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.