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 |  probably stuff i think is funny. or aggravating. or both. |
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| oj keeps looking at me. his ashes are in a white plastic container, on the kitchen counter. he's looking at me. we haven't yet taken him to see his mom (P's mom), and i'm feeling a bit...guilty. i'm sure he really doesn't mind, being such an easygoing dog. but it feels disrespectful, somehow. but then. his favorite room in the house was the kitchen. so, maybe he's happy here. i also noticed the name of the company which cremated him. 'ames diversified services'. i'm wondering what other services they provide. what else can you do with a huge oven that hits 1800 degrees? i'm thinking toasting potato chips ain't on the list. but wouldn't that be something? 'ames diversified jalapeno cheddar chips.' with that little something extra you just can't place. what is that flavor?? oh, yes. incinerated dog hair. mmmmm. i wonder if they play with the oven, like people always want to play with woodchippers. 'hey, let's see what this'll do in there!' 'jeb, that's yer boot. don't you need that?' 'naw, i got another one.' the label on the box also says 'this holds the cremains of...' cremains? redundant...i'm thinking our 70-lb dog isn't going to fit inside a 4"X8" box under any other circumstances. funny, for some reason. almost as if the people who work in the crematorium are struggling with a lesser sense of importance, being out back, and are compensating by fiddling with perfectly fine words to make them a wee bit more their own. poor crematers. now i feel a little sorry for them. still not gonna be eating any of those chips, tho. |
| i really need to learn how to limit myself. working in a bookstore has allowed me to indulge my every reading whim, so as a result, i'm usually trying to read 3-6 books at a time. one for lunchtime, one for toidy time, one for bedtime, one for the couch, one for writing improvement, one for political awareness....man, i need to narrow it down. so, right now, here's my list. (keep in mind, i just finished a book, so i'm one down. 'no regrets', by shannon butcher. pretty good!) if you can talk, you can write (thanks, dragonfly~guess who's back?  (joel saltzman)team of rivals (doris kearns goodwin) war is a force which gives us meaning (chris hedges) kissing sin (if i can find it...i left it around here, somewhere) (keri arthur) odd thomas (dean koontz) rebellion (nora roberts) you can see, i tend to read easily accessible, escapist fare. life is hard enough, yo. and i've got the ridiculously tall pile of titles 'to be read'. i'm supposed to be conserving space, as we're intending to move, eventually. but i keep bringing books into the house. the allotted bookcase is overflowing, so i've begun stacking books on whatever horizontal surface i can manage. i've just barely managed to avoid taking over the cat's scratching post. she, of course, has no appreciation for this sort of restraint. i'm not proud of this. some people might say i'm all, 'ooooh, lookit how much i read'. but if i finish a book, it takes me forever. and i don't know anyone who's especially proud of reading nora roberts. or dean koontz. they're fine writers, very popular. but i can't say i spend my time reading the classics. it's pure popculture. masturbatory entertainment for the brain. no pressure, nothing much asked of it....just float there in its juices and enjoy the ride. what i'm saying is, i need help. discipline. i need to learn my own limits, what i can and can't---wait. hey, jim butcher's got a new book coming out in april!!! awriiiight!!! i'm so there!! (maybe i'll buckle down in may. there's still time. i'm young.) |
| there's something to be said about going to the gym. i can't say it in polite company, but it's there. hovering over me as i sweat my little piggy heart out all over the elliptical machine. i do have to admit, though, that the aftereffects are fabulous. i'm just so.....relaxed. i like to amuse myself (and probably others) lip-synching to my mix cd--there's nothing like a white girl trying to rap along with ludacris while she huffs & puffs in time with her pitty pat heartbeat. i've mentioned before, i grew up fairly athletic. gymnastics off & on from an early age, soccer & volleyball, aerobics & weight training later on. my body type just builds muscle, more than i'd like. oh, don't worry--the fat's still there. but i've got a nice bicep underneath. i used to take all this for granted, when i was younger. the ability to scramble up a tree like a monkey. the flexibility which allowed me to chew my toes as i watched tv. (which i wouldn't do now, even if i could. i promise.) the effortless dozens of pushups, V-ups, press handstands. and i'd just shrug when i saw women a little older than i was, struggling. oh, i'd never be like that. well, the chickens, they are a roostin'. they've retiled the tub & installed broadband. *sigh* if i EVER get back to a slim hotmamma figure, i'm going everywhere nekkid. you think i'm kidding, i can tell. it's a long road, but at least i've started it. i already feel better--whether it shows or not, who's to say? and that's the bottom line, isn't it? let's be honest. |
| we made this lovely pasta-spinach-cream sauce-bacon thing for dinner. we cribbed it from a cooking light magazine. we both cook fairly regularly, not always new & exciting recipes, but we do like to spend time at home. eating out is fun, but people tend to frown when you do it in your underwear. what i like most about eating at home (besides the relaxed dress code) is cooking with P. we have a small galley kitchen, but we maneuver well around each other, sharing tasks, helping each other. giving each other tweaks & wiggles to keep it fun. it really doesn't matter so much to me how tasty dinner ends up. it's usually pretty good--not winning any contests, but better than shit on a shingle. what's different is when i'm the one cooking by myself. and if we have company (which we hardly ever do), i'm a nervous wreck. dinner must be perfect. my hostessing must put everyone at ease (but me), and guests mustn't ever have an empty glass in their hands. music: something good for background, but interesting enough to set a festive mood. and always appetizers. gotta have the starter. i usually end up putting everyone on edge, and overcooking the food. several summers ago, before P & i were living together, i lived in a casita surrounded by several other casitas, with a small courtyard. luckily, a few of my friends lived in the same cluster, and we would get together every saturday night for dinner, wine, and general silliness. oh, the evenings would start dignified enough, but by the end there'd be some kind of barefoot wrestling, usually spankings, and lots of quickfire smacktalk zinging all over. hot summer nights, doors & windows open to let the breeze through, music & laughter, good food & tipsiness. man, those were good times. great times. i miss having company, but i know, when i'm honest with myself, that i can't relive those summer night get-togethers. what i have now i wouldn't trade for anything, but i am in a different place than i was then. in a lot of ways. |
time to update my blaaahhhhhhg.  it's my friday night, and i've got a project ahead of me next week which may prove...difficult. fraught with risk of confrontation & defensiveness. ripe with the dewy fruits of possible victory. and seated firmly on the razor edge of mediocrity-- nay--dare i say, failure. i've got this weekend to prepare for it, and somehow pull outta my ass the ability to keep my cool, not only be not intimidated by 'a strong personality', but to gnaw through to the squooshy center. this particular 'strong personality' spends a lot of time and energy avoiding the submissive posture, and this is where i'm gonna have to get this person, if i have any chance. this sounds like i'm talking about manipulation. but i'm not. not really. this person finds confrontation and anger a delightful treat of endorphine-covered cherries, and seeks solace from his nagging inner harpy in cutting down those who work around him. talk about cutting, my work is, and out for me. i'll let you know how it goes. i've always followed the adage about catching more flies with honey, but i'm wondering if honey spiked with moose carcass might be more effective. now, where to find a moose carcass....? |
| hey, i just now noticed i hit 1000 views for my blog. cool. (i'm being all understated because of how ultra-cool i am. nothing phases m--WHO AM I KEEDING???? WOOHOO!!! 1000 VIEWS!!!! ............ahem.) that is all. |
| i've noticed that i tend to rise to the challenge, when faced with unpleasant tasks, or intimidating situations. i'd always assumed i was a coward (see: pitbull nightmare, recurring). or that i could maybe tolerate whatever comes, teeth clenched, eyes wide shut. but i do okay, when the poop hits the spinning blades. (i saw that at a circus, once.) this may sound like i'm all, "ooooh, i'm sooo fabulous," but really, i have a point. we all have talents, or qualities we think are extra-cool. and i'm with the concensus that narcissistic raves are annoying as H-E-double-hockey-sticks. but sometimes, you just gotta break out of the humble pie, and go for some proud mary. say it loud, brothahs & sistahs. tell me what makes you special! can you give me an 'amen'?? |
| okay, y'all. this here is a fabulous idea, which deserves everyone's attention. give it some nub, please?
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| you know those moments right before something bad happens? we're doing whatever stupidass thing we're doing, and that little voice in our head says something like, "mmmaybe we should'n--hey, lookit that tasty piece of cheese!" and then whammo! you've gone and done something that probably hurts a HELLUVA lot. tonight, i'm opening a package of salami (and no, that isn't a euphemism) with a steak knife--hey, i was hungry. whaddya gonna do?--and it slipped. of course. and sliced into the tip of my finger. not horrible. no stitches or anything. but gawd, it hurt like the dickens. (i don't know what the dickens are, but they've quite the reputation.) but i was brave. pinched off the blood after rinsing thoroughly (gotta get the bits of cheese out), and held my left hand above my head as i valiantly fought one-handed with the salami. the funniest part was, P didn't even notice. he probably thought this was business as usual, for me. and, to be honest...it ain't far off. so, after watching the oscars, we decided it'd be clive owen and jessica biel for us. you know. the list. what, you think we watched for the awards? i don't have much faith in the academy's sense of fair play. it's neat when someone deserving (based on the current nominees) wins, but i don't expect it. anyhoo, i'm thinking about throwing down with that salami, again. wish me luck. |
| i've been thinking a little about the nature of suffering. maybe suffering is the wrong word. hardship? anyway, the idea that difficult times, while not so fun, help us build strength. build sense of self. help us learn to deal with fear, pain, chaos. i do believe this is true. i believe that someone who lives entirely within safe parameters misses out. unfortunately, i am one of these people. i had a crap childhood, like lots of people. some have had better, many have had worse. i grew up thinking i'd handled a goodly amount of trouble, and gotten through fairly intact. since becoming an adult, though, i've made choices to prevent that sort of chaos from happening again. the constant striving for safety above most other concerns has left me safe, yes. loved, cared for, comfortable. i've carved out a happy place for myself, in so many ways. i'm a good person, i think. but i'm not so sure of who else i am, and of what i am capable. i've developed this disconnect from the world, and i don't have faith in myself as an active participant. this is becoming a question which just won't go away. and i wonder how long i have before the answer is handed to me, rather than dangled out there, waiting for me to find it. |
| don't you love to getcher grump on? get all into it, face set just so, eyes all beady, perspective all crammed up yer bum. people get out of your way, because who knows what the grumpy girl will do? feels so good while it lasts.....then the guilt comes. you start to second-guess the grump. question the purity of the grump's judgment. maybe you shouldn't have told that old bag to piss off down a drain pipe. (even though she deserved it.) ah, well. too late now. could use another cup of coffee. grumps loooooove coffee. hey. what're you lookin at?? eh? (stomp stomp stomp.) you look like you'd enjoy a healthy poke in the chest. whaddya think about that?? yyeah, that's what i thought. not so tough with a grump lookin up yer nose, are ye? feh. go. wait. bring me a donut on yer way back. |
| i have a serious crush on paul blackthorne's bottom lip. when i watch him, i wanna just bite & tug on it, crawl up on it & take a nap in its pillowy softness. good lord. let's take a moment, shall we? so what i'm wondering, other than how much melted buttah i'd need to make a proper snack of said lippage, is how weird it is for a 38 (& a 1/2) year old woman to have crushes like this. i am in love with a real-life sexy, masculine, wonderful guy--i'm genuinely happy, and would never want any kind of manifestation of the above-mentioned lip scenario. but when i'm tuned in to the show, i can't help but see myself clinging to the front of his shirt like a crazed lemur, all big eyes & fuzzy head, blocking his eyeline as he acts through his scenes. leaves some fairly significant plot holes ('where'd that drooling lemur come from, anyway? why does he pretend like it's not there? is it like bob? can no one else see it?') this is normal, right? give it to me straight, people. i don't know if i can take it, but the idea of a forbidden lip crush is just... ohhhhh, i'll be back in about 15 minutes. |
| so, the pedophile whose been advertising his conquests in spraypaint along the side of our house for the past couple of months has been arrested. with plenty of evidence to doom him. and it turns out....he really is a pedophile. i'd been figuring the whole thing was a sick, lurid joke some weirdo amused himself with, or that he maybe had fantasies he felt guilty about, needed to get off his chest. something like that. no, he really has molested little children. the details are vague, still--ongoing investigation--but mention was made of kiddie porn, wigs, leg shackles...leg shackles??? worst-case scenario going through my head right now. must stop. if you're interested, google 'monty mccarty' (or follow below links) & see what comes up. other than my gorge. i suppose the upside is, we can paint the outside of the house now. cover all the blocks of paint we smeared over his filth, put this case to rest for ourselves. i can't help but think about the kids he's attacked, and how they'll never be the same. when they wake up after having a bad dream, they'll see his face leering out at them from the closet, from under the bed, from outside the window. their senses of self perverted, their view of the world twisted. whatever brought him to this, whatever happens once he's in prison, he's a monster. i have no sympathy. links: http://www.kgun9.com/NewsArticle/tabid/1112/xmid/9600/Default.aspx http://www.kvoa.com/Global/story.asp?S=6097835 http://www.kold.com/Global/story.asp?S=6084537&nav=menu86_2 on an unrelated note: another news story has been haunting me, and in some ways this one's worse. i can't read it again, but if you need proof that our species is capable of the most vicious acts: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17074960/ i'm sure i'll be in a much better mood tomorrow. sorry for the inky blackness. |
| so i'm watching this 'cathouse' show on hbo. if you're not familiar, it's the chronicles of 'the bunny ranch', in nevada. a legal whorehouse. i can't get over this show! P thinks it's silly. and it is. the girls are silly. the pimp is silly. the lifestyle is ridiculous. but damned entertaining. i have a fairly common outlook on the subject: i've never thought girls who get involved in prostitution (and for purposes of this entry, i'm excluding illegal trade) are making a particularly good choice for themselves, selling their bodies as a piece of meat. over and over...to people, who, in their daily lives may or may not be gentle & considerate, but while paying for access to a number of orifices tend not to care so much about the ladies' comfort or happiness. and really, why would they? it's not personal. it's business. for them. these girls are lonely. they have to be. they crave acceptance, from each other, from pimp daddy, from the customers, from themselves. and i don't see how they get it. the trappings can't count. the money, bootie slaps, popularity with how many whoevers (an inverse relationship, if i ever heard of one)...no matter how much fun they tell themselves they're having, how much control they convince themselves they have, they're still selling their very selves. prostitution's a victimless crime. i'll go with that. for whatever circumstance brought hookers to where they are, they made the decision at some point to jump in. and 'the bunny ranch', on the surface, seems like a fun enough place. disco lights, lotsa lipgloss & booze, flirting, nekkidness all over....it really does seem like a party. a really friendly, expensive party. but then the camera pulls back. to the exterior. the utilitarian, manufactured, gated warehouse out in the middle of nowhere, and the illusion is broken. if pimp daddy cared for these girls as people (which is a flawed premise to start with), he wouldn't ask them to bare their bodies, to invite inside themselves customer after customer, to give away a piece of themselves with every negotiation, in such a butt-ugly place. we know he's filthy. erm, filthy rich. if he wanted to even try alleviating the loss of their souls with some workplace perks, he could do it. sure, they have their own rooms, and access to a hot tub, and all the booze they can drink...but that's directly related to his profit, yeah? but these girls, they clamor to join the stable. not only does he have unending demand, he's got limitless supply. which brings me to the show. i am drawn to it, each time i come across it on the tv guide. these girls, who aren't any different from dozens i've known, are living a life so foreign to me, yet universal, i can't make up my mind. most people have had sex. maybe even for fun, maybe with someone we didn't know too well. maybe even for more serious but equally superficial rewards (thanks for dinner, several minutes--hopefully-- of perceived security, because we didn't want to be alone). but when money changes hands over it, how does that affect the experience? options narrow. intentions shift. trust (even surface) becomes impossible, because it's about cost vs value, now. the actual act may not be different at all, but the skin's covering an entirely different animal. so i'm watching, and i get caught up in who's cute, who seems bright, who's having fun, how harmless it all is. then the half-hour is up. and i realize i paid money to peep into these girls' lives, into their bedrooms. i was entertained by their posing, and grasping, and giggling (and jiggling). and i realize i'm as much a john as the guy in the background, laying on the bed without his pants. how do i feel? i feel all right. like i got my money's worth. it was fun, but meaningless, and now i'm ready to find something else for fun. i've pretty much forgotten the whole thing, as far as details. moments. so, who's the bad guy? i know there is one. there's gotta be. right? such a large group of self-deluded people on all sides of the transaction, there's gotta be someone to blame. and don't give me that chicken and the egg argument. this quiet voice just murmured into my conscience, "what if you're deluded by thinking everyone needs fulfillment to be happy? maybe by telling themselves so, they really are?" hm. sounds rather zen, doesn't it? altering reality with force of will. but gimme a break. these silly people, with their g-strings and clear plastic heels, they're executing force of will? well, maybe it's unconscious force of will. is that possible? and how happy am i? am i fulfilled completely? with my smug, panted life? all my big ideas, and my longing for peace of mind? you've heard pop psychology tell us things like, 'act like you're happy, and you will be'. is this just total crap? and if it is total crap, what does that say about the amount of influence i have over my own existence? well, i don't buy it. this rationalization. some truths are universal, beyond cultural taboos or differences. one of them is this. not everything is for sale. whether we think we sell it or not. so those hookers, they've got the last laugh coming, i guess. talk about some quality swamp land. heh. |
| i wouldn't say i'm tone deaf. i can tell how far off-key i'm singing, i just can't adjust properly, for some reason. same thing with dancing. oh, i can dance. boy, watch me. but you won't be able to stop laughing. funny, how music is so important, so linked to other parts of our lives. instant memory recall, for instance. i vividly remember whacking some poor boy in the face with my shoes during my 9th grade fall dance. the dj was spinning aldo nova's 'life is just a fantasy'. not a danceable tune, really. rhythm changes all over....i was at the dance with a group of girlfriends, hoping in vain to avoid awkward moments involving boys and requests to slow dance. *shudder* i'd taken my cute (brand new and a bit tight in the strap) wedges off, but was too nervous to put them down unguarded...the dance was thick with shoe thieves...and i was boogeyin' down on the fringe, waggling and scooting with the best of them. i spun about, and right there in my personal space, holding his forehead, was...*gasp*...a BOY! he didn't look happy. and he wandered off shortly after exchanging side glances with me as i side-stepped guiltily with the beat. shoes still aswinging. in my mind, they had blood on them. i'd like to say that was the last time i'd danced in public. i'm sure the subsequent witnesses to such activity wish it were so. but i'm a slave to the rhythm. you can't stop me. i did learn how not to club people with heavy objects as i danced with them, so that's a step up. a few years later, while spending a few quality hours at my college town's hipster dance club 'variations', i was led by a hand on the back of my neck to the floor to share 'i want your sex' with some frat lout. innocently, i gyrated about, lip-syncing to one mr george michael as i bathed in the aura of long-distance girlfriendhood (my beau at the time was going to school a few hundred miles away--so i had the social standing of 'girlfriend', and the social freedom of 'dancing machine'). i'm sure you can see where this is going. i didn't have to beat him off with a stick, but by the end of the evening i sure wanted to. so, today, i dance in my living room. i sneak in hip wiggles & bootie thrusts while P isn't looking (i'm no fool), fancying myself an astaire in hiding. latent dancing genius!! if only the world knew what they were missing... |
| i have a love-quease relatonship with cheese. for me, cheese falls into that category of 'foods i wonder how we started eating in the first place'. cheese smells bad. but it tastes so good....so good. tonight, i had me some smooth, creamy brie, and some slightly nutty, soft chaumes. never had the chaumes before, but me & P, we're on vacation. decided to take a chance. live on the edge. boys & girls, the edge paid off. loverly. but, dude. they both smell like feet. and if i think too hard about what cheese actually is, it starts to come back up. oh, cheese. beloved cheese. why can't i accept you for what you are?? i care for you, but i feel i'm being unfair to you. we'll never achieve true intimacy, with me holding you at lip's length. it's not right. i'm a bad, bad cheese eater. what? what's that you say? you don't mind being loved for your succulent creaminess, but shunned for your sweatsock aromatics? well, then. i'm perfectly okay with that. you're a fully-matured cheese. you have the ability to decide for yourself what's healthy, and what just tastes good. heh. where's the wensleydale??? |
i've found another blog worth reading every day: charming, well-written, wry, observational, self-deprecating (i said deprecating, you pervs.)....it's victoria! check her out. she keeps me coming back for more--she will you, too!
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| i like the idea that everyone is the hero of their own story. the lowest, down-dirtiest, scum-suckingest bastards see themselves as good people, overall. they make the tough choices, see. they're willing to make sacrifices others aren't. that whole disconnect is so very...alluring. makes me wonder what we delude ourselves about, the rest of us. we all think we're good drivers. mmhmm. funny. yyyeah. that our breath ain't kickin'. (crickets chirping)....that we're good people. so, are there any real heroes? people who truly think of the greater good, or the welfare of those right in front of them? people who trouble themselves for someone else's benefit? i think they're everywhere. some are latent, hidden behind fear, or anger. some are distracted. but if they woke up, they'd do right. even if it's as little a thing as holding the door for someone behind them. or, showing a kindness to a stranger who could use it. doesn't need to be life & death. life is nothing but a sequence of moments, right? what if we all tried to make each moment a little better, for ourselves and the people around us? what would you do differently? ooh, i'm almost getting new-agey on your collective hiney. does it tickle? |
| since we can't always rely on the 'big' pleasures in life, due to not really knowing when those puppies are gonna make an entrance (or an exit), i like to skip from small delight to small delight. like fudgesicles. and fluffy socks. and how the dog thumps her tail when i walk by. and sitting in the theater right before the movie starts, popcorn with extra butter nestled in my lap, a ginormous coke seated in the cupholder. and the sparkly-eyed glance i get from P when we pass at work. although, that's really a big thing, packed into a little moment. and waking up on my day off, cocooned in my fabulous bed next to my manly man.. ooh, and having a good stretch. yeah, that's the stuff. playing fetch, going walkies, thumping the cat the way she likes...i keep straying to larger pleasures. how P always kisses me goodbye and hello. every time. lots of times, there's a big hug in there, too. he gives good hugs. i'm lucky. how happy i am. how good my life is. *sigh* this moment of gratitude instigated by fudgesicle brand.  |
| i love reading mysteries, and am always impressed by authors who can put together intelligent and natural plots, characters, details. i'm reading one right now, 'case histories' by kate atkinson. only about 80 pp into it so far, so nothing concrete to report yet. but, her style is so immersive, so 'real', i feel these characters are actual people, with minds of their own. sounds mundane, maybe. but i read someone's book, like this, and think to myself, 'i'm not going to be able to write something like this.' until now, i've comforted myself with the thought that, as the author, i can control the course of the story (duh), i can reveal as much or as little of what the characters think during the course of the story...but that's not really true. if any story i write will be believable, will motivate someone reading it to be emotionally involved, i gotta reveal everything. my characters have to feel, think, be motivated themselves. and i have to show all of that. you may be thinking, 'what are you? an idgit?' but, this idea is difficult for a self-deluded, procrastinating lazy person to accept. but there it is. must think more on this whole writing thing. |
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