Dear Person Who Hogged Up Damn Near All The Frosted Mini-Wheats, Thereby Leaving Me Approximately Five In The Bag For My One Ay Emm Post-Phonehilarity Snackfest:
Please recall who jockeys the allowance reins around these parts. And also, coincidentally, has effective control over your social calendar for AT LEAST the next six or so years.
Earnestly Seeking My Calcium and Grain Products Fix,
The One What Gaved You Birth Long About Twelve Years Ago, You Cute Little Mop-Haired Bottomless Stomach
::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::
Dear Person Who Revealed Momma's Tried-and-True 'Special Groceries' Hiding Spot:
Look, I don't advocate using sex as a weapon, but we're talking Frosted Mini-Wheats here.
You bastard.
Passive-Aggressively,
The One What Brings The Bells And Whistles (and bungee cords and cleverly-used Altoids, to boot!)
“Then fucking go, Cree.” I was incredulous. What the??
“I can’t leave you here like this!”
The ‘like this’ referred to was me, supine on the curb, bootsoles flat to the street’s asphalt, knees (remarkably) primly together. Demure While Drunk In Public Settings is a course that all Southern young women are required to take, even if they never plan to touch a drop in their lives (also paramount is the early-learning regimen of both How To Tell A Bald-Faced Lie Earnestly and Looking Sweet And Only Cutely Flustered In Moments of Discomfort*).
Also, I should mention, I took a painstaking twenty-five minutes --while everyone else was shooting the breeze or talking shit (which really are only slightly different…it’s all in the set of your mouth as you are doing it) –-arranging my hair, braided and at right angles, behind my head. When you’re the right shade of pickled everything’s an artistic moment: I Am Living Sculpture, Hear Me Roar.
Everything else residing between the boots and the hair, well….let’s just say those things were sort of left to their own devices. The knees were on autopilot, performing quite nicely and according to their ritualistic training.
I was becoming one with the stars, motherfucker, and just wanted to be left alone. My senses were so keen that I could smell the mineral content of the concrete beneath my back, feel the thrumming of a miles-away textile plant on my leaden arms.
“There was a ‘don’t’ and then there was a ‘care’. I think I said them together, but I can’t be sure because I am very, very polluted at present.
“Yes," I lifted my head so that I could fuzzily eyeball his face, “I’m almost positive that I told you I don’t care.”
“I’ll just stay here with you,” he said, exasperated beyond typical levels.
“You know what, Cree? I really can take care of myself.” He opened his mouth to speak again, and I halted him.
“If you are going to stay, then at least shut the fuck up. You can babysit me in silence, can’t you?” His response? He waved the other four on and leaned inside the car to turn on some music
while the merry band of tricksters headed toward a grocery store to stuff cold slabs of plastic-encased beef in their shirts for a little two ay emm breakfast feast. I remember hearing about this later and thinking, “I should be doubly jealous; they got both steak and erect nipples on their outing.”
After an indeterminate amount of time (thirty seconds? forty-eight weeks?), I surmised that it might be best if I explored the whole ‘being vertical’ thing for a little while. I managed to nearly raise myself erect when, whoops, overbalance kicked in on the deal and I stumbled forward into Cree’s magically-waiting arms.
As much magic, anyway, as can exist when said arms are stringing you up by your pits and saving you from violently kissing some ‘crete.
But when I extracted myself somewhat, I noticed that those arms were gooshfleshed, hair on them standing aloft. I remember being suddenly moved by his body betraying his manner and wanting to kiss him because of it. I drew him gently -–my hands clasped on his forearms and his on mine—- toward me, backing into the corner where the ticket booth and front doors met up to do whatever business involves doors and ticket booths.
And when I was suitably pinned in that swooping corner, I pulled him in to me. Our lips were inches apart; we could have breathed in each other’s expelled air had we bothered drawing breath, but we did not. He placed his right hand on my sternum, fingertips lightly resting on my neck, thumb below my chin. That particular move buckles my resolve damn near every time and suddenly here we were, boots jockeying for position and limbs clumsily (in their haste) searching for purchase.
I bit my cheek and he drew my earlobe between his lips, hands working the denim at my waist, pushing and opening all at the same time, damn the physics of it all. I maneuvered his head further downward so I could get my hands in that mass of black hair.
Everything in us both was screaming ‘GIMME!’ and we let fly on one another, the moon above witness to him bringing me to an arching, gasping place where I wanted to both run away from the intensity and stay forever awash in it.
Though we were still running buddies after that, we regarded one another with the keen distaste of ‘conquest’ and eventually the group we hung with shifted, then dissolved altogether.
Every now and again, I will see him in the grocery store, and he eyes me with appreciation and something akin to subtle want. I’ve now become a fondness in his memory; I can see him wishing away my spouse, the years, our mutual dismissiveness after that groping, fevered coupling.
Friends, I have shiny red toenails and my hair is bouncy and manageable at the moment. What more could a girl ask for??
Social Services Networking, Part the First:
Wanna know what happens when you meet a chick from the AIDS Action Coalition when you've both had too many tequilas? Why, you end up trading horror stories, of course. If you're me, you also end up with a cute little brown kraft bag full of these:
Charm at its finest: 'See Dick with an erection / See Dick with no protection / See Dick with an infection. DON'T BE A DICK.'
....and, of course, they come in a rainbow of fruity fun hues! I've not done a TACKY PACKtm in, I dunno, A MILLION YEARS, so as penance for my bad behavior, I'll send one to the first ten of you to hit the commentseses (address, of course, can be sent privately via the mighty, mighty Gmail). The first three even get their choice of colors.
I seem to have an assload* of green ones, how cute. Go figure.
I’m the number two search overall for the phrase ‘nowhere to go’.
That is wicked-cool, because you just know some person out there in the great sea of Cyberians is typing in the phrase ‘nowhere to go’ because they really and truly have nowhere to go on a random Friday or Saturday (or even the lesser Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday nights; maybe not even a Tuesday night, yo…the very least of them all) night and are seeing what the World Wild InterWeb can do to combat, remedy and/or take their mind off that little tidbit.
Welcome, fellow interwebnet dork. I have big boobs and can sometimes knock a phrase –whizzing and arcing-- right on outta the literary ballpark. You are home.
As mentioned before, sometimes in the course of my job-related duties I end up with a carload of kidlets that have contracted The Cooties.
I’ve yet to ever, ever have picked up and/or had a dalliance with lice in my entire life, even in these near sure-bet situations. HOWEVER, I’m still all goofy about it and tend to spend the days following a lice discovery on one or more of my clientele clawing away at any spot on my body that has even the slightest downy fluff of hair*.
For the record, I do indeed suppress the mad urge to give my crotch a vigorous scratching.
Anyway, after giving the head a good solid scratch or ten-thousand over the course of seventy-two hours, things tend to start falling from the depths of ones mane. Never mind the fact that these things are merely eensy plugs of scalp that have just cried out in misery and pain before finally succumbing to my vigorous fingerwork, screaming, “THAT’S IT! I’M JUMPING! HAD ENOUUUUGH!” Yes, you never mind that at all, because I will sit and stare at them for absolute ages, trying to see whether or not those things are not eensy plugs of scalp but instead are lice that have suddenly become super-intelligent enough to play a rousing game of possum with me. I look for them to start unfolding their wee little legs (with a creepy horror-movie sound effect akin to a verra, verra creaky door slowly and agonizingly opening to reveal the half-devoured corpse of your sixth-grade advanced algebra teacher who has finally figured out that it was an incredible sham, your being placed in that class, because you were indeed a mathtard all along and were faking your way through that shit. And boy-oh-boy, is he pissed and ready to gnaw on your brain all the way down to the bastardized math facts you’ve badly stored somewhere in there, because that’s The Source of All His Evil Power, Motherfucker) and scampering –or burrowing, whatever the fuck it is that lice do in their spare time—amongst the rib knit of my rust-colored tank top.
All this is just a drunken, breathy way of saying that I’ve spent the better part of two days digging away at my head because I saw a fucking sign on Thursday afternoon –a mere SIGN, people –taped to the door of one of the visitation rooms at the office:
LICE, 10/21/04
I realize how essentially brain-damaged and freakish this makes me seem to most of you, but I have a solid rebuttal to that: COOTIES! We’re dealing with COOTIES here. You know?
Today the itch-scratch-itch cycle was so relentless and uninterrupted that I finally came home this evening, plopped down in front of the sofa where my lovely Maxim was seated, and beseeched him to dig through my pile of keratin to see if it was the site of a major infestation. He surmised that I've a little more than a touch of the hypochondriac in me, but placated me with a thorough ‘lock-picking’ anyway.
He passed me with a clean bill of health, asked me coyly if I would like to see his extra-special 'tongue depressor' and I’ve not itched one farging bit since.
(Just before I sat down to write this, I said to myself, “Cheese, smoked turkey, pickles: I must have these things."
I set about procuring them, only to find that the pickles had gone missing via the digestive system of a twelve-year-old, seemingly constantly-famished boy. Isn’t that always the way?
So I substituted with some Jalapeno-flavored Dirty Chips. But they’re not at all spicy, and therefore have been tried in the High Court of the Almighty Snack Tray and found wholly unsatisfying.)
She dropped the dime down the wishing well
Wanted to fall in after it
Sometimes every tissue in her listens
As it still calls after her,
Beckoning her even now to dive in
~Staring at my fingertips, seeing a microscopic me walking amongst the whorls of my prints like some sunny-day labyrinth.
~A piece of wallpaper, garlanded with green and very happy to be, kept telling me so over and over until I patiently walked up to it and instructed it to shut the living fuck up.
~Smiling deeply into a mug of soup that my hands stayed glued to long after both my smile and the warmth of the broth disappeared….no really, I thought my hands were glued to it.
These are all things I did at one time or another, so astounded by reality that seeing/doing shit like that was preferable. Ludicrous to me now, but tinged with that strange sort of bittersweetness that those who’ve not been there would never in a million years begin to understand. Alcoholics astound me. Cutters astound me. In a way that is not at all prude, hookers astound me. It is with this same sort of shell-shocked lack of understanding that I imagine some people regard the junkie.
After nearly taking matters into my own hands one well-lit spring afternoon, I promised God that I would never, ever try to kill myself again. I meant that promise, and I’ve kept it mostly well, I think. I spent a goodly amount of time roughly eighteen months later praying for him to strike me with some incurable malady, some terminal something that would have me wasting away in no time flat.
“I promised,” I’d cry, “I can’t, so you do it for me!”
And then I wised up and lived happily ever after. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
In the past, a mere twenty-four hours could find me going from feeling as if my bones were made of air (abundant, cool, circulating and soothing) to wanting to remove my eyeballs so that the dull-lead thudding behind them could be free, Free, FREEEEE to fly (away). It got exhausting, and I gave up before I got given up on. When you get tired, it is left to you to choose to do one of two things; you resolve to move ahead to a place in which you can find sweet-smelling, comfortable rest, or you fall into the heap of shit you’ve made and you simply don’t get up. I have no idea what genetic predeterminer announces which of these camps a person will be assigned to. I won the lottery, I suppose.
I can’t count the ways that I have been foolish in my life, but I can peg each one of them with a calendar, a song, a scent. Funny how the memory banks cache sheepishness.
But I’m still around, and if sheepishness is the greatest of my worries, well then…. I’m doing pretty fucking okay, okay?
Almost --nearly without exception-- always the things I write start out as an entirely different something than what they end up being; but then the sentiment evolves so quickly that it could be tagged ‘mutant’ quite legitimately. And ba-boom-ba, here are this group of words that really and truly intended to be something Altogether Not What They Indeed Are, but got distracted by the stunning grace of a different emotion entirely.
Is it the themes that change, while the elements don’t ever…or vice-versa, that one always fucks me up. Themes change, the elements never do….or is it the other way around? Do the themes change, but the elements remain static, or have I got it all backwards?
Three different manners in which to ask the same question. That, my friends, is brilliant. Smashing that we have this string of characters we speak or pen and they are so powerful that they could either draw someone closer in toward us (yes, that ‘us’…The Us.) or shove them roughly further away.
There was this girl in my first grade class (the teacher of which was Mrs. Cox, oh She Of The Beige Polyester Couture, may worms eat her eyeballs with great disgust) who pushed my buttons. Her name was Karen, and there was not one thing on God’s Creation that she didn’t know something about. She was a preschool teacher in the making, the way she overexplained everything to the rest of us, who were obviously reasoning-challenged Cromagnon Kids. I didn’t know the term ‘pseudointellectual’ at the time, but I sure as fuck-all felt that fifty-dollar word for ‘sham’ when it ran all up on me in the shape of a crisply-dressed and braided seven-year-old snot.
I had a sense about her, and she stepped all up in it and confirmed her dumb-smartkid status one day when she pronounced ‘etc.’ as ee-TEK. I was all over her in a hopskip second. This was, of course, because I wasn’t quite seven myself and not yet versed in the rule about correcting others’ grammar in a public forum. Oopsies.
I guess Karen weathered my barrage of mockery in heated, embarrassed-kid fashion. We all did it at one time or another, and it is a generational curse: Every wee one that comes down the pike will have that one awful, blazing place in time where they realize that they’re the Ass Of The Moment; hopefully it’ll turn out that that moment will not be a consistent thing in their lives.
I heard a couple of years back that Karen committed suicide amidst the hallowed halls of some Ivy League school that could sue me (in a vigorous fashion) for reparations were they to discover their name perched here. She couldn’t run with the big dogs.
Okay, that last bit was a lie, but maybe you get the message: we never quite know where our words land when we hurl them forth, especially weighted with some form of passion. Careful how you aim.
You inquire as to what I'd prefer:
I'd prefer to glisten with anticipation~
Waiting for your head to clear the door jamb
And for your shoulders to shrug off their epaulets,
Ready arms ringing my yielding torso;
Your voice a low rumble flaming down to my pelvis.
You inquire as to what I'd prefer:
I'd prefer to know that I'll see you tomorrow~
That the luxury of casual touch be ours;
The bending down of your head to meet my lips,
Careful fingertips tracing tendons and heartbeat,
My thighs pressed --greedily-- against your own.
You inquire as to what I'd prefer:
I'd prefer to answer you dismissively~
Remembering none of the details of soul shared;
My heart not seizing upon your deeds of passion,
Nor my brain echoing your words:
"I remember your smell. Even now I dream about your eyes."
I was going to let this one lie for a while before sharing it with the lot of you, but all I can think with regard to telling you is, 'How could I not?' You pocket people, you acquaintances, you quiet voyeurs alike have shared just about every kind of emotion here with me, and it's about time you got a taste of the one I'm experiencing now.
A few weeks back, I got a letter from my school, effectively informing me that my financial aid was cut off. Where they used to not count your transfer-in hours toward the financial aid cap, it seems they have suddenly decided to dick me unmercifully and change all that. Effective this semester. Y'know: The last semester I'd need to go to their piddly little skoo (and here, the choir sing-shouts, "On-ly! Fourrrr! Claaah-sezzz....") before transferring to the bigger, more expensive and further-away one.
Actually, the lady in the financial aid orifice wryly informed me that I was indeed three credit hours over and if they wanted to be butts about it, they could technically try and recoup funds; they, however, in their infinite mercy and kindheartedfuckingness, were not gonna do that. [Here was the part where I was supposed to grovel gratefully. I did not.] I was given an appeal letter, but it was to be turned in on the first day of classes, and that would never do, as I only need four specific classes; any of you that have attended some sort of institute of higher learning know that trying to get four specific classes situated at the last minute is a task something akin to hauling the stars around the sky and repositioning them, just....so. And where would I come up with the money up front anyway, huh?
So, I hitched up my britches and hollered, "UNIVERSITY X! HERE I COMMMMME!" I got all the financial aid (plus the highly sought-after student loan of last year, thankyouverymuch) squared away and happily sat in front of the computer to get registered for classes. You know, a full two-and-a-half months before classes were to start.
Not one of those four classes was available. Not one. Not a single one, not in any section, not even the chintzy-bastard distance learning video or internet ones. How is it possible that every last fucking class I need is full? my head screamed, but then I settled down a little as the voices in my head tried to reason with me.
You know, girl, they said to me, you know, it could be that you're supposed to take this semester off.
Yeah? Yeah, you think?
*inner voice nods sagely* You bet I do, babe.
Okay, that's all well and good for you, but can I get a little raison de tels? Look, practical knowledge should tell you that in the past, when you've encountered roadblocks, they are not truly roadblocks; they're merely redirects.
Okay, again with the 'all well and good for you' thing, but I'm running short on time and tequila here. Fuck with you later, Inner Voices.
And I did what my momma taught me to do (and what so many other mothers skipped in the raising up of their children), which is To Think. I thought about all the reasons I might be being redirected away from skoo temporarily: I need a break? I'm tired? I have this mission trip upcoming, and I was worried about how my math-based courses would suffer? WHAAAAAT? I shrugged it off, but with an itch at the back of my brain. The mission trip, yes. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else, as well.....
It was one week later that I sat up with Memaw Bernie as she struggled through her last hours. It was two days more when we learned that we were to have her house.
Just like that. The cosmic wonder of a mom-in-law simply said, "Hey, you did without a lot growing up; I wasn't able to do all for you that I'm able to do for your sister, so have the house. Buy my sister and brother-in-law outta their half, build onto it as need be to suit the fam, and there you have it." Hellooooo, flabbergast.
And there was my answer: Because --despite the fact I am a marvel of modern womanhood-- even I cannot possibly work full-time, go to school full-time, manage to keep up with all three of my children (meaning: keep them out of crackhouses and detention) and remodel a house. Like, nofuckingway.
We had a very good friend of ours (who also happens to be a contractor-slash-master builder) come out to look at the house with us. As we stood in the living room, we outlined for him all the rooms we would need; we followed those things up with the features we'd want, as well. He looked around, cocked one eyebrow, measured some shit, and drove away with the promise that he'd call us by the next morning with the financial and physical probabilities of our requests. He must've gotten into the truck and immediately started praying.
I went on to work. When I was a couple of counties away, Maxim phoned to ask me how quickly I could make my way back to our place of residence. It seems he'd gone home, gotten on the internet and on a whim started searching out homes for sale locally. His backup plan was to sell the little house and just buy another. He hit paydirt less than a mile away from where we lived now; there was a house, it was cheap, in need of loving repair and there was a sense of urgency in his request for me to come look at it.
So I did go look, and I was absolutely blown slap away. It was impossibly inexpensive compared to surrounding property values and it had oodles and oodles of space, oh-so-rambly space; like a little castle, around every corner there was tucked a surprise room or cubby and I fell in love with it almost immediately, though I tried my best not to be overly hopeful. Things don't always work out, and if you throw all your wishes into one bucket, well....sometimes you don't see the holes the pail is riddled with until too late.
There was lots of work to be done, but most of it was by and large cosmetic in nature. The thing that was astounding to the point of being encouraging was the fact that it not only had what we'd hours before said we'd need in terms of room and such, but it boasted everything we wanted, besides. Rooms for each of the kids. Large master bedroom for Maxim and myself. Living room, family room, large dining room (I'm a wop, and family gatherings centered around a groaning table-load of food are paramount), utility room, spacious kitchen, couple-three baths, CLOSETS APLENTY, music studio, office-slash-art studio, fenced backyard for the dog. Even, my friends, down to tentatively-spoken details: "You know, we don't just have to build out. Ideally, I'd like the two older ones to have rooms upstairs. A bathroom sandwiched between them would be GREAT."
In this house was an upstairs with --you guessed it-- three rooms: Two roomy bedrooms with a full bath in the middle. Holy, holy cow. And calves. Grazing in a rolly green pasture.
So we discussed matters, and what I said to my spouse was this: "I'm for it, but I will go with whatever you ultimately decide."
We shaved a good eight percent off of the already-criminally low asking price and offered that as our bid. Amazingly, it was immediately accepted. We consulted our contractor-friend and he grinned large as he gave us a hearty thumbs up. We pursued financing in the form of a construction loan and held our collective breath. Typically, lenders don't like to bankroll fifty percent over the asking price for any reason. I prayed.
"God, if this is what you'd have us do, make the red tape go *poof*."
We closed --with only one minor, brief hiccup-- one week after I returned from Scotland. We have a home of our very own, and we've spent a goodly amount of time blaring loud techno and punk, sledgehammers and/or crowbars in hand, ripping and tearing out the old, making way for the new. There were roomsful of thrown-off belongings and dilapidated cabinetry and trim and fixtures to be done away with. The children have donned their little Dickies work gloves and diligently carried load after load of crrrrap to the curb to be picked up by the local Street Department.
And though I am tired and have the typical fall backlog of orders to deal with as well as the tedium of work and the rush-rush of childrens' activities and just the general racket of being, my heart is humming, dipping and soaring in my chest like some wanton, silly, three-dollar plastic kite.
So as I lie there in the dark this morning, I savored the way Maxim's arm wrapped snugly around my torso, big ole paw finding purchase on my ribcage just below my breast. He placed his lips on my shoulderblade as the tops of his knees kissed the backs of mine, the bottoms of my feet perched on the tops of his. I had no choice but --for the moment, at least, and isn't that all we have anyway?-- to be decidedly, unreservedly happy.
Christmas at my house this year. You won't be able to miss it. It's the second one from the corner, the one overflowing with laughter and family (both blood and chosen) and delightful smells, the one near-bursting with lives being lived --really and truly lived-- and memories being created. See you there; I cannot wait.
This girl I know needs a computer She don't believe anyone could mute her She's doing so much harm, doing so little bloggage But you don't want to get involved You tell her she can manage And you can't change the way she types But you could put your arms around her
I know you want to blog yourself But could you forgive yourself If you left her just the way You found her
I stand in front of you I'll take the force of the blog Protection
I stand in front of you I'll take the force of the blog Protection
You're a blog and I'm a mog But you know you can lean on me And I don't have no fear I'll take on any blog here Who says that's not the way it should be
I stand in front of you I'll take the force of the blog Protection
Laser-Shooting Eyeballs: Tops On My List of Wants Absolute Needs
I'm nearing the end of the fourth day into my conscious decision to quit smoking (yes, I've gone without a smoke for more than four days in the past, but it was not a concentrated effort*).
I'm not yet at the point where I want to hack all of you up into bits and then swear at the little pieces, but I think that place is not at all very far off. I dunno, I just have this really, really huge feeling that the day in question will somehow magically coincide with the day I plan on delving into the computer repairs.
So if I'm not blogging again by the middle of next week, send funds for a new machine. My lack of patience, skills and nicotine may culminate in a scenario that will likely mirror the actions of a drunkard toting around a nitro cocktail.
*Save for the whole 'three pregnancies' thing. We don't count those, because I was not doing that for my own personal good. Plus, I kept starting back up after the babies were weaned.
That's it. We're all officially douchebags. I just heard the term 'blogosphere' on the national news.
Despairingly,
Jett "'Bout Sicka This Nonsense" Superior
pee ess....Warbloggers, I blame this shit on you. You're like the drunk great-uncle with wild-fuzzy hair, a whiskey bottle in one fist, a cane resting across his knee and a really, really bad case of PTSD. Amusing --and maybe even a tad cute-- with his fist-shaking and copious spit-splutter-talk routine while at home, but heartily embarrassing when you dance him out into the public arena.
backdoor.Coreflood...and the virus-scanny crap can't fix it! This means I will have to do the near-impossible, I fear; I will have to execute the nasty regedit command and fiddle around in parts hostile to a technotard.
I have beads of sweat forming at my temples just thinking on such actions, but I will boldly go forth with my fingers crossed at the next possible moment (which, right now, appears to be next Tuesday). E-mail still fux0r3ed, sorry; I'll get back to you all and to blogging once real life and my machine permit such things.
AGONY!
pee ess, because this ties totally in:
You are mRNA. You're brilliant, full of important, interesting information and you're a great friend to the people you care about. You may have sides to you that no one understands. But while you understand more than most people, you're only half-there most of the time.
Though my computer goes unfixed, I blog bravely onward for you, dear Muffinasses.
ME: Let's do a recap of my day, shall we?
YOU: Yes, my loveliest of darlings, lets!
That wot I saw:
This afternoon I pulled up to a stop sign about the same time as a guy in a white Maxima (I would fully permalink that for you international folks that aren't familiar with the low-end Toyota product, but I'm fucking tired and I don't wanna /WHINE). Being full-on gracious like my momma taught me, I waited patiently for him to proceed. He opened his door, stepped out of the car, and proceeded to pick something off of his way-beyond-shiny car, then buffed the spot with his shirtsleeve. I was all, "...the FUCK??" It was just so wrong and so laughably goofy on more levels than one.
That wot I felt:
Funnel cake is always a Once-A-Year Good Idea until I get about five bites into the thing. Pardon me while I go barf on your mother, your sister and all of your unborn children (okay, maybe not the littlest one...he's soooo cuuuuute!).
That wot I thot:
"Yeah, champy, I'm gonna pay nine bucks for a plate of lo-mein, vegetables and grilled chicken-on-a-sticken? I think not.
"I'll wait until the end of the day and you are shutting the food caravan up tight for the four-hunnert and eighty-mile trip to the next podunk production. I'll have my salmonella at the low, low markdown price of three bucks, thank you."
That wot I heard:
Idiot Friend* Three's mother and I were on the phone this afternoon. I was inquiring as to my son's whereabouts, since he was off galloping about our fair township with Idiot Friend One. This brought up the subject of why IFO can no longer spend the night over at IFT's house.
See, IFT's mom is a lesbian. A lesbian who I am, quite frankly, proud to call friend. She is a good, good person. She is one of the neatest people I know, and one of those that --because of her utter coolness and so-on-so-forth-- keep me from choking on the cookie-cutter personalitiness of this place.
(here I am shaking my fist at that notion. you know, toward the window....because all the baddies that comprise this community are out there)
Seems that, despite IFT's momma's still-in-the-closet status, IFO's mother got wind of the whole 'Gee, she's gay' thing. And, as you have surely put together by now, she reacted poorly by restricting the playtime of children. This, fair readers, is to me quite odd. You got a beef with the kid? Fine. Restrict time. You got a beef with the lack of care and/or concern your child receives while at their home? Fine. Don't allow your child in that place.
But to seperate your child from one who comes from a stable, loving home where he is well-cared-for while he's there? Makes no sense to me. ESPECIALLY in light of the fact that IFT's mother is, I dunno, IN THE FUCKING CLOSET FOR THE BENEFIT OF HER KID AND HIS STANDING IN THE COMMUNITY. She's not gettin' all lesbo up in the boys' faces. Were I able to address this to IFO's mother, I'd be all, "Whatchoo afraid of, sister? That some of the dyke flava is gonna be imparted upon your kid?
"I don't know about you, lady, but I want my boy to grow up and be a shining example of lesbianism. I want him to looooooove the wimmins.
"I byGod would like me some grandbabies on down the line."
*There are Idiot Friends One through Five. They are named such for their propensity to call over and over in the space of one afternoon and leave tedious, impossibly rambly messages for Sam that say, in effect, "Hey man, call me back when you get this."
I long ago ceased to yell, "Tell your Idiot Friends to cut that nonsense out!"; instead, I am keeping a running tab in my head. For every extra message, I am planning elaborate embarrassing moments that I intend to execute when they are all sixteen and at the height of postured-cool and easily-humiliatedness. Don't think that Momma ain't payin' no 'tention, boys. MWAAAAAHHHHHHahaha.
Cereal Repercussions
