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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