making out I found a "What type of plot are you developing?" spreadsheet thingy and then bladablah I was referred to this book that you should go peek inside.  NOW!  Seriously.  It was saying everything I was just realizing or just needing to know for this very early early stage of my book that I think is a movie (which sucks in some ways because I know book, not screenplay, but I'm just going to see what it becomes).  Basically, what came to me is a thing that happens to two people and to summarize the peek I took inside the book, my story (which is the gist of what I saw in my dream) is what develops when outside events (plot) happen to the characters (who are slight variations, assumptions, extrapolations, and fictionalizationings of people i know in the meat word) based on who they are.  I found that profound, but I'm pretty sure that online English II course I took a few years ago probably meant to say it, but yea for ears that can hear 'cause they want something.  This helps me to know what is pre-determined (character) and what can be steam of consciously created (plot).  A really rad chick I know decided to buy me that book after I was talking about it, so there will be 1500% more profundity on this blog in weeks to come.  (Than what?  Ask the sheep.)

I know I promised the mockings of how scientists might go about measuring disenchantment, but your patience is part of my own in-depth study on the matter.  In the meantime, you should know that all of this is perfectly synchronous with the fact that I am now a professional writer.  Seriously, but you don't have to watch The Secret to find this out.  You can just watch this video.  (I mean the one that will come at the end of all the words that remain in this post.)

Some of you know Dennis as Davis Fleetwood, The Hermit, a Dennis Kucinich-lovin' son of a gun.  Others of you know him because you stalked him with Lit 101 submissions.  Others of you know him from his blog, which has had several incarnations.  Well, for those of you who don't know of him, you're just in time.  He's doing this really awesome project, Snarkipedia, with Cassandra Meow Bang and it may and/ or may not be true that yours truly helped to write the script for one or more of the entries (one that's out/ more to come).  My favorite part is the part I wrote.  Can you guess which part that is?  Though, where it went after that went above an beyond what I'd envisioned The Donald capable of....  I think Dennis already read the book and, knowing The Donald's character, pontificated where he's going with this whole presidential reality show schtick of his.  Be scarred America, and scared.



Where do Tamales Come From, Mommy?

Snaggletooth: "What kind of plant do tamales grow on?"
Freida: "Um, they're made by people, Snaggletooth."
The Genius: "I was wondering the same thing."
Freida: "Yeah, they're prepared and then baked in the corn husks."
The Genius: "I was wondering how the chicken got in there."
Something very poignant should go right here ________________.  Matters of great import only are allowed to follow such reverent matters.  Two paragraphs of complaints have already fluffily disappeared, but since Facebook Scramble won't load up (in either Firefox or IE), you may be in luck yet.

Did I tell you I was going to have dinner with a friend last Saturday?  Oh, I haven't really blogged in weeks, so how could you know?  Smart ass.  Well, I did, and during the discourse of the evening, I mentioned my interest in writing a book, and then she had the balls to ask the $24,000 question, "Do you have an idea?"

"Uh, well, yeah, um, I guess not specifically."  I went on to explain that the narcissistic memoir idea had spun off into about 4 different first 12,000-word variations, which left me wanting to go the fiction route more than ever, but uh, yeah, no.  I didn't have a clue about what I would want to write a book about.  A story, I suppose.

It was depressing, to tell you the truth.  Not the dinner itself, but this aspect of it... in a sense.  Like the fine procrastinator that I am, I thought, "I'll have to sit down and do that sometime."  Ponder ideas, that is.  Good thing for lazy me I work even while I'm sleeping and low and behold Thursday morning I awoke from a dream the last part of which I recognized as a brilliant last scene/ premise for a book/ movie.  Not that it is, but at least I see it as such.  Holy fucking cow.  I've always wanted to be so lucky.  I've always wanted brilliant ideas to come to me while I'm sleeping.  Can't we all, solve all our problems in our sleep?

So, now I have an idea.  It's bare-boned.  Or rather, it's the pelvis and coccyx of an idea that I have.  Fortunately, when I woke up that morning, I recognized it for what it was and wrote the basic gist in Google Docs.  Snaggletooth was there while I wrote it, asking me what I was writing, now able to read for himself.  It's actually rather PG, though I'm sure I will likely trash it up.  Though... it does have a teen novel appeal.  Nah, too boring.  But, it does have a huge potential for romantic tragicomedy, so be sure to kick me if I go there.  (Also, kick me if I support the bake sale at my work a third time today, please, and uggh.)

When Snaggletooth got home from school later that day, he asked me if I had written my book yet.  He's so cute..., but the prospect seems daunting.  Where do I go now?  Outline it, brainstorm it?  Develop characters, plot?  Stream of conscious it?  Holy fuck.  Maybe, I should read what others do.  Maybe, I should let my own (sic) genius be untethered.  Damn, maybe I should recall what others of you have said.  Well, anyhow.  A first millistep has been thought.  Miles to go. 

Yesterday, being Friday, no more school day, Snaggletooth's creative juices were a flowin'.  He helped me make some delicious shish kabobs after I told him I would buy skewers at the grocery store if he would.  Together we made the best freakin' shish kabobs I've ever had.  Pork, four colors of peppers, onions and potatoes with a delish roasted pepper olive oil, millions of tiny diced garlics, salt, paprika, and parsley.  After that, he made me the grooviest earrings ever out of paperclips (not just hooked together, but wired formed).  He then pursued to find two Bud Lite bottle caps around our apartment complex in his endeavor to make something out of them, but fortunately, he tired of jewelry-making before I was forced to wash,  hammer holes into, and wear Bud Lite bottle caps, 'cause you know I would.

After a break, he was raring to go again, asking me, "What's something I'm not very good at, and need to get better at?"  I avoided his loaded question by answering it with a question (in proper teacher form), and drawing is what he resorted to (as usual), but it certainly doesn't fit that description.  He's one of the most amazing artists, even at 8, that I've ever known.  He is certainly a delight.  I already said that, didn't I?  Well, I'm looking forward to summer vacacay when I am with my children so much I tire of them.  Things are pretty good.

I've been a little down these past couple weeks, but I'm pretty sure that's from cutting back on my exercise (not intentionally).  I have only gone to run/ walk once a week for the last three weeks.  I'm wanting to jump back on the wagon there.  I thought I might even start my 10k training thing over again.  I liked it, but I only got to the 10th of 13 weeks, since the 10k happened at that point.  I already feel back to lazy, which reminds me of a blurb I heard on NPR on my way to work one day.

Offhandedly, some person, (scientist, sociologist?) referred to research that had been conducted in which "measuring disenchantment" had occurred.  Having, in recent years, taken Real Analysis more times than I want to admit (all about proving), having been drilled on the importance of taking people to (gentle) task to explain their thinking, having been compelled to emphasize the need for scientific hypotheses to be refutable, measurable, "measuring disenchantment" tickled my fucking fancy!

I have pondered how one might do this, but not yet in writing. Maybe, it should be a post unto itself?

To be continued....

(Ooo , I hate it when people do that!)


Momentum Stopper: Rainbows are Brown

Oh Nutball!  I haven't posted in you know how long and for some reason I'm going to once again make it wrong and then say, "I really should be doing something else besides blogging right now."

There's no winning on this blog, and that's probably for the better anyway, wouldn't you say, Mr. Green Jeans?  Don't get me wrong, brown is my favorite color, yes, but green is my second favorite, followed by blue, then purple, then red, then orange, then yellow.  Clearly it is for yellow I write this.  

Don't worry; this (and by this, I mean the mega-meta-cosmos which surely outlasts this little blip of an existence which we are temporarily experiencing as a sharp jab to the groin) is confusing me, as well.  Are we happy?  Are we sad?  Are we mad?  Are we joined at the hip, the mind, the genitals?  Via an Atari extension cord?  Tell me.

Did I mention my new haircut is meh?

Since we last spoke four score and seven 3.59 hour increments ago, I 1) ran/ walked a 10K with 23,000 other people here in Austin.  Sadly, I am by far not the weirdest amongst the weird, especially on the outside, here in Austin.  In fact, according to the finish line picture show I received from Big Brother in my inbox, after an hour and thirty minutes of running, I just look like I need a new sports bra and to turn my determined frown upside down, though, of course, I would say pshaw at that were I given the opportunity.

Did I mention I felt severely slut shamed this past week by someone I am very close to?  I flippantly might say it would be easier to take if the proverbial high heel fit, but I'm pretty sure since my ideal amount of slutty activity is less than my actual amount of slutty activity, instead I felt enough of a false sense of purity to discern the "alleged" from the "deserved," which, of course, is none, and just feel very upset.  If I could be vaguer about that, you know I would.  Suffice it to say, people need to get over their shit, especially if it's misogynistic, mmmkay.

What else?  What else?  There's stuff the about the parenting.  It's hard work, yo, but ain't they cute?  I just hope my now 18 year-old isn't the one who is the future care-taker of my cell-phone service, otherwise she'll surely be punishing me for peeing in my pants with intermittent service... for my own good.  She got a job though, yo.  Yo, yo.  The Genius was sick this past week, but he's getting so tweeny, it ain't funny and I keep thinking each time he's willing to snuggle might be his last.  Sniffle.  After the 10K, I gave myself permission to be a lazy bum (if you exclude the 14 straight days of working (aside from the day I ran the 10K)) and not run but once this week when Snaggletooth and I tried our now famous me running while he rides his bike.  It was a smashing success!  Also, The Future President now has a letter jacket and new trophy for her amazing tennis exploits, yo.  Things are pretty good.  I feel blessed, if by blessed we mean haggardly tired, like my house is a mess (srsly), broke, and horny as hell, yo.

What else?  What else?  Oh, there is the political.  Yes, I saw how the Onion April Fooled that the Republican Party is endorsing Barack Obama.  I also got the news that this peeping tom is sick of watching people watch tv.  See... politics.  Riveting.

Apparently, I'm free tutoring my co-worker now, who is early!  Here, let Sergio entertain you...


Inneffective Dissent: No More War:: Muskrat Love: My Sex Life-- On Multiple Levels

Hey look, nuclear meltdowns are something we can live with now.  This new war will be effective because France started it.  Fuck that, Freedom Fry lovers.  Liberal is the new conservative and Marissa Tomei is ahead of Sarah Palin and Charlie Sheen combined in the Republican polls.  Do you feel neglected, America?  Don't worry.  For only $200,000,000 today, $260,000,000 in twenty years, you can spray this Muskrat Love musk on yourself and drive all the men crazy!

Yesterday, as I drove my soccer mom killing machine, I actually wondered if radiation might be less harmful to the earth than my petroleum powered destruction.  The UK seems to think so, and the Brits usually are right, you know.  Except when they're not.  It's so easy to be distracted.  This post, this blog, these are not political things any more than Marissa Tomei is less qualified than Sarah Palin to be president.  You see through the double speak, don't you?  You got my drift, caught the muskrat hint, didn't you?

All this is to say that last night was the first night I had my apartment to myself in far too long betwixt childrens and an extended house guest and that reminds me to go replace my little bullet friend. But, I just fell asleep last night anyway.  Blissfully early.  The next thing on my list of things to refer to after masturbation is my iconoclastic meeting with iSplotchy.  I am afraid to report that we broke the number one rule of blogger meet-up etiquette.  We did not take a picture of ourselves together!  It seems that for someone as IT savvy as him (maybe, it should be he, but I dislike the sound of that, but not this inserted comment) and as ocd-esque as me (I-- fuck it), we did not have a functioning camera betwixt us or his friend Andy, who played Splotchy's effervescent and entertaining wing man.  Since we happened to sit at a table next to someone 10 miles away from where I live who happens to live at the same apartments as me, we discovered after she was understandably eavesdropping in on our fascinating conversation, we also may have had the opportunity to ask someone like her to help us out, but noooo, we didn't even think about it.  (Apparently, ours was a collective mind at that point.)  Talk about not meta-blog meet-upping it up.  Though I felt fatter after peanut butter pie, magnolia enchiladas, the piece of cake I'd already had for a lass at work's b-day, I felt content and fulfilled.  All's I'm sayin' internets, is be jealous, very very jealous.  Though I can't prove it, it's warranted. 

Well, there were thirteen other items on my pert agenda, but I have a really busy shhedule, so you'll get the condensed version, damnit:
  1. There were two great shows at SXSW I almost mighta could seen.
  2. I may or may not have tasted my own homemade kombucha, which is as delicious and sexy an act as it sounds.
  3. I am now a real, not wooden, teacher, since I push around one of these.
  4. I am not above linking to sexy pictures of school/ office supplies.  And just to prove it.
  5. I may and/ or may not be listing this one just as filler.
  6. Happy Supermoon Equinox thing.  Now, we can guiltlessly wear white shoes while we eat chips.
  7. Yes, in the grand tradition of all that is slimy, I am pimping chips, and want to see this movie™ (which seems a good balance to cramming Mad Men like I am.
  8. To do:  Sign up for your CSA or mine.
  9. Here's a treat.
  10. Fuck, that's all I have.  I have to teach again tomorrow, and I'm not ready in the least or the most or at all. 
  11. I want to make it to gaybigaygay and run and sleep and watch Mad Men tonight and be well-prepared for tomorrow, which altogether defies the laws of physics, damnit.
  12. In addition to cutting out schools, and teachers, and health insurance coverage, and worker protections, rather than cut out military spending or corporate profiteering, it makes the most sense to next cut out ELECTIONS. While I might say that though it is true that the whole charade might just be a waste of time, I can only imagine which cuts will be next: 
    • rampant toilet paper abuse
    • every other sip of water
    • four hours out of every day (including happy hour)
    • disposable bags at the grocery store (communists)
    • spitting
    • free coffee at work in government offices
    • NPR  √
    • free raw goat milk delivered fresh to your door each morning
    • my sexy silver-haired fox of a postal worker and all other postal workers

    You needn't let this worry you, experts say, as there will be many who benefit from the cut-backs:
    • radiation taco makers
    • uniform fetishists
    • the porn industry
    • bloggers
    • security guard applicants at government facilities
    • election workers
    • Haliburton
    • people who hate voting, don't, and then feel guilty for it
    • your boss
  13. Muskrat Love


Variations on Blogging

This post decidedly does not reflect how I feel, but rather how Keith Hampshire feels, which we all know is paramount (you can tell from the lettering).

He's feeling smooth and lucky.  He's feeling bronzed and mellow.  He knows that any minute now (in about an hour and nineteen minutes, but less now, some sort of blogging wormhole or loophole is going to be breached).  Ok, some of you are calling it a Supermoon, but when I meet Splotchy, all I want to do is sit on a sidewalk at Whole Foods and take the doodle/ froodle requests of hipster passersby.

Did Keith just wink?  Did he just raise his eyebrow?  He's definitely hitting on you and there's nothing we can do to stop it.  It's a momentum thing.  You wouldn't understand.

I have about -5 minutes to finish this post before I change out of my security guard garb to my Austin Purist Persona.  Now, I have -8 minutes until my replacement shows, so stuff's getting down to the proverbial wire.  What else?  What else?  Spring Break is virtually over.  Starting tomorrow, I'm back to cramming all my teaching prep into Sunday.  That was exciting to say.

There's some personal stuff, but it's super duper über goober personal and I'm afraid Keith will feel violated if I reveal our now merged innermost thoughts, hopes, and fears.  (It's him, not me.)

Ciao bella.  (Also, do you notice how a partially melted down nuclear power plant is just olde hat now and a new war got slipped into the mix?)

I told ya.  Smooth.


This is Me Not Being Overly Dramatic

I don't want to be overly dramatic here, nor do I want to be laissez faire.  Today just doesn't seem business as usual to me, though.  Granted, it's not.  It's spring break and I'm filling in for my boss at my weekend job, and the boys have a stomach virus to boot, but damn.  Stuff feels fucked up, today.  I'm sure reading this and this didn't help.

I just keep wondering why the fuck I'm not yet living on my self-sustainable farm.  I'm gonna learn how to do two more things on my bike tomorrow night, and I have decided that I am 67% sure I am going to spend my next few summers off teaching apprenticing with a midwife again.  I did so for six months many years ago, and loved it, and now two old friends of mine are in practice together and I just really want to follow through with that.  It's something I can do while I'm teaching... when I'm not writing that fictitious book, of course.  Also, I need to be gardening, knitting, cleaning a closet, doing yoga, meditating, and and 12 others.  Not half-decaf coffee, geothermic pictures of the ocean floor, and, apparently, being two days late a second time in a row on my next running session, and pans of puke do this to me.  (I'm sure eating TGIFriday tatoskins from the vending machine atop my organic salad and dressing aren't helping, either.  Wow, that guy's a dick.

Oh, where was I?  Oh yeah, I'm at work.  I guess blogging three days in a row feels a little excessive, like calling your mom every day instead of every other Sunday... unless that's what you're used to, perhaps.  What is there to talk about?  The overly personal.  I'm caught between a willing to spill even more than me person and a mum's the worder in a very delightful way, but without the dilemma (on my part) that might imply.  I've got a dinner planned with one of my favorite bloggers of all time, and it's spring break (tittie flash).  So, there's a whole lotta eating your heart out to be doing.  That's all, and after today I will not be working (aside from on labors of the heart) for a whole four days, but most of those days are filled with juicy plans while grading workbooks kisses my ass.

There is the political to mention, I suppose, but who amongst you can't address those issues as well or better than me.  If you're reading this here, unless you're looking for a pic of a woman in a bathtub covered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream , you're probably already more politically savvy than me.  I've got some Sex at Dawn to read for our book club group Sunday and any number of things I can mention that is not eating kelp capsules, but there will be some of that, too.  My major consideration is what am I going to tell the boys to get them to eat them?  Tablets, they'd eat no questions asked, but capsules are weird, you know.

Think I'm off work here in a sec, an hour and a half before schedule, yo.  See you in the mumblemumbles.


Cover the Children's Ears (and Feed Them Kelp)

While I think it is completely irresponsible to shelter children from the (at least perceived) realities of this world we inhabit, there are some burdens I do attempt to spare my children.  It is not their role to bear financial strain or to worry about their basic needs being met.  Of course, that doesn't mean they should go around like inconsiderate, wasteful fucks, either.  There's a balance. 

Recently, I've been trying to impart a little Rainbow Gathering mentality upon The Lip Model.  It doesn't really matter that ever since I was 23 I've had children and never have actually attended a Rainbow Gathering, likely because I've never really set up my life to be able to take time off for hippidome; I've tried to bring it into the home.  I dare say I was more successful at such attempts in my younger years, however, but the fact remains the same, I feel a bit like a failure to see my daughter not have the decency to leave the earth, our carpet, our table or whatever in "at least as good condition as she found it."  At least we who drive around in cars and clean up after ourselves with our spray bottles and the like have the decency to present ourselves as such.

Basically, this is a "we're screwed" post.  It's not like you don't already know this.  Ever since I did those three or however many hits of acid at age 20, I've known this.  I painfully watched the earth degrade from a pristine place to the state it was in then (1990), and I'm sure I don't need acid to tell me how screwed we as a collective of humans are.  I tend to think it trite to pretend I know what real suffering is.  I've endured family violence, I've endured addiction, and I've endured divorce and poverty, but seriously would I be asking for my birthday's due, 41 spankings, if my life were anything other than privileged? 

The best I can do right now to commiserate with Japanese people who are clearly suffering as I can see on pictures on Yahoo when I browse the internet and eat a box of microwave stirfry at my cush weekend job is to be mindful of the somberness of the situation at hand (and donate the wee bit I can-- text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10).  I am facing in myself a thrill-seeking mentality I want to blame my culture for instilling in me that wants to see a nuclear meltdown happen.  Of course, I don't, but there is a part of me that goes there when I see a news headline.  Honestly, it is within my own world views and within a core belief of mine that we are literally all one, to believe that if we are collectively teetering on this as a co-reality, we must all be in on it.  STOP!

There is irony that is not at all humorous in the fact that just last Monday we were privileged at the school where I teach to have a prominent woman from the Never Again Campaign come and visit our school and warn of the dangers of nuclear proliferation in the world.  Of course, the focus there is nuclear war, but is flirting around with nuclear power, fossil fuel consumption, chemicals in their myriad forms really worth it?

I'm pretty sure it's harder to keep these feelings of direness down today because we found out yesterday that The Genius, for a second year in a row, did not get into a local middle school magnet program he (we) was (were) pursuing.  I know five years ago I would have been all over the idea of valuing students not just for their test-score achievements in the very same program that was protested against for having a point system that made it impossible for a student without commended TAKS scores to get into said program.  No amount of teacher recommendations, good grades or other community service or displays of brilliant thought could trump that reality, but I was, to a certain degree, hoping it was somewhat still in place as The Genius is one who can play that game... to a certain extent.  He missed nary a problem on his math or science TAKS tests last year, and did fall in just above the commended level on the reading portion, as well.  He had a rough beginning of the year in other ways, and those were taken into consideration.  He made a C on his report card for the first time ever, for not turning in a major assignment he lied to his dad and me about and his smart assery (where in the fuck could he get that?) in class has caused him to sit out on many a lunch this year.  His teacher recommendations (even from the teacher I student taught with last semester) just couldn't be that great.  All that being said, he has really been turning that around, and I'm not even going to go into how I think it is somewhat related to his getting a haircut.  (Ugghh- though, in that thought's defense, it was totally covering his eyes in a way that just made him look sneaky.)

So, now we tell this gt student since the third grade that this magnet program really isn't everything (which does contradict the sentiment his sister and I tried to support him in relaying to the essay judges on his application).  Never mind.   Though honestly, I really don't think it's a totally misguided decision on the school's part.  He does do the bare minimum asked of him, and sometimes that requires a little arm twisting that I can't say I'm interested in doing for the next three years+.  As a teacher, a parent of a ged-taking high school drop-out (who did get into this same program on an appeal), and a gt child who is a good student who also went through this program, is an A/B student in mostly pre-AP classes, and is lettering in a sport this year, it may have been one of the best life lessons for her ever to have been kicked out of the art program she was so excited to be in because she got caught skipping school and possessing tobacco last year.

Though I'm pretty sure she's just a better game player who has the sense to present herself hook, line and sinker as wholesome to someone who knows that schtick all too well, there is a certain pride I get in knowing that I've raised someone who seems on track to "succeed."  Fuck.  I sometimes value authenticity more than achievement, but see how I do it right here?  Don't read Mommy's naughty blog.  Don't tell Mommy's mom that her 41 year old daughter with four children has a filthy mind and likes it in the ass and will write that on the internets.  Seriously.  Don't.

This really is a fucked up world I see myself in, and I can blame Obama because he reopened Guantanamo and it all would have been better if Kucinich were giving his union speeching to Wisconsinians as president, but how much better?  There is a thrill seeking core in me that is all too aware that the healing crisis is good.  I welcome the nasty, bitter anger in me or the pained tears in me.  I know life can suck at times, but I've matured past thinking thinking myself a martyr for being born.  That's what that is, right?  Maturity?

(I apologize for these, more Mad Men references, which I hope will stop after I finish watching the dvds.)  I've been getting off on Betty Draper's apparently inevitable break down.  I tend to welcome the crash of banks, the end of the oil, the fall of the west that will make way for a more peaceful world to ensue, but I don't really.  I'm not sure I know how to straddle these two seemingly conflicting views, the desire for justice and the desire for security, in a society that has neither in mind in any long-term sense.  Like Betty Draper (sic and without the awesome wardrobe), I blame her husband, his handsomeness, and his ilk.  They'll milk it all until it's not profitable to do so, you know, even if tenderly reflecting upon the way.

This is why the next right thing is the only fucking thing that works for me in this teenage angst.  This week included some awesome moments, truly: some super sex, a wonderful first kiss, dancing to exhaustion, feeling appreciated at my school, and today, bandaging a 76 year-old woman's thumb here at my weekend job.  I feel that I'm a mostly-passive agent for semi-change, one who responds to shitty situations with an iota of class, usually.  Sure that changes a minimal amount in one's life what with Ashton Kutcher and his Butterfly Effect and all, but really, it doesn't feel like enough.

Last week I had the pleasure of subbing for a teacher who is teaching our students about Permaculture, and I keep seeing those 12 principles of Permaculture everywhere, especially the one about taking small, sustainable steps for lasting change.  Maybe, that shit works.  I've witnessed it in myself in certain realms (mostly therapy and sobriety).  Within it there is not the thrill-seeking tale of survival, but the slow tale of crisis after crisis that may or may not have ever occured's being averted.  There aren't as many movies about that.

So (Written) Yesterday

Dear Omniscient Observer of My Insidiously Private Innermost Thoughts,

     I suspect that the mere clueless act of writing this insults your very being; you know that's what I live to do.  I don't trust you as far as I can throw you (which is 2), and because I imagine you gloat each and every day you observe my relative bliss in the face of surrendering to your raw and awesome cock on my mouth, I still rue the sustenance you provide.  I admit that there is the slightest possibility that I am being overly dramatic here, but you would presciently know that already, now wouldn't you?
     Today, I ate cottage cheese, oatmeal and a banana to appease your raging hard-on, but still you mocked my efforts.  I understand you're a kinky bastard and you get off on watching me make myself squirm, but throwing a number of seemingly out of the bluely unresolved events from my recent and far past at me all at once is a sadistic blow, even for you.  Pitting my effervescent need for sleep against my urge to dance is just the icing.  Thanks.

Reluctantly and lovingly yours,
Fantasizing About Sufficient Sleep

When I awoke, I was confused to see sunlight through my window.  Still, I was too well-rested and relaxed to rush into fight or flight over oversleeping before I allowed a fact to find me; I didn't have to leave the bed, which was good, since my ass was sinking into my mattress perfectly.  I pressed my thighs together in a squirmy way and let my arm fall where P had slept just two nights before.  Our excursion into an abrupt, one-month co-habitation ended when he returned home from what was to be a one-week visit.  I wasn't sure how it all sat with me just yet.

Though there were many things he had done exquisitely, fondling my breasts was not among his priorities.  I made it mine.  Running my palm across one nipple and then the other through my threadbare t-shirt, I imagined touching K's breasts the way I was touching my own.   I had been wanting those breasts.  They has nursed children and sat in their delectable mix of realistic and larger than expected in a way that did not intimidate, but invite.  I squeezed my own nipples, firmly.

In my mind's eye, I put my mouth to K's breast and pressed my own to her stomach.  I slid up to kiss her, so we were all mashed together.  It occurred to me to put olive oil on my mental grocery list.  Thoughts of ten minutes of kissing and sliding our breasts together seemed worth the imagined mess.

As I touched myself through my panties and alongside them, I imagined P licking me with my mouth was on K's cunt... and fell back into blissful sleep.       


Oh, The Torture

We don't have long here, so let's cut to the chase.  I am working today at my weekend job on a Friday and aside from getting paid, I generally don't feel like a complete person unless I accomplish something aside from my menial job, which today included escorting someone who had been fired to the door.  Yuk. 

Saw people read some great erotica last night, had my hardest session of running yet this morning, even though it wasn't the most rigorous.  I'm in a mood to be handled with kidgloves.  You know, ones that are all sticky and dirty.

What else?  What else?  There may or may not be things I may or may not wish to vent here that would take longer than 5 minutes to go into, and you'll just have to use your imagination as to what could possibly have me feeling Betty Draper levels of ennui, particularly when you consider my lack of such a great wardrobe.  She drinks like I did.  I didn't think I could take cues on how to cope from her as I chunk my way through Mad Men, but things are looking up as she just took up horseback riding with a fellow that wants to (sic) bed her.  Things are looking up for us, huh Birdy?  

Well, there it was, all the time we have together today.  My children aren't going to pick themselves up from school and today I am well glad of that.  Things move fast, yo.  


Almost Impossible to Get Out of Order

Well, well, well, here is a blog and here is a picture and here is a spanking. You're welcome. Has it been two weeks? Holy fuck and the like. I'm sure the world is dying to know that I can now run in little 10 minute intervals, that my students will be applying their new-found knowledge of tessellations to a class quilting project, and I'm screwing a purported "anarchist" on my couch. Don't worry about the children.  I've since washed the couch covers. I mean really, it is Charlie Sheen.  Not even he knows where he's been.

Aside from my hereby and forthwithily declaring ownership of your newest catchphrase, "Spanking is the new vanilla," I can only report getting 69 righter than ever and being half-assedly ashamed to be speaking of sex in such a direct manner here in innuendoville. Is this here pseudoblog destined for the archives as some pseudo-pseudoblog steps into its shoes? Is Innuendoville taken?  Nooo.  Oh, goody.  Now I possess it, own it, took it away from you and all others, my new blog, the one I don't not need like I need another hole in my underwear. 

I've made some life decisions over here about which I'm sure you'll be excited to hear.  I've decided being easy should be easy, even if that's only in theory.  I've decided to wear t-shirts from time to time.  I've decided to embrace grading workbooks on Wednesday nights.  I've decided to diversify, to tutor, to garden, and to house clean in lieu of some of the subbing.  I've decided to not read at the next erotic reading deal in favor of being cautious re: my job I am hoping to continue next year, even as this damning blog persists....  I've decided to trust and love myself ever so slightly more than I did before.  Don't get me wrong.  I do mean slightly.  Also, I've decided to usurp the patriarchy by way of making my own kombucha.  It will change the world.  I know.  

Insert something quippy, something poetic, something erotic, something vulgar, right here, here and here.  Stuff the fourth into the extra orifice of your choosing.  I don't know if I can do it.  Write poetry, I mean.  I feel broken in not feeling emo and I'll be damned to a life of big hair before I'll write a chipper poem, damnit.
Tootsie Pop
A foothold is all
Someone pressed to the wall
Needs to stay present.
Leverage is the beverage
I drink to remain whole
Guarded, but whole.
In the middle I wiggle and wobble.
Floating and throbbing,
Nothing is too hard, but I can't bear it soft.
Still, don't stop.
I'll take it all before I take none
Until it's all one.
There's more
Under the surface,
A pain to re-purpose,
A rhythm denied to align.
Inadvertent moans reveal
The end and the beginning,
But the middle slipped through my fingers
In the surrender.
Maybe, or maybe fiction.
Love, Me of the Bees.


A Much Better Title Than My Last

Let's Nike this shit, yo. I will not meta-blog.  I will not meta-blog. Don't expect a poem, though.  Shut up person talking about the rolling national debt at 7:42 AM.  Why?  I'm already discouraged.  I need to work on looking look like I already feel adequately impotent.  If they find out I can still get hard from complaining, I'm a goner and I'm a little tired for a political uprising this morning.

As exciting as it was to learn how to crack open one walnut on another just now, my sore palm says to save it for better pursuits.  Speaking of which, I need some space, people.  Speaking of which, I need some space people.  (They seem like they could be useful right now.)

Since I know you think you'd like to want to look at my ass, I've been honing it into a well-oiled machine.  Uh.  I'm halfway through the fifth week of my "10K training" and although I registered for the fun-run part of an actual 10K, if anyone I know thinks he and/or she is gonna come watch me pant whilst out of breath with bouncing boobs, think again.  Don't worry, I eliminated the most recent not-good-enough-sports-bra-of-the-week that I wasted a whole $9.99 on and now know I need to jog around the Academy Sports and Outdoors™ to test that shit.  My mini-van key and left boob almost fell out of my bra last night and if I get stranded out in the dark at the lake because my key gets lost, I'll be living on squirrels and free water in one of those gazebos and being way too happy about it before you can ask, "Did she just steal my donut?"  There are cold showers and they're sounding good about now, except not really.  They still sound unpleasant.  I can now officially run for three minutes in a row, walking only one minute between and do ten cycles of that shit.  Don't tell Betty Crocker I did four minutes just to see how it'd go last night.  If she finds out I strayed from the recipe, everybody knows what happens then.  If you don't, I'll give you a hint:  It doesn't rhyme with Apple Betty.

In unrelated news, I've noticed I'm vague, I mumble and do something else thirdly.  People have asked me to clarify things often lately.  Am I being vaguer than usual or has everyone else in my life suddenly become more nosy.  Though I suspect the latter, I know I am comfortable enough mumble mumbling my way through things and just talking to myself.  It's easy enough to see why I do it in my home.  I don't think I should have to say, "Throw your trash in the trash can," for the sixth time and, apparently, 17 year-old girls who suddenly live in my house again don't think I should either, but I can't seem to get ok with its being there, so I keep mumbling it to no one at all, seemingly.  Is finding the wrapping from yet another band-aid on the floor really probable cause for phone restriction?  But, it's my only leverage.  I think, over the years, I've just developed the bad habit of assuming people won't respond when I state my preferences.  Right?    

This past week wasn't my favorite one in the history of the earth, though there were moments.  Moments when I met moments.  To have several of those in one week was nice.  Most recently, being the only one running over the Mopac bridge as I heightenedly perceived the wind on my skin last night was surreal enough to inspire awe.  There was a birthday that was mine and it was nice and quaint, but all the people I know who live in my meat (ha) world didn't a.) read my mind or b.) read my tweets they don't know exist, so no one gave me 41 spankings.

Yesterday involved the awesomest pan ever of little red homefries with carrots, bell peppers, onions, garlic, a non-descript other pepper I was saving until November, all of which I prepared with one of my dearest old friends who is visiting from out of town right now.  There was other stuff this week, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear about the way I was stood up for the first session of my new tutoring gig of an actual college student and how I still got paid to sit there listening to Pandora reminiscing on my own time spent in another of that community college's learning labs thinking I would never get through Chemistry or Calculus II or Engineering Physics or American History I or another day in my marriage.  I'm pretty sure Olivia Newton John would manage something pithy and perky now, but she's busy giving me a blow job and I'm almost whole, complete, fulfilled, sated.  Don't make me get a thesaurus, 'cause you know I will.  Is that a risk you are willing, wishing, contemplating, considering, etc. to take?

Have I said I'm crazy tired?  The perfect trifecta for an anxiety attack is brewing: lack of sleep, over-caffeination, and lack of sleep.  Last night I enjoyed being reassured that people are all into fat bottom girls, but the glaring lack of songs rejoicing the virtues of ample bellies with stretchmarks has me wondering today if I will ever be loved the way I want.  Let's not mention I haven't the foggiest notion of how that might be.  How about however someone who loves me chooses to?  There it is, the emotional cookie crumble that this writing serves.  I worship the emotional cookie crumble of my choosing as a path to freedom and you can too.

Did I mention my haircut is one inch too dykey on me for my tastes?  Is it sexist of me to think manly is good, but dykey isn't?  If I start wearing a vest, workbooks, and Wrangler pull-away jeans with my flannel shirts, will you commence with the daily moisturizer check plan, even if I balk?  Though, I hereby and forthwithily consent to your using restraints, if necessary, to hold up you end of the, er, agreement.  The safeword is "fuck me."  You're following along and taking notes, right?

I was sad to learn that in my not giving a fuck, I am going to be missing the International Air Sex Championship next Saturday.  Mr. Bee traded his having the boys that night with another.  I'll have to schedule some Inappropriate Charades another time in honor of the event.

I wish the guy who is on break in front of me wouldn't shift his chair so he is only facing me like we're going to talk every time he takes a break while I'm "working."  Sometimes I'm a bitch, and sometimes I'm too nice.  If only Sandra Bullock were here, she could tell me when it's appropriate to be tough and when it's appropriate to be soft and pretty, so I can win the Beauty Pageant.  Since she's not, I'll have to rely on Terp2it  to tell me what's appropriate.  I'm not gonna link, 'cause then he might come here and intimidate me with his beard.  Use the google, but here is a video of one of the talented folks I saw perform last night. I love Austin.

"O" Music Video
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