Plotting

Have you, ever... EVER... had someone describe the plot of a porno movie to you???

It was funny shit.

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Of Literature

Or more specifically, of John Irving. Many years ago, I lived with a psychotic bitch woman who purported to adore Mr. Irving's writing. Being the accommodating soul that I am, I endeavored to read A Son of the Circus. I didn't care for it. Correction: I fucking HATED it. In fact, it was the one of the very few books I started and never finished (something I've become better at, but still struggle with). Based upon that experience, I subconsciously wrote off Mr. Irving's scribblings as any form of desired reading.

Last night, Suzanne and I watched "The Cider House Rules" on Bravo. After IMDbing the movie to discover who wrote the book, I naturally sniggered that Mr. Irving elected to name the main characters Wilbur and Homer. God, what a lame writer, I thought. The movie, and presumably Mr. Irving's book, cover abortion, adoption, infidelity, and incest.

The movie (and therefore presumably the book?) actually captured my attention. In my opinion, Tobey McGuire was far better in this movie than as Spider-Man. And what's not to like about Charlize Theron? (Well, aside from the blond hair, that is ;p). I watched every moment of the movie, despite the ridiculously frequent and lengthy commercial breaks. Despite the uncomfortable subject matters. Despite my continuing concerns that the outcome would ultimately suck because it was, after all, based upon a novel of John Irving.

I was wrong.

And just FYI, whilst perusing the various Google hits for Mr. Irving, I discovered he is also the author behind such theatrical (and, again presumably, literary) successes as The World According to Garp and A Prayer for Owen Meany.

I figure I owe him that much of a nod. As for reading those books, well, the jury's still out.

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Merry F'ing Christmas

Now this, THIS is a Christmas gift for lesbians.

Nice, eh? If for some crazy, ridiculous, idiotic reason that image doesn't appeal to you, try this one: it was a gift from Suzanne's sister, the former nun. And we opened it in front of her mother.

If that image does work for you, there are others. Enjoy.

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A Different Kind of Pod

I've spent a lot of time in recent weeks downloading MP3 files of my favorite songs. Yes, I'm late to the MP3 party, but I've been making up for lost time since being gifted with a cute little iPod shuffle of my own (she's a nice girlfriend, ya'll). I have to admit, I really like the organization and ease of use associated with Apple's iTunes. iTunes, however, must be downloaded and installed for use, and that's something I cannot do on my work computer. (I know; our IT department has WAY too much control.)

I also discovered that songs I purchase from iTunes are MP4 files, and it's a real bitch to successfully convert them in order to access them via any medium other than iTunes. While wending my way around these little obstacles (and also seeking less expensive alternatives), I came across this little graphic from emusic.com:

Fallopian Tubes, anybody? C'mon, it doesn't take a lesbian to see THAT.

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The Memory of Trees*

*Forgive the Enya reference. Yes, that's what that is. Stop laughing.

The problem with trees is they have leaves.

The problem with leaves is they fall.

The problem with fallen leaves is they inhibit the growth of grass. And make the yard look like crap.

The problem with fallen leaves in suburbia is one can not rake or blow the fuckers to the woods or whatever. One must break one's back bagging them.

One must get off her ass and go deal with the leaves.

Ah well, at least it isn't so damned cold today.

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Crafty

Okay, so it's been a lame week for posting here at Wannabe. Sue me. In lieu of my usual oh-so-meaningful and well-crafted bullshit, however, I offer this:



I know some of ya'll can relate.

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Of Small-town Learnin'... Or Good Guesswork

Snagged from Sassy:

You paid attention during 91% of high school!

85-100% You must be an autodidact, because American high schools don't get scores that high! Good show, old chap!

Do you deserve your high school diploma?
Create a Quiz

But, as often happens, I couldn't stop with just one...
Terns owt eye no mai grammar.

Your Language Arts Grade: 100%

Way to go! You know not to trust the MS Grammar Check and you know "no" from "know." Now, go forth and spread the good word (or at least, the proper use of apostrophes).

Are You Gooder at Grammar?
Make a Quiz

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Just Another Day in the Office

One of the (female, slutty) people with disabilities whom my agency serves was in the office today. Specifically, she was in the office next to mine, meeting with her case manager. One of my other (male, cute) staff happened to stop in to ask a question.

PwD: Do you have a girlfriend?

Staff: Uh. Yes. Yes, I have many acquaintances that are female. [pause] Um, do you mean a special someone...?

PwD: I mean someone you have sex with.

He bolted. Fortunately, she didn't chase him.

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No Secret?

Commercial Announcer: Up next, the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show*, with special appearance by Justin Timberlake.
Suz: I don't want to watch that.
Wen: WHAT?
Suz: Justin Timberlake, I mean. Women in sexy underwear, I'm okay with.

*Sorry, ladies (and dudes), this was TUESDAY night.

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Playing with Dolls

Okay... maybe this isn't news to some of you (hi, Sassy!), but I haven't paid much attention to Barbie in the last thirty years or so. I had heard of the existence of an African American Barbie, but I either never saw or never absorbed the actual product:


Um, she's supposed to be black? Funny, she kinda reminds me of this Hawaiian chick from Season 3 of American Idol (2004).


And then there's this Barbie, apparently named the Barbie My Scene Bling Bling Styling Head. (Yeah, there's an "African American" version of her, too, named Madison. I'm not sure who she reminds me of.) Yeah, kinda skanky. Yeah, kinda hot... but awfully femmy.

I can totally see both of them telling Ken to "step off," so they can hook up with the dyke doll. Niiiice.

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Book... Rest

Rest: a piece or thing for something to rest on; a supporting device; support

Rest: the refreshing quiet or repose of sleep; mental or spiritual calm; tranquillity; cessation or absence of motion

It's Dud's version of multi-tasking.

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Socializin' in the South... Small-Town Style

While visiting my parents in Texas, I had the good fortune to join them for an early Thanksgiving meal at the local Senior Center. (My mother is the former Board President, dontchaknow.) Anyway, we had a relatively decent meal of turkey, dressing, sweet potato casserole, green beans, cranberry sauce, and sweet tea. While always mildly uncomfortable due to my sinful lesbian status when in the midst of what constitutes a fair portion of my mother's social circle, I DO enjoy some of the socialization amongst the old farts my elders.

The afternoon in question happened to coincide with the culmination of a season's worth of competition on Dancing with the Stars. The table was abuzz with opinions of whether Mario Lopez or Emmitt Smith would win. One woman seemed particularly adamant that Emmitt held far greater appeal:

Older men know enough to make sure the woman is satisfied, too!

I'm so glad the whole table erupted in laughter, because I was a laughing fool.


When the meal was finally over, the seniors--and my familial unit--began to disperse. My father stopped to speak with a man who hadn't had the good fortune to dine at my table. I didn't hear what my father actually said to the old guy, but when Daddy turned to me for introductions he stated he was teasing "Jim" because Jim was a newlywed. Jim then piped up, informing me he'd been married before, for 56 years, until his wife passed away three years ago. When he said, "I didn't really want to get married again," I quipped, "What, she wouldn't shack up?"

Ever seen an elderly man blush?

Thank God my mother didn't hear that exchange. Daddy laughed.

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Tut

Wen (Reading a headline): "Broken leg may have killed Tutankhamun."
Suz (Laughs): Really?
Wen: I was absolutely fascinated with King Tut as a child. It started with a jigsaw puzzle of his gold coffin.
Suz: I find that whole era fascinating. Did you see the King Tut exhibit?
Wen: No, but I owned the Steve Martin record.



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Keeping Up with the Joneses

Run, don't walk to your nearest eclectic vendor of beverages: The 2006 Jones Soda Holiday Pack is out! (Um, okay, it has been for a couple of weeks. Sue me.) Flavors this year include Turkey and Gravy, Pea, Sweet Potato, Dinner Roll, and, appropriately enough, Antacid. There's a Dessert Pack too, in case you haven't sufficiently upset your stomach. And hey, if you really want to submit something icky, there's even a "suggest a flavor" link at the website.

Although you may rest assured that I will not be partaking of these "original" beverages, don't dismiss them out of hand. In addition to the excellent gift potential for "special" people in your life, a portion of the proceeds do go to Toys for Tots. If you're really in to this kind of crap, you can order your own personalized 12-pack for a mere $35 dollars (plus S&H, of course).


Or, better yet, save on shipping and donate $35 worth of toys to needy kids this year.

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Lesson Number Two

What's that? You missed the message in Lesson Number One? Muscle cars RULE. And sometimes 'necks prevail. Since ya'll aren't too sharp at determining the main theme of a story, I'll tell ya the point of Lesson Number Two: DVR is both a blessing and a curse.

My mother, bless her heart, loves her toys. (Don't EVEN go there, she's 71 and I don't wanna think about it. STFU, Kmae!) The toys of which I speak are electronics. She's always been a gadget junky. From early model personal computers and CB radios to color copiers and atomic clocks, MotherWhit has always been quick to purchase the latest technological innovation. (Although, for some reason DSL has only recently replaced dial-up. Wtf? Ah well, better late than never!)

My point? MotherWhit is the Queen of DVR.

Like all DVR users, my mother records shows she would like to see when she cannot be home. Like many DVR users, she will also record one show while watching another. I wonder, though, how many DVR users routinely back up a program every single time the viewer misses something of interest? After 9/11, if Mother happened to miss the singing of the national anthem at the start of a baseball game, she'd back up the DVR and watch it. If she, or more likely my daddy, didn't hear a clever quip or key line in whatever show, MotherWhit would back it up and replay it.

I witnessed this while home this past week during the Late Show with David Letterman. Mother wasn't paying much attention to the music act, as +44 is not exactly her preferred genre. When Dave started talking about the drummer (who totally rocked), however, MotherWhit obviously had to back it up so she could watch his one-handed (by choice, not physical disability) performance. All in all, pretty cool.

On the downside of DVR employment, though, is my mother recorded and saved one of Rachel Ray's talk show episodes that involved creating a pot from a roll of tickets.

Why is that a downside to DVR, you ask? Because that roll of tickets required a LOT of manipulation in order to resemble a pot, and I was the designated manipulator. Thanks, RR. Damned DVR.

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Lesson Number One

I have two brothers, one of whom is a certified redneck. I can offer his accent, gun collection, beer belly, wardrobe of camouflage and coveralls, and multiple vehicles in various stages of being re-outfitted in the "yard" as evidence. (No Syd, there are no chickens... that I know of... but there's a pot-bellied pig--a one-time house pet--that now lives in fetid squalor in the back yard and has to weigh almost as much as a cow). I couldn't tell you how many dogs and cats are roaming around their place. Oh - he also used to live in a trailer but actually made good on the poor white trash dream of living in a trailer just long enough to make enough money to build his own home. He's damned handy, that 'neck brother of mine.

Anyway, "Red" very recently purchased a local auto repair shop in his little hick town. He continues to work fulltime at the chemical refinery he's worked at for the last fifteen years or so; he hired my other brother and also kept the former mechanic on to do the actual repair work. All of this is actually pretty cool in my family. Red has a new business; other brother has a job he loves; and nephew is picking up some new skills in his free time. Red's wife has been an active participant in marketing the new business. I learned this today upon my first visit to the shop, where I was given key rings, pens, and magnets advertising the new venture.

As I was surveying Red's new domain, my eyes landed on a photo of his wife posing with an unknown man in racing paraphernalia in what was clearly some sort of racing venue. I gestured at the picture and asked who it was. "Your sister-in-law," Red replied dryly. Then he went on to educate me: the unknown racer in the picture is drag racing star Tony Schumacher. Apparently Mr. Schumacher is the shit on the "NHRA circuit" and the pic of my SIL standing arm-in-arm with him is something akin to hugging Reba McEntire or Hank Williams, Jr. at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. Red was about as animated as I've ever seen him (sober) while talking about the drag racing. His evident pride in the photo, however, quickly diminished when the topic turned to the marketing efforts. It seems my SIL ordered the wrong calendars: Classic cars instead of Muscle cars.

I might not know much about NASCAR or NHRA, but in this instance my brother and I were in accord. Muscle cars are more appealing.

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Southern Accent, Here I Come

I'm off to Texas to visit the famdamily for a few short days. Ya'll have fun now, y'hear?



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Gift Idea?

I gotta ask "why"... but I DID laugh. Hell, I guess that's reason enough.

Thank God Dudley doesn't behave so... he'd hurt his back.

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Out of the Closet

Today was a day of much needed organization. Each year around this time I take on the task of converting the closets and drawers to winter apparel. I decided this weekend was the time, as we had our first "freeze" and I'm ready to trust that I won't see 70 on the thermometer again until April. In the previous few weeks, we've experienced what is fairly typical early fall weather for this area: some days hovering in the 40-degree range, others climbing to near 80. One natural consequence of such capricious weather is the need for greater shoe diversity. Boots mingled with sandals in an alarming display of disarray.

Really, the knowledge that one of my place-for-everything-and- everything-in-its-place compadres (and her shoe-flinging partner) will be visiting next weekend wasn't an influencing factor at all. Heh.

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Public Service Advisory

Liberation from nasty public facilities (and poorly maintained private ones, Deborah) has arrived! Fear the empty toilet paper holder no more!
That's right. Your own personal roll of TP, sized for convenience. You can buy it at REI, or order it here. I assume it's squeezably soft... and since it's your personal roll, Mr. Whipple can shut the hell up.


I learned of the existence of this product from Suzanne's mother, but had to Google for some time to find the actual name (memory like a steel trap, I have). For your own search engine awareness, "travel size toilet paper" yielded the product of interest. "Personal toilet paper" and "portable toilet paper" most decidedly did not.

Instead, I found this personal toilet, useful "during all crucial moments as in the cars, private planes, dirty toilets, or camping". Um, think I'll pass. Even in conjunction with this classy privacy shelter (that "pops up in seconds, not minutes,") no.

There was also the bumper dumper. Definitely not, despite the amusing and descriptive name... or the feasibility anywhere "a sanitation situation may occur".

And, although I may wish for a larger bladder on occasion, I never considered the benefits of a spare one. That's not just any spare bladder, either: "Special granular polymer inside each pouch soaks up contents and converts it instantly into a scent-neutralizing gel".

I'm not particularly inclined to avail myself of these other conveniences, but ya'll feel free to do so if hiking or emergency preparedness is your thing.

And go ahead, squeeze the Charmin. It's yours.

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Nothing Like Authenticity

Once monthly, my agency coordinates a social outing for the the people with disabilities (PwD) we serve. Movies, miniature golf, dinner, Six Flags, Dave & Buster's... you get the idea. In October, a Halloween party is the logical, minimal-effort activity. This year, tonight in fact, the party took the form of pizza, treats, painting small gourds, and a costume contest.

One PwD wanted to attend but told her case manager she didn't feel she could spend money on a costume. The staff person, one I've raved about before, suggested creativity could substitute for expense. After some discussion, the PwD agreed that masquerading as a baby sounded like fun... but she wasn't sure how to go about it.

Staff: Well, we can put your hair in pigtails, draw freckles on your face... and you can carry a stuffed animal or a baby rattle. Oh, and you can wrap a big white towel around you like a diaper.

PwD: Why don't I just put one of my own diapers on outside of my pants?

Damned if she didn't do it, too. When the other PwDs voted, she won for best costume.

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'Tis the Season

I couldn't help but laugh.

The slogan, For any time of the month, is inspired... but this weekend seems particularly appropriate timing for this.

Happy Halloween, ladies. If you're feeling artsy-craftsy, Gunfighter, you can play too. ;p

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Three Dog Night

Heh. Turns out Suzanne was right: it's the chair that's a dog magnet. Did I mention Bonnie is staying with us again?

I was... um... watching Detroit get spanked Saturday night in Game One of the World Series.

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In the Round

Recently, Suzanne has been playing CDs in the office whilst pursuing her many computer-related interests. Anna Nalick had been spinning for several days when I mentioned that I liked it. Suzanne promptly burned a copy for me, then asked if I wanted the song titles. I responded affirmatively, assuming she would write them on the paper insert that comes with writable discs. I didn't know that she had acquired new cd cases. I also didn't realize they were round, a fact that sorta precludes using the standard paper insert unless one elects to undertake modification.

Her solution? "I wrote in the round for you!" she exclaimed.

I suppose the inconvenience of actually ejecting the disc if I want to see the title of a track is a small price to pay for her efforts.

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Falling... or Not

Oh, the joys of Autumn: brisk days of bright sunlight and beautiful blue skies, evenings turning cold enough to permit me to indulge my pyromaniacal tendencies, and beautiful fall foliage... until it all falls. I wonder if I'm the only one that starts the damned raking season by raking the roof?

Here's another shot of the pile of pine needles. Why yes, yes those are the twin sheds that can be seen in the background. Magnificent, aren't they? And so soundly constructed!

The raking of the shingles was only the precursor to clearing the gutters, of course.

Yes, Weese, I know - there are trees yet to be trimmed and grass yet to be grown. It's a process, mmkay?

No, Sporks and Scout, I was NOT (yet) drinking when I went on the roof.

No, Syd, I did not throw crap from the gutters at the neighbor's cat - or Suzanne.

See the chimney?

Of course you do. Look closely, though... do you see it?

This weed, at least, was taken care of.

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My Woman...

...is a Dog Hog.

But they do all seem pretty content.

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Of Birds and Bees

According to the brainiacs at the Museum of Natural History at the University of Oslo, human homosexuality cannot be considered "unnatural". Indeed, it seems the museum is opening the world's first exhibition about homosexuality among animals. That's right, folks. God bless the Norwegians, who are affirming that giraffes, swans, and whales--amongst other critters--enjoy some same-sex lovin'.

"We may have opinions on a lot of things, but one thing is clear -- homosexuality is found throughout the animal kingdom, it is not against nature," an exhibit statement said.

That's nice to hear, isn't it? But it gets even better:

"The sexual urge is strong in all animals. ... It's a part of life, it's fun to have sex," Soeli said of the reasons for homosexuality or bisexuality among animals.

Now THAT'S what I'm talkin' about! Sex is fun! (Duh.)

Seriously, both the exhibit and the article interested me. The exhibit, because it never occurred to me that other species practice same-sex sex... and the article, because it truly astounds me that two male giraffes engaging in anal sex could be trumpeted as a defense of the "unnatural" life I live.


Of course, the braniacs couldn't be satisfied with a "hey, it's natural after all" conclusion, because nature has to follow the rules of genetic evolution.

Still, it is unclear why homosexuality survives since it seems a genetic dead-end.

Among theories, males can sometimes win greater acceptance in a pack by having homosexual contact. That in turn can help their chances of later mating with females, he said.

And a study of homosexual men in Italy suggested that their mothers and sisters had more offspring. "The same genes that give homosexuality in men could give higher fertility among women," he said.

Naturally.

Mmmmm, Salt

Courtesy of Sporks, and The Onion. I'd be ALL OVER this if it were more than a creative image:

"Blast Your Bloodstream!"

Ah, well, a girl can dream...

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*Giggle*

I know it's too early to count the Damn Yankees out, but it pleases me no end to read an ESPN headline entitled, "Bronx Bummers".

The vaunted Yankees lineup have gone 14 straight innings without scoring a run against Detroit.

Friday night:
The poor little Yanks went 0 for 8 with runners in scoring position.
They were shut out by Kenny Rogers, who just ain't all that.
The "Big Unit" Randy Johnson gave up 5 earned runs.
Damon, A-Rod, Giambi, Abreu, and Bernie Williams all went 0-fer in the game.

I'd only be happier if Jeter had done the same... or if last night's game had shut the door on the Yanks' season.

Instead, I'll cringe my way through this afternoon's game.

Update, for any who didn't hear our victory cheer: The Yankees lost 3-8, and are now done with baseball until next season. YeeFuckin'Haw!

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Time for a Meme*

*Subtitle: 'cause I love music.

That's right, I'm too lazy uninspired tired to write original text, so I swiped a meme from SassyFemme.

Here are the rules: List seven songs you are in to right now. No matter what the genre, whether or not they have words, or even if they're not any good... they must be songs you're really enjoying now. Post these instructions on your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they're listening to.

"Crazy On You", live recording by Heart. The Road Home was a cd I once owned but was a casualty of my previous relationship. Now that I've re-obtained it through Amazon.com, I've been playing the hell out of it. Ann Wilson can belt.

"Fuck was I", Jenny Owen Youngs. Discovered via Occasional Bitch, the song immediately became a new old favorite of mine.

"Orinoco Flow", by Enya. I love this song and play it often as a "pick me up". Yeah, Enya. Shut up.

"Tear in your Hand", by Tori Amos. If you don't know Tori, or Little Earthquakes, you're missing out.

"The Logical Song", by Supertramp. Always a favorite, and particularly meaningful when responsibilities are such a burden.

"What the What is Ladylike", by Storm Large. I didn't have to watch Rock Star: Supernova because Sporks kept me in the loop. Whatever on Fire, indeed!

"Because of You", by Kelly Clarkson. Yes, I'll cop to this one, too. I own, and enjoy, her music. This song in particular. And not just because I'm a sap for a good ballad.

I'm not going to "tag" anyone... if you want to do it, do it. :)

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Wannabe Word Cloud

I'm following in Syd's footsteps, but you can get your own "Word Cloud" here.


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Music to my Mouth

Chipotle, within five blessed minutes of home.

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When In Rome...

We've had a guest doggy in the house the past week... not such a bad thing. Bonnie is a little more active than Dud, so Pixie's been getting her play on. Bonnie also doesn't seem to mind that Pix wants to chew her ears off. Actually, she's pretty sweet in general. She comes when we call her, likes to cuddle, and doesn't get on the furniture. Well, that's what her dad said, anyway. I guess it must be our influence.

Since I cropped my salt shaker out of the picture, let me just add that the bitch is SO in my spot on the couch.

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All Kinds of WRONG

Thanks, I'll stick to cereal.

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Assume the Position!

So, Suzanne and I are completely whipped when it comes to our dogs. That's right: they not only sleep with us in the bed, they also sleep under the covers. This is something of a departure from the "norm" of a few mere years ago, when our old Springers - and the cat - mostly slept at the foot of the bed. Dud, being both incredibly stubborn and incredibly spoiled, often flaunted the foot-of-the-bed rule, and would instead stretch out along my side. After the spoiling expanded to include Pixie at the top of the bed and under-the-covers snoozing for both dogs, our familial unit has developed a comfortable routine for bedtime, also known as "assuming the position".

Suzanne and I spoon in the middle of the bed, typically with her behind me, our knees aligned, and her left arm snaking under my arm so that her hand cups my right breast holds me close. Pixie then curls up in the crook of Suzanne's knees while Dudley snuggles in against my stomach. Sometimes I'll rest my hand on his head, or hold his paw. It's the perfect position. Go ahead, make your own "doggy-style" jokes... "assuming the position" rocks!

And a pic for weese:

Yeah, we let 'em chew treats and play with toys on the bed, too.

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Obvious?

W: I have an opposable thumb.
S: I like that about you.

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Mother, Mother

My mother, for reasons known only to herself, happens to prefer the parental nomenclature "Mother". Maybe she feels it lends a sense of Southern propriety; I don't know. As a child I sometimes called her Momma, but "Mother" was at least as commonly employed. Certainly both of my brothers routinely use "Mother" when addressing her. I never fully realized how odd this sounded until I saw it in print, however. When she signs her emails with "Mother", the cold formality is striking to me:

Thanks for blah, blah, and blah. I'm off to blah and blah. Talk at you later.

Love,

Mother

Feeling a little silly tonight, I responded:

You're most welcome. I hope blah was enjoyable.

Love,

Daughter

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Hell, Meet Handbasket

S: Apparently the Pope pissed the world off by stating that Mohammad is evil.
W: Oh, yeah?
S: Yeah. Something like the Muslims use violence to spread their religion. 'Cause you know, there's no violence in the Bible.
W: We need a new Bible.
S: [does double-take] You... want me to buy you a Bible?
W: No, no... I think it's time a new Bible was written.

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Gotta Get Some!

Otis Spunkmeyer muffin, anyone?



Aunt Flo has other side effects.

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TMI

I don't think I've ever mentioned that I take birth control pills. Don't be getting any crazy ideas now - the sole purpose is to deal with Aunt Flo. That crazy bitch was visiting on a highly irregular basis and being a real pain in the uterus and back ass. She also had a real tendency to make me bitchy a tad irritable. And lethargic. And she fucked with my sleep, something I don't take lightly. I won't even mention what the old biddy did to my lingerie boxers sheets clothes!

So, I whined moaned was such a bitch looked so pitiful that Suzanne sent me to the doctor. The doctor gave me the prescription for The Pill. I took those little bitty pills each night, hoping against hope to be extricated from Aunt Flo's nasty clutches influence.

Time passed. The little pills changed colors. Finally, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Cramping, bitchiness, and sleeplessness were defeated. Hallelujah! Take that, Aunt Flo! Victory! And the villagers rejoiced. Well, Suzanne and I did, anyway. There was also the bonus of getting to quip, "Why is the lesbian the only one on birth control?!" when the epidemic of rash of multiple pregnancies occurred in my office.

With such satisfactory results, I even did a credible job of calling in the refill in a timely fashion each month. Having the ability to look at the calendar and know when Aunt Flo--now a defeated crone mere shadow of her former self--would arrive was so nice. The absence of the other symptoms was priceless: priceless I say, just like in the MasterCard commercials.

Time passed. Life was good.

More time passed. I got shit-faced drank way a little too much, and hurled forgot to take the little bitty pill one night. Any of you biatches know what happened next? That's right. Aunt Flo, full of piss and vinegar pain and suffering righteous indignation, descended two days later. Rather unexpectedly, and completely unwelcome.

Really, is there anything worse than having unwelcome relatives drop in twice in the same fucking month? Sure there is. Knowing it's your own damned fault.

Oh, and the über-bitch? It's too soon to call in the refill for the next script. Might as well put the welcome mat out for Aunt Flo now.









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Quote of Note

Egotist: A person of low taste, more interested in himself than in me.

~ Ambrose Bierce

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Luck, Schmuck

From the New York Daily News:

A Japanese executive charged with stealing $7 million from his company to fuel a gambling habit hit the daily double yesterday when his wife and his mistress appeared in court together to bail him out of jail.

Magistrate Judge Lois Bloom uncovered the love-triangle after she asked a few routine questions of the bond-signers.

"I am the wife," Hiroko Yamaki informed Bloom through an interpreter.

"I met him in a restaurant. ... We live together," explained Megumi Tsuji, who is a hostess in a Japanese restaurant.

The judge appeared momentarily flustered and explained she did not intend to embarrass the women.

"Mr. Yamaki, you are an incredibly lucky man," Bloom said.

Sure as shit wouldn't see my ass dropping $350,000 for his bond.

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Back in the Trenches

Although I once wrote about the various duties I've endured performed in my role as a servant to the adults with disabilities population, the truth is I'm now an administrator and am rarely required to provide "direct" care. When one-third of one's staff is out, however (two new mommies and one back surgery convalescent, thank you very much), it is inevitable that to the supervisor some additional work shall fall.

Happily, I can report that I've not been required to mow a yard, wipe an ass, or scrub a toilet... yet. No, to date my resumption of hands-on responsibilities has largely been in support of a young woman who works as a teacher's assistant in a private day care. Said support primarily consists of facilitating the creative process for weekly "projects" with the kids, supervising preparation of snacks, and offering occasional feedback regarding efficiency and initiative. School is back in session in Maryland, so 30 or so kids descend on the day care at the end of their scholastic day just waiting to snatch the snacks prepared by my charge and engage in games and group projects. It's not that bad, really, and I don't even have that much experience with the circa kindergarten age group. I have favorites. I have also identified the ones that are going to give their parents hell for the next fifteen years or so. Heck, it's kinda fun.

Two weeks ago, however, the day care was in prime preparation for the school season. They sent the kids home on a Thursday, the last official day of summer camp, with Friday designated as TRANSITION DAY. That's right - one day to clean, reorganize, re-label, and otherwise plan for the school year. They do the same thing at the end of the school year to prep for camp. It seems slightly masochistic from my point of view, but I imagine it's cost effective.

As this particular person with a disability (PwD) has worked at this particular day care for several years, I was quite familiar with the expectation that the PwD get 1:1 support for the entire Day of Transition. So, I sucked it up, put on my favorite jeans and a tank, and went to perform my duties as a day care job coach. Given that I'm a bit compulsive about cleaning, this assignment did not seem particularly onerous. Seven hours later, I realized how naive my earlier impression had been. Do you have any idea how chaotic a day care can be on Transition Day? Toys, paints, puzzles, games, crayons, and beads, beads, and more beads were everywhere. Bright colors assaulted my Type A sensibilities from every direction. It's the fodder of which nightmares are born.

The staff were busy creating, sorting, and organizing (lucky bitches) while the PwD and I tackled various cleaning tasks. Transition Day heralds the welcoming of a new herd of kids, so all previously assigned materials must be relieved of their former designations - a task now firmly identified as my least favorite. I thoroughly destroyed my thumbnails scraping tape out of about 100 "cubbies" and then scrubbing them down with neurotic intensity. If you're inclined to ask if the PwD is supposed to "do" the work while I "coach," the answer is affirmative. Unfortunately, this particular young woman had NO attention to detail and I simply could not resist "refining" her efforts. We were in a day care, for fuck's sake - cleanliness should not be taken lightly! Now, if you're inclined to ask, "Why trash your nails? Why not use a scraper?" I'm afraid the answer is, "They couldn't find the scraper, and I foolishly didn't think to bring a razor blade to the day care." (If you're inclined to ask wtf a lesbian cares about fingernails, well, bite me.)

Of course, the rooms looked amazing the following Monday. At least until the children arrived.

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Competition?

Me: according to this old blog entry, Laila Ali is Queen Latifah's girlfriend.

Suz: (looks at pic) Nice. Laila Ali? Isn't she the boxer?

Me: Yes.

Suz: I love Queen Latifah. Secretly I'm her girlfriend; she just doesn't know it.

I hope Queen never learns of it, as I'm pretty sure she could kick my ass.

Update:

As a result of the questions--and delightful mental images--in the comments, I decided to do a smidge of research. Seems Miss Ali has been rather adamant in her denial of any such liaison with the Queen. Now that's a pity in oh-so-many ways. The "research," however, was very much a visually pleasing task.

Not as pleasing was Queen's own denial:

It's insulting when someone asks, 'Are you gay?' A woman cannot be strong, outspoken, competent at running her own business, handle herself physically, play a very convincing role in a movie, know what she wants—and go for it—without being gay? Come on.

I mean, I agree with her in principle. Truly. I just think she'd make a mighty fine lesbian, and would hope she would acknowledge it proudly if such were the case. Ah, well. Looks like my suburban bliss is safe for now.

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Yeehaw?

My daddy would be so proud. Thanks, Syd.



Pass the Miracle Whip. And hey, where's the greens and fried okra?

What's that? You want your own? Fine, click here.
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01.20.09

Although it heartens me to see anti-Bush sentiment slapped on the back of others' bumpers with increased frequency these days, am I the only one that feels so dismayed when this one comes into view?

I mean, it's clever and it's true... but damn, over two more years??? Really, I'm not going to go into a full-fledged rant. I generally keep my political self out of my blog but if ya'll had to live surrounded by those fucking "W: The President" stickers the way I have, perhaps you'd better understand my frustration.

This one, incidentally, is my favorite - it sums up my feelings quite nicely:

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Changing Perspective

For reasons unknown, I've received a handful of unsolicited opinions regarding my personality in the past two weeks:

One of my favorite friends in blogdom called me "flirty".

One of my closest friends in blogdom called me "chatty".

One of my favorite friends at work described me as having "some" of the traits of the so-called "Type A" personality.

What the hell, people? While I fully admit--and even embrace--that I am no longer the painfully shy freak I once was, chatty and flirty seem a bit much!

Exhibit A: I have spent much of my life as a wallflower, abhorring the thought of being the center of attention and liberally employing alcohol as a mechanism to overcome my extreme awkwardness in social situations. To this day, I often carefully edit my verbalizations so as not to elicit an unwelcome response from my audience. At times I also struggle to fill awkward silences when attempting to engage another in superficial conversation. Does that sound "chatty" to you?

Exhibit B: I have practiced serial monogamy throughout my adult life and consider loyalty to be one of my finest character traits. I have been largely successful at extricating myself from committed relationships prior to engaging in activities with others (in other words, I don't cheat). I would never, ever put myself in a position of destroying the relationship of others. Does that sound "flirty"?

*sigh*
Okay.

Being in a healthy relationship has done wonders for my self-esteem. Truthfully, my shyness has been gradually eroded by repeated exposure to social situations (without the benefit of alcohol) as a function of my job, particularly since assuming the mantle of supervisor. Successful handling of difficult situations at work helped even more. I recognize, too, that my ingrained "I'm shy" self-perception needs tweaking. I no longer present with the quiet, shy, avoidant disposition that my mental refrain attempts to default to when the question of my personality arises. Good God, how can I reconcile not wanting to be the center of attention while in the midst of writing about myself on my blog? Oh, it's not an indefensible position: I can retort that I carefully select what I will reveal of myself here and take full advantage of the opportunity to edit, delete, and edit some more.

Sure, I commented that "I'm so turned on" by a well-written post over at neurotranscendence. I encouraged weese to show off her "cut" triceps. I even egged on that Gunslinger dude to show us just how sexy he is. *sigh* Maybe it's true: my sense of humor could be interpreted as "flirty." Ah, well. Consider the source. I have the incredible fortune to share my life with a truly remarkable woman. Rest assured, ladies (and certainly gentlemen): As amazing as you or your lovers may be, your relationships are safe from me.

While writing this post, I exclaimed to Suzanne that I simply did not "get" what my coworker meant by "some" Type A qualities. I went to dictionary.com to explore the meaning and synonyms of the term. I ask you, is being a perfectionist, or possessing slight OCD tendencies, considered "Type A"? I made a few more exclamations in my own defense. I might be assertive at work, but not aggressive! Suzanne, after attempting to soften the blow delivered by one of my most-frequently visited websites, finally advised, "Dont get all obsessive-compulsive over this."

I guess it's a little too late for that.

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Bumpkin Kin

My last remaining grandparent, known conventionally enough as Grandma, passed away when I was 22. She died less than a year after her husband, Pop. I was six when Big Daddy died and nineteen when we lost Mam-maw. I don't actually have too many clear memories of Big Daddy, although attending his funeral at the ripe old age of six did make quite a lasting impression. Grandma and Pop were far more memorable to me. Daddy's side of the family were the redneck types that loved to watch the Cowboys, hunt deer, and drink. Many's the Thanksgiving I saw Uncle Walter "asleep" on the couch after killing a six-pack. And he still likes to laugh about the Christmas he played "pony" for me for what seemed like hours, and couldn't remember why he had rug-burns on his knees the following morning. Good old Uncle Walter.

I was the youngest of a small herd of cousins on my father’s side of the family. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Roy had two daughters so much older than me that they were more like aunts themselves than cousins. In fact, one of them had a son that was three months my elder. Aunt Joann and Uncle Walter had two adopted daughters that were supposedly biological sisters but were as different as night and day. Aunt Sue and Uncle Wil had one son; I was actually envious of his diabetes as a kid because whenever he came to visit he brought Diet Shastas that only he was allowed to drink. (I was also envious that he lived outside of Dallas, home to the much-celebrated Cowboys). And Daddy had my brothers and me.

We visited my grandparents' home just about once weekly, something I enjoyed even though the old man was hard of hearing and insisted on watching Hee-Haw at an insanely loud volume. Of course we also celebrated holidays there with the extended family. Grandma and Pop had lots of cards with which to play games or build card houses and lots of dominoes for creative efforts as well. Pop was an avid chewer of Juicy Fruit gum; he would hand out the occasional stick to us urchins when the mood struck him. He was also a pipe smoker and I can vividly recall him sitting on the deerskin chair on the screened porch, puffing away. I'm still irrationally fond of the smell of pipe tobacco. Pop mowed the land with a big-ass tractor that was so much fun to play on when not in use. He also maintained one heckuva big garden. I've never tasted macaroni and cheese or fresh green beans as good as Grandma's.

Grandma and Pop owned a lot of land in their itty-bitty town of 512 souls. Originally a cattleman and rice farmer, Pop gradually sold off chunks of his land until just a few acres remained around the homestead. The house was the only abode on a long road outside of what passed for "town," and was dark enough and creaky enough to be downright scary at night. Moss dangled lazily from the trees, creating a somewhat gloomy effect even on the brightest of days. Despite the isolation and aged appearance of the house, getting to spend the night at Grandma and Pop’s was always a treat. We had large family reunions under the tin shelter out in the yard every year right up until Pop died. I have so many memories of that house and yard: playing hide-and-seek and truth-or-dare with my cousins; hunting for Easter eggs; riding a horse for the first time; riding, and flipping, a three-wheeler for the first time; eating figs right off of the tree out front; and the awful image of a gutted deer suspended from a tree branch, its blood staining the ground.

From my earliest memories, Pop took a walk down their shale-and-dirt road every evening, cane in hand and cowboy hat on head. I loved his cane, too. Sometimes he'd crook you around the neck to pull you to him for a hug. He was such a sweet man. My dad is so like him physically. He's a sweetie, too. I once asked my mother how Daddy ended up so different from the rest of the "redneck" bunch on his side of the family. She said, "He was a redneck until I got a-hold of him."

These days I can see in Daddy just the slightest hint of, well, not redneck... hick, I suppose is a better word. And it just makes me love him that much more.

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Five Oddities

Deb over at Life as a Parent "tagged" me to write about "5 weird things/habits" of mine. I consented to participate, but I'm breaking the rules and am not tagging five others. If you want to play, either here or on your own blog, feel free.

1. I often eat foods I don't like (cooked carrots, for example) because I have a weird compulsion not to "waste" food. Or money. And because they're supposed to be good for me.


2. I love all things small. Small equates to "neat" and "cute" in my world.


3. I put salt on many, many foods, including apples, watermelon, pears, canteloupe, salad... oh, hell, the list of what I don't salt is shorter: ice cream, beer (and other alcoholic beverages,) bacon, and some fruits like cherries, nectarines, blueberries, and peaches.


4. I tend to mislead people regarding my age. Unlike most folks, though, I imply that I am older than I actually am.


5. I have a very slight curvature of my spine that results in shoulder/neck pain and greater "wear" on my left foot and footwear.
   

Now you know: I'm a hunchbacked, salt-eating, small-liking, icky-food-eating liar.

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Inculcate

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

Inculcate.

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Seven (Plus) Hours of Routine Repetition

Over the past few weeks, certain west coast bloggers and I have had a little fun referencing (and consequently inculcating) lyrics from well-known songs. It was a fun, if occasionally maddening, exchange... even a Texan smart-ass and a Virginian rugby-lovin', wannabe-renaissance man played along. But really, by the fourth day of the same lyrics repeating in my head like a badly-scratched 45, Donna Fargo deserved to have "Freaking" inserted into her name. Likewise, many of the aforementioned bloggers were elevated to smart-ass status*.

Today, however, is a new day. A day that began with a Budweiser commercial on the alarm clock, in fact. Although I'm still waiting for the "True Women of Brilliance" upgrade, more often than not I enjoy Bud's "Real Men of Genius" advertising line. Mr. Boneless Buffalo Wing Inventor, for example. What's not to like about the guy singing, "Hope I'm not eating rear end" with that holdover-from-the-80's rocker inflection?

This morning's wake-up salute was to Mr. Hot-Dog-Eating-Contest Contestant. I don't typically consider "seven hours of routine angioplasty" to be fodder for humor, so it's JUST NOT RIGHT that "my left arm feels tingly" has been reprising in my head since 6:30 a.m.

My frontal lobe feels tingly. It's almost enough to make me long for DonnaFreakingFargo.


*Statement is not intended to include an Art Journalist. Her smart-assedness was established long prior to events referenced in this-here blog entry.

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The King and O?

I've heard a couple of news stories in the past week regarding Oprah Winfrey and renewed speculation that she and Gayle King are, or were, lesbian lovers. The story didn't really interest me that much, although I admit I can totally see Stedman as a "beard." What did interest me, however, was when a couple of my favorite radio talk show hosts were discussing the subject.

"Wow, someone really needs to dive into that story!", said one. "I hope they don't muff it," responded the sidekick.

Is it wrong that I laughed my ass off?

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ARGH!

The Asshat Coworker Strikes Again!

Well i got us a new coffee maker which is also a Thermol Carafe , i made some Mocha for you coffee drinkers i hope it taste good i am not sure how to do the coffee/cup ratio in this pot yet, give me some time so I put one scoop of Mocha which i ordered from the Gevalia company i guess the next pot should be regualar pot and try to use one scoop of that since this is an 8 cupper our other pot was a 10 cupper and i used a scoop and a half, please let me know if you all like this, if not we will go back to our old coffee pot . This one uses new filters which are by our old ones these are cone shaped again feed back would be greatful. MAY ALL OF YOU COFEE DRINKERS ENJOY.

Attention to detail, anyone? Please?

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Suburban Sporks

Subtitle: 'Cause I wanted to post pics, too!

For those of you who have been following the Journey of the Sporks and have expressed concern regarding their welfare given the rapid transition from Southern California to New York City, I'm happy to report the little gals seem to be settling in to their new suburban home.

Although they seemed a little shy at first, the sporks have rebounded nicely from their whirlwind weekend. Perhaps they were jet-lagged, or simply fatigued... or hungover. (Didja see that one spork trying to git into eb's cleavage?) Regardless, a little rest, hydration, and good old suburban TLC have put the sheen right back into their little titanium faces.

They appeared appreciative of the diversity present in suburban Utensiltown, but quickly gravitated to the stainless steel family of implements.


They've also demonstrated a fondness for the dogs, although I'm not sure how Dud feels about it.


They clearly enjoy watching television. They'll spend hours watching the Food Network. Thankfully, they also enjoy sports. I've made it my special mission to ensure they appreciate teams other than the Yankees. One cannot start too early ingraining Yankees hatred.


Our little sporks are quickly becoming adept at "suburban" multi-tasking, and other amusements:




















After so many hours in front of the television and the computer, I began to fear for their sweet little tines. I decided they'd adjusted well enough to assume some basic suburban responsibilities, lest a certain sporks-enthusiast begins protesting over the girls' lack of productivity.


Yes, the sporks are adjusting well. We're so proud. I may introduce them to power tools next!

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A Piece of the Apple

New York City!

What can I say? I went there somewhat dreading the "big city" experience, as the little hick inside of me is somewhat intimidated by hordes of people and concepts like "mass transit." Particularly in NYC, where stories of subway crime, rude pedestrians, maniacal cab drivers, and general filth are legend. (I won't even mention how much I detest the Yankees.) So, the excitement of seeing EB and Bluebonnet (EB/BB) again, and meeting Weese and wife (WeMaw) for the first time*, was somewhat tempered by my general "big city" apprehension.

Fortunately, this-here trip was orchestrated by EB/BB. We had a plan for rendezvousing with them, and then the remainder of the weekend was left in their oh-so-capable hands. The rendezvous was accomplished without a hitch, and we were off to explore the City. Well, we were off to explore Manhattan. Manhattan, FYI to any others housing I'm-afeared-of-the-big-city inner hicks, is nice. Oh, sure, the cab drivers are a bit maniacal. And every once in a while a whiff of something not so pleasant would waft from the sewer grates. The subway is much warmer than DC's modest little mass transit system. But the people were fine, the food was excellent, and the bars were plenty. And the socialization was awesome. The eye-candy was... delicious. It seems skirts or shorts with tank tops are quite common in NYC on a hot summer evening.

So, what can I say? I might not be ready to yell, "I love New York City!", but I can say with confidence, "I heart Manhattan."


*At the time, I didn't know how excited I should've been about meeting BB's niece, Crystal. Drunken New Jersey Lesbian-Wannabes are fun, ya'll.

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It's Time

Recently I heard a news article stating that "time" is the most commonly used noun in the English language. Think about that. What time is it? Do we have enough time? How much time will you need? Time for dinner. That time of the month. Time flies. Time to kill. Time and date. Overtime. Time out of mind. Record time. The time of my life. Out of time. Until next time. Time's wasting. Working against time. Time in a bottle. Time magazine. Arrival/departure time. Why do you do that all of the time? Time immemorial. Time to think. Time to act. Time zone. Greenwich Mean Time. Eastern Standard Time. Daylight Savings Time. Time out!

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.
~Pink Floyd, "Time"

So, what time is it? It's time to go to bed. We must be up early in order to be on time for our plane to NYC. We have plans to spend time with our friends there. I'm hopeful a good time will be had by all. I'm also looking forward to sharing the experience here on Wannabe, but there'll be time enough for that later. In the meantime, enjoy your weekend.

Time does fly - and so shall we.

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It's Not the '80s Anymore

A few of weeks ago, eb published a post regarding the difference between her chronological age and her perception of herself, or how old she "feels." I've turned that thought over in my head a lot recently, analyzing how old I "feel." I think the reason the question lingered for so long was that I kept identifying with my actual age. I don't possess any particular hang-ups over my age, as many of the most important people in my life are a little older. Over the past couple of weekends, though, I realized I do tend to associate with a much younger self when I'm performing physical labor. It always shocks me when my body lets me down, because I expect it to perform the way it did fifteen years ago.

While never an athlete, I've always had confidence in my body. In my teens and twenties, I generally believed myself to be stronger than many women of my average size, with decent balance, dexterity, and endurance. Rarely did a task intimidate me. Even more rarely did I fail. I have a stubborn personality at times and like to be independent, so it's my nature to tackle physical activities with an "I can do it" attitude. In my teens and twenties, I could. And did. Such an attitude kinda comes in handy as a lesbian, as there is no option to defer to the hubby when it comes to hard work (and there's not much point in wishing The Boy were here.)

Now, however, I find that I cannot lift every item in the house without hurting my back. Nor can I rake or shovel for hours on end without looking like a hunchback the following day. Last Sunday, I ran the weedwhacker for well over an hour. Much of that time I was holding it at an inverted angle in order to "trim" our driveways and sidewalk. Today, three days later, the muscles in my arms have finally stopped screaming their righteous protest of such abuse. It's a humbling experience.

Sure, I recognize that I was using muscles in a manner to which they are not accustomed, but the pain still served as a pointed reminder: I do not have the body of a 20-year-old anymore.

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A Simple Question

What's on your keychain?

Mine has the usual collection of house, auto, and office keys, along with the keychain cards for my preferred grocery and pharmacy. The key fob is actually a small patch of leather embossed with the Timberland logo, taken from The Boy's boots back when he wore Tims in high school.

I'm a simple, non-bulky, necessary-or-at-least-sentimental-items-only kinda girl. What about you?

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You Can't Be a Beacon

Before (Boo, hiss):













After (Ooh, aah):













Say it together now: Ooh, aah.

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Today's To-dos

Attempt repair of riding mower
Mow (preferably with riding mower!)
Install new light fixture on back of house*
Laundry**
Publish blog entry
Two of following three:

• Prepare ground for foundation of second shed***
• Assemble foundation of shed
• Assist suddenly husbandless neighbor with unfinished home improvement efforts (military husband has been assimilated for some sort of training at some other location)

Well, that's one down.

*Avoid electrocution
**Must maintain Laundry Queen status
***Ignore snickering

Oh, the Injustice

Suzanne minus Fark.com equals whine.

How dare they perform site maintenance during her prime news-junky viewing hours?

Thankfully, today is a new day.

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There's Always Tomorrow?

Although I enjoy the administrative responsibilities of my job, this is always a taxing time of year. In addition to starting new "consumers" and preparing for an anticipated licensing visit, June 30^th marked the end of our fiscal year. In my world, this means cracking the whip to make sure all of my staff have all of their FY06 paperwork (billing reports, monthly reports, case notes, expense reports, productivity records, etc.) complete, while somehow managing my own documentation responsibilities - most notably writing ten performance evaluations and creating new FY07 electronic "cases" in our piece-of-shit database. Oh yeah, there's also the lingering issue of arranging caseload coverage when two of my staff pop their little buns out of their no-longer-so-little ovens.

Today was my first day back at work following a four-day holiday weekend full of shed-building excitement. Actually, I took leave for Monday in order to gain the four-day weekend; my agency only observes the actual date of Independence Day as a paid holiday. I took the extra day off gladly despite knowing how much work is due by the end of next week. I told myself I'd really start crunching through everything today.

I forgot our Administrative Assistant was planning to come to the office today to do billing, even though she is still technically on maternity leave. She delivered her baby girl on June 11th. Little Kylie put in 7 hours at the office today.


Now really, how was I supposed to get any work done?

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