Housewife Log: Hairdate V05

One day, perhaps, I'll have more to offer the world than my utter housewifelinesses. I have made a huge discovery in the last week: dude, writing a book is going to be a lot of fucking work. Profound, I know. It's what you know me for, admit it, my profundity. (Oh, that was my rotundity?) And, after all that work, I'm not likely to be any more popular than 'lil Snotty McClellan, but that never stopped me before, now has it? I am the parent of two teenagers and before all is said and done, pancake willing, I shall be the parent of three teenagers at once for many years. I can hardly wait. I have a noose hidden in my underwear drawer next to my vibrating dildo. That should teach anyone to go snooping through my underwear drawer... or read my blog. Mom!

I hope for your sake that I don't call every post of mine through the summer a Housewife Log, but I fear that's where this is all headed. I have one son who's had a cough for a few days now. He wasn't feeling very well the other day and I kept him home on Tuesday and sent him to school yesterday and he is very run down, I can tell. He did party it up this weekend on top of not feeling super-dee-duper, but not so bad that we cancelled the party. There have been no fevers or anything, but I kept him home again today, and then, to be fair to my kindergartener (Why should he be punished for also having a very mild cough, but not needing to stay home?), I kept him home today as well. This is a win win situation, as I do not have to leave the house today. I can get sososo many things done: clean my daughters' room for when they return this weekend, and shall be staying nearly all summer, re-conquer the dishes (even with those potato starch bowls for the b-day party, we still got behind in a serious way, having a lazy Memorial Day that found the rare occasion of my husband and I being home at the same time in the day without the universe imploding), fold 6,983 items of laundry, wash a dog, clean the ever-loving void formerly know as my desk, finish Chapter 1, write a blog post (You can thank Randal, for that crossing out word technology, which I will surely over-use!), sex up a workin' man, Bathe (That capital B was an apropos subliminal slip.), weed the garden, make lunch, make dinner, and oh, I bet there are more things I delude myself in thinking I will get done.

Out of all fairness to my counselor, I shall open this little pamphlet that he gave me re: fair fighting. I swore to him I would not leave it under Mr. Bee's pillow, which we joked is what it says on the first line not to do. I'm not sure about these pamphlets though. What he doesn't know is that I pick a few up each time I'm in the lobby anyway. I wonder if my husband saw the "So You're Queer, but Married for 10 Years" pamphlet when he was looking for keys in my purse. Or, there is the "How To Handle Being Married While Your Already Lazy Spouse is in School" pamphlet I picked up for my husband, in addition, to the "Does Someone You Know Blog?" pamphlet. I think that 70's green and argyle cover antagonizes me to tell you the truth. It brings up feelings from my childhood, but to be fair, let's see what this 8 page gem can offer. Hmmm, for many years I have been somewhere in between the "Mad Bomber" and the "Smolderer", but in this, the time of Zoloft, I am not reacting nearly so volitily. It was not so much my actions (though, on occasion, yes) that were volitile, but my emotions. The mere mention a touchy subject found me trying, but really too caught up in uncomfortable feelings, to converse sanely. That is what I have come to believe PTSD is, a disproportionately emotional response triggered in the present which originates from a past traumatic experience. Profound, I know. I should go put my picture on the Wikipedia page for PTSD.

I would, at this time, like to offer up two gems that I know you can hardly wait for, one being the hair update. Yes, I know, last you knew, I had mastered emo-boyesque bed head, in my attempt to remediate the mullet. Well, now the sides are grown out enough that mullet is not such an apt descriptor (actually, it looks nearly the same, I know), but these days I am mourning the fact that I cannot grow side burns. I know, I know, I will rue that statement here in three years when I truly start to grow a mustache and sideburns, but with a name like Freida, maybe I can call it my artistic imperative, even if I spell it wrongly. I wouldn't mind having other boy parts, but I wouldn't want to give up my girl bits either. Maybe that will be the future of sex changes, hermaphroditic transsexualism. Maybe that's what stem cells from my baby teeth can do for me, allow me to grow my very own detachable penis! (OK, I know, I am obligated to link to the song now.)

Oh, this brings me to the second thing I wanted to turn you on to ('cause oh, baby, that other was hot, right). I saw a link the other day on the Omnipotent Poobah's sight (in an excellent post referring to an excellent post) for Dickipedia. Have you heard of this? I hadn't, but I have placed it in my sidebar. It's gorgeous! The only thing is that I have maintained in my head that if any of my children are to be president one day, it will be my 13 year-old daughter. Last year, she told the National Junior Honor Society to go to hell because she doesn't want to go to meetings, but after being the Vice-President of my NJHS in Junior High, I reassured her that she doesn't really have to do shit. And, I gave the old "College Transcript" pep talk the college try and she joined up... on the condition she didn't have to attend the induction ceremony. Done. From the time she was a wee lass, telling her dad who was teaching her sister two years her senior to ride a bike, "Take off my training wheels, Daddy!" (And, he did and she rode it on her own on the first try!) she's had the best speaking voice evah! She could be a theater actress too, but the more time goes on, I think she might become a comedienne turned politician (I'll have to dig up that pic in which she has her fist up at a gay pride rally next to me at 8 months pregnant- yes, I will. It's beautiful.) She's exquisitely funny. Anyway, the thing I learned through Dickipedia the other day is that... she has the same birthday as Dick Cheney. I know. I know what you're thinking, and yes, your cash will be a suitable balm in this, my time of need. (The back of my hand is on my forehead, if we're not communicating telepathically by now.)

¡Gotsta go make tha donuts, cause Fuck Dunkin Donuts! If I can have just one wish, Jesus Christ, lover of all that is holy and righteous and sexy, it's that after Obama is elected president that his wife Michelle conduct all of her first ladily duties in a keffiyeh!

P.S.- On a mommy note, I hear my Monkeyboy down in his room planning the ways he will change the world through Legos, singing and practicing rolling his tongue, which he just learned. Very precious.

P.P.S.- Thanks to F.O.T. who has given me the link to that last photo and two excellent quotes I shall henceforthwithily live by, quote her on, and put over in my sidebar: "FYI: FreidaBee is right..." and "Freida Bee can Divide by Zero!" And don't you ever forget it... uh, them.

P.P.P.S.- For a change, I will credit my stealing that map pic to this person who stole it too, I think. (I'm sure I'll be receiving a postcard thank you in the mail for that accreditation. You're welcome, Mr Husky Bear.)

My sincerest apologies to all whose names I have tarnished by linking to you from my blog, presently, formerly, and futurely.

Housewife Log: Stardate π

Dear Blog, I am so sorry. Please forgive me for my terrible neglect. I am working on Chapter 1 and an outline of a book, but I already chucked a couple pages when I thought I would be posting that by now. I am not up to a Froodle, emotionally, and those damn Two Great Taste things can be hard to come by. By that, I mean they take work. I am in the throws of family issues with my eldest who is a dear, but in the process of being diagnosed with a mental illness that is starting to look like bipolar, and oh yes, it is oh so the uber fashion trend for teens to have these diagnoses, which are no less than the by-product of a sick society, whether it be biological or not. I am very grateful to have a whole lot of Al Anon under my belt as I am well aware of the ways in which alcoholism is a family disease and am finding myself able to extend this principle to my current situation. It is painful, but I am also relieved because we are getting help. Pretty much I have mostly lived in a sick family all my life, coming by these issues organically. I could go on and on, but I'm pretty much bored with it all. I think that's why I just want to write it in a semi-artistic manner and then be done with the whole mess. The good news is (Can I get an Amen?) that I am willing to say that this can't go on like it has and we're trying new approaches.

On a far lighter note, the slumber party for my son's ninth birthday was a smash success. I love to hear a bunch of third graders talk like sailors. Actually, it was funny, the son of two UT professors was the real cusser, but he spurred on a hilarious conversation. By my son's geeky bad influence, helping each of his guests create a World of Warcraft character, there arose a conversation about balls sparked by some glowing orbs onscreen when they were all gathered around the computer (Don't worry, there were plenty of watermelon, water balloons, trampoline antics, scavenger hunting, good ol' exploring, and banana splits as well.) "What are those?" "Balls." "Those are glowing orbs." "They're like balls." "They're orbs." "I don't know about you, but my balls don't light up like that." I guess you had to be there, but trust me, it was funny. At least we still have an extra can of whip cream left. Now, it's time for Mommy and Daddy to have their slumber party, kids. Go play outside with the coyotes and rattlesnakes, darlings.

I have a day planned in "town" tomorrow, which is kinda sad, since I can get most places in 20 minutes. But, if I have to go somewhere in Austin, unless it's early in the morning, I make the day of it when I know I will have to go back to get my kids otherwise. Fortunately, Mr. Bee and I are not sharing a car as we were last summer and I will not be having to drive him to work on days when I want to go somewhere, since suckitudinously, there is no public transport from where we live. We are frustratingly about five miles outside of the Capital Metro service area. So, tomorrow, for the cost of a cup of tea, I will take my lunch to town, Pa, and write in a coffeshop, just like the good old school days when I was procrastinating studying.

I need to post a hair update soon, a Froodle. I missed the window on Florence Joe's It's Mah "Morial Day 'dition, but she is bubbling up to erupt soon 'nough. A storm wreaked havoc in our area a couple weeks ago and this tree was one of the apparent casualties I saw at a park today. The tree was infinitely more fun for my sons to play on than the playground equipment. It even had web woms. By gum, it was a virtual children's paradise. Have I mentioned that earlier in the school year I had to stop my Monkey son from whipping it out to pee after school right next to the after-school pick-up area? Our house is a little ways from our mailbox, which we drive by as we come home and sometimes my sons and 13 year-old daughter like to get on out of the car and run the rest of the way home. The other day, I had to yell out my car window to my Monkey son, "Put your penis back in your pants!" as he was running. Sometimes I wish I had one of those things. I was almost starting to think perhaps I'd squelched his streaking tendencies, but fortunately with school almost our for summer, we can go back to infrequent bathing, no shoes, no more eight-o'clock bedtimes, and a kitchen that operates like a twenty-four hour restaurant. We should have those manners licked by the end of June.

Coming soon... a post, I swear.

Introduction: Misery Doesn't Really Love Company

I am going to post this, yet another attempt to start a book, here on my blog in lieu of a more creative post. Just don't complain if I do this over and over again this summer. Just say, "Thank you" and leave your nice comments. I'm fragile right now. Not really, but just do that, k?

Ever since I was a pink little girl, there’s been a seed planted in my heart. The seed is not small like a mustard seed, delicate and easy to misplace, but rather like an avocado seed, awkward, unmistakable and very difficult to germinate. This seed could be the longing of mine to return to and know that from whence I came, or it could be that which drives me to find the soul mate I conspired in a dream to meet. It would be particularly handy right now if the seed were the motivation of a little girl who discovered gold in a little book of poems and wrote her first rhymes to her great grandmother and then very tomboyishly rode her bicycle around the block over and over and over again creating plots in her mind which would comprise the books she would one day write.

Yes, that would be most convenient right now. Unfortunately, though there are germs of truth in each of the above scenarios, that seed has really been more of a deep source of frustration and pain. This longing that I have had has never really gone away. On more occasions than could be entertaining this longing has been temporarily filled with the rush from a cigarette, the buzz from Mountain Dew mixed with cheap 3.2 beer (don’t ask) or the relief brought on by the first drag off a joint. I have attempted to squelch and starve this longing out of existence by fasting and dieting, but it still remained. Being the logical person that I would like to think I am has even caused me to try the opposite approach, but attempts to preoccupy myself with a flurry of activities that might help me to forget it have only ended in exhaustion and anxiety.

So, as it stands right now, I cannot for the life of me tell you what the fuck this damn longing is, but will attempt to be mildly entertaining while I surrender to this, yet another attempt to appease the beast by allowing that which I contain to flow through me to anywhere else it might be more properly suited, ‘cause I’m sick of holding it.

The problem is that I have written several first chapters of books previously and that is what the attempts have remained. I have tried and tried to get a straight answer from psychologists over the years to tell me exactly what my problem is, so that I might fix it. If I had ADD or ADHD, I might say that I simply lost interest after the first chapter, but then I would go and re-write another first chapter on the same goddamned material, my life and how it’s sucked, so maybe I am more of a perfectionist who just doesn’t want to move on to a second chapter until I have the first one “just so”. But really, I am a lousy perfectionist. You can ask my husband and my sink full of dishes. You can ask my GPA. You can ask my weed-filled garden. You get the picture, I know, but there are several other things you can ask. Don’t you want to know about them: my unwalked dog, my uncalled friends, my unopened mail?

There is the distinct danger that when this damn Zoloft kicks in, I might get sleepy and my angst might subside just enough that I forget exactly why I found it absolutely imperative that I write that first line up there that started this, yet another attempt that is sure to fail, but even my obsessive-compulsive urge to blog is failing me right now and I am pretty desperate. Perhaps, I can remember this desperation in the future and hold onto it and draw upon it as a source of strength as I do that one moment of realization that I had at Pascal’s first birthday party that helped me to know that there was not going to be even one more good thing that drinking was going to give me. Perhaps, I can realize that my attempts to give up and start over again are just a procrastinatory mechanism in my mind that will lie to me like the urge to have “just one” cigarette, just “this once”.

I am reconciled with the fact that I cannot see this surely futile attempt as one long, continuous, arduous process, but that I must break it up into a series of smaller steps so that I can write not one letter at a time like Jean-Dominique Bauby so nobly succeeded, not one word at a time, as my attempts to listen to the ethers have produced no more than one sentence period, but rather one justification at a time. That is what I do have, what I can offer, justifications. I have fucked up time and time again; in fact, I may just fuck up here in a few hours, but I have my reasons, and all I ask is that you listen to them. Don’t hate me because I am beautiful. But rather, hate me because I am a jerk. I am hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can make you see that we are all the same, just in different circumstances, so it could be said that it’s you that is the jerk, for reading this here, my very personal, over-wrought and painful tale of ordinarinesses. It might help me feel better for a time at least.

Now a Word From Our Involuntary Sponsor...

I've been slow to post lately, so I had to take in an ad as filler.

A Day in The Life...

In the past day I have:

Watched too many videos made by the above duo.

Conquered the quest formerly known as The Dishes.

Driven to the hospital with an 8 year-old boy who cut his finger while attempting to push monster furniture around (in the health center of the university no less) and had it turn over onto his finger, but then listened to his plea for no stitches in a borderline case and transformed into Florence Nightingale. This only required spending $50 at a pharmacy (exactly what the co-pay would have been, incidentally). Butterfly sutures, antibiotic ointment, finger splint, birthday invitations while we're there anyway, gauze, tape, hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, alcohol, finger-cots (for showering). $50. My son's appreciation. Priceless. (He doesn't know that I hold onto a curved upholstery needle in the event a natural disaster renders hospitals closed, but stitches necessary. Where is that darn thing anyway?

Folded 3,456 items of clothing.

Slept 14 hours.

Endured an hour and a half conversation about politics and religion with my husband. That usually can never happen, and really shouldn't as it did eventually turn to an argument, because those things inextricably turn to the personal where we have some fundamental differences, which I assert are basically differences in beliefs about communication, like I think we should agree to disagree and he seems to want to convince me of something. I succeeded in not yelling, but did sleep in my son's bed until 5 AM.

Applied diatomaceous earth to our carpets and vacuumed 80 times, because we've got fleas in our house.

Started two more in-depth blog posts I never finished.

Observed the making of invitations that are going out today to 10 3rd grade boys for a Saturday slumber birthday party for son with hurt finger.

Resolved to conquer the wilderness known as our yard here in a second.

Watched a wonderful movie called The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Watch it! (That's my movie review.)

I really don't think that adds up. I am losing track of the days already. I went to pick up my paycheck yesterday (I left that off the list. Oops.) and when I did not see the list to sign for my check, said, "It is payday, isn't it?" The guy said, "It's Tuesday. Yesterday was payday." Oh.



Coming soon... some home improvement pics and what not to wear opportunities that can even make TLC jealous.

Housewife Log: Stardate -78.9

Oh, are you in for a treat today. The random pictures of this week in review are oh, so juicy. I did once take a picture of my boobs while cooking, distracted myself from taking a picture of some food by their prominence in my view of the counter top, but alas, that is not the picture you will receive here. No, the laundry, the albino squirrel, these are the pictures you will be privy to. Just another day on the home front. Man, can my family trash a house on the weekend while I am at work. My husband, the usual Mr. Mom (I will get him to pose in an apron for my blog if it's the last thing I ever do.) was tending to the disgusting matter under our kitchen sink where the damage done from an old, water filter is worse than we knew, since we prefer not to open the cabinet, preferring the ignorance route, it seems. Once upon a time, I was catching a slow drip with an old coffee pot, but that leak stopped and for some reason I didn't question this miracle and thought, "No more problem" being the lazy slut that I am.

Underneath the sink is nasty, so I'll give you a picture of the laundry I am going to go wash here in a bit. Rather than going and doing it while my kids are at school like a good mom might do, I am going to take my sons on over to the laundry mat next to the coffee shop where I pretend it's all fun by letting them get loaded up on sugar before dinner by way of gingerbread men. Thank goodness for the laundry mat, otherwise I am far too unhip for that locale of that particular brand of coffee shop. Incidentally, the same coffee shop at its original location was the first one I ever saw, back in the day when I was single, working and taking Italian for the hell of it. I learned to appreciate cappucinos and spell them all around the same time. It really helps one study Italian to sit in a coffee shop. There's something about all that chess playing that really rubs off on you. That was back in 1990. Apparently, my husband worked there around that time with his long blue dreadlocks, but I can neither confirm nor deny his claim, except that our dear friend who introduced the two of us nine years later says she worked there with him. It was the only coffee shop in town and the line used to be out the door. The folks that worked there were ultra-hip and how am I supposed to feel that the plumber's crack ass that I call my guy's was in a popular local band before I domesticated him? Did I do that to him, give him plumbers crack? (Sorry, no picture there.)

I try and encourage him to be in a band (besides our Partridge Family band), but he claims to not want that. Did I do that? Once upon a time he had all those lady suitors he tells me about from time to time. I think he regrets passing on the invitation to go live with the wealthy South African woman overseas, as would I, but that was not really my style. I preferred to have a more casual sex life. Not, necessarily sleeping all around, but establishing a few steady fuck-buddy relationships, over the course of my single mother years, suited me pretty well. When I met my husband, he was already doing the home improvement, carpentry, tile, work that he's doing now. He lived on beer and knew how to cook exactly one thing, Boboli pizza, which he very sweetly made for me and my daughters at his apartment in San Marcos. I was ultra picky and would like to claim that I have improved his diet, but exactly how healthy is tofu when you fry the holy motherfucking crap out of it? For some reason, likely the green countertops in our kitchen, poor lighting, maybe, all of the pictures I take of food I've cooked comes out to have a sickish tint to them, that really doesn't make it look very good. I swear it was better than it looks, that tofu, particularly because I slathered it in peanut sauce. But, it was organic peanut sauce. And, those were fresh green beans that I snapped the ends off and everything.

But, my husband is a good dad. A single parent gets spoiled to be able to make all the rules and call all the shots and I am stubborn to boot, but I did find my own bed more comfortable than the couch a couple days ago and after we had both complained of a little insomnia, mine in the form of waking up at 3:47 on a workday when I am able to sleep until 4:55. I found that when I awoke in the middle of the night in bed with him, that we both fell right back to sleep when we assumed our usual spoon position and he grabbed my ass a bit. It almost makes me feel bad for all my complaining to write that, but this here's mah privates and I trust you won't go tellin' him I'm a softee. 'Sides who am I going to blame my still unrecovered mamma belly on, if not his demon seed? He's probably thinking the same thing I am about the plumber's crack about my gut, "Did I do that? Freida never ate Velveeta once in her adult life before I introduced the once monthly queso quest into her life." I hope he is. It's true. I was a firm, downright skinny, hyperthyroid, royal bitch who would have rather toted my daughters to school every day, grocery shopped and done laundry around town in my bicycle trailer in the rain rather than ask anyone for help.

It's not just my belly that's softer. When I wake up to hail on our tin roof, there is someone else who wakes up and can discuss the best way to get a twin mattress to cover the bathtub with the kids in it, because there was a tornado just north of Austin earlier that night and there is baseball sized hailed being reported in the storm that's coming right toward us. My husband claims he will stay right next to the bathtub. I ask what good that will do. Let the kids have the bathtub and come be in the tiny coat closet with me. No, he will be lying his body over the bathtub it seems instead. It's not that I wouldn't do those things, fix the under the sink, lay on a mattress over a bathtub to protect our kids, but he goes and does those things first, so I don't have to. That didn't stop me from finally offering my coworker a blowjob yesterday, though. Hopefully, it won't come to this one day. (You didn't really think I was going to write something all sweet like that and have you go tell my husband to go read my blog, did you?)

It ends up my mother is not coming to town after all; she cancelled her trip and I will be visiting her next month anyway, so I won't complain. It does decrease the motivation to whip stuff into shape, but it was really too much, but I have discovered Google Reader and that should help the cause. It was only a couple months ago, Romius (I'm not linking him 'cause then he might read this and think he's not my internet boyfriend, the talking about my husband all sweet-like) kindly told me I could get my comments sent to my email account, and then I noticed that I could have comments from others' posts emailed as well. I don't have to surf around to find out if the post author responded to my comment? Really? What is this newfangled technology? And, now with Google Reader, I don't even have to go to your blog to read your posts? But, what about sitemeter stalking? It's ok, when I read your posts, I am clicking the link to your blog as well, that way you know I'm there. Plus, comments are often the best part of a post, and they are not yet visible in Google Reader. Or, are they? Anyway, here is the picture of the crazy albino squirrel I saw from afar, pulled out my camera to photograph and had the darn thing run right up to me, seriously, and start posing (I shit you not). He must get food from his albino gig.

Well, forts on the back porch generate a lot of laundry I have learned and must be off to bathe and do the laundry thang. Housewife out.

Let the Third Time Be a Charm or Something Equally Superstitious and Benevolent

I never could say "No" to Commander Other (not that I've ever wanted to), and today is no exception. So you see, I have been re-re-infected with the Splotchy Story Virus. Some of you may recall when this was going around last year. Some may not.

Here's the deal:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours. -Splotchy

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)

Despite the throbbing pain in my knees and the dull ache in my lower back, I bent down slowly and picked up the envelope...

Oh no. It did not say this, did it?

Oh yes, it did. It did.

The handwriting was familiar in a way that inspired a cold sweat and a bout of nausea. It was the penmanship of my former husband. You know - the one that was presumed dead.

He disappeared in a suspicious blogging related accident a number of years ago and was never heard from again. I was devastated. I had hated the blog, loathed the thing. What began as a hobby that took but a few minutes a day had morphed into an addiction, the proportions of which could not be measured. It was pure evil.

The blog turned into a cruel and demanding mistress and her siren song was more than I could compete with. One day he left for an evening event, never to return again.

All fingers pointed to one blogger, but I could never get the charges to stick. That one is slick- slick, slick, slick. He can talk a good game and write like nobody's business. But there is something about him, it just is not right.

So my husband was gone, that other one kept blogging and I had to rebuild my life, which I did.

So I finally had the bastard declared dead. And now this. (FranIam)

I took the envelope inside and got out a magnifying glass. I studied the scribblings on the front and made out the words “This is for you. You KNOW why” just above the undead bastard’s name. What the hell?

What could it be? What did he mean, I “KNOW” why? What did I do? I had never been anything but faithful to him and his "interests." I followed his stupid blog as it meandered through the vapid expanses of his small mind, trying my best to be polite when he talked about some comment he’d gotten on a particular post, or a funny link he’d dropped into a post.

Just thinking about it made my stomach hurt.

Despite a fleeting fear that there might be anthrax powder in the envelope, I opened it and pulled out the contents. (dguzman)

A noodle, a meatball and one of the six legs of a squid? (Squid have six legs, not eight, right? Unsure I rushed to my computer to ask The Lord Google. OMG, I was wrong! Squid do have eight legs. And two tentacles. Like cuttlefish. I digress. Damn you Google!)

What was he working on when he had that blogging accident? I thought back to the nights of feverish typing. The nights the keyboard fairly reeked of despair, flopsweat and ricola. He would babble "vision quest" "noodly appendage" "the alpha and the semolina" "green sticky spawn of the stars". This last I just attributed to far too much interest in the pussy photos of Britney Spears.

In shaky handwriting was the couplet:

That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange æons even death may die

I felt that I was beginning to understand. He had been killed in an epic battle of Good versus Not-So-Good or even "meh!" (Jess Wundrun)


Shakily, I set the envelope down and wiped my hands on my jeans. I got up immediately and headed for the fridge, from which I pulled a recently-opened carton of the cheapest wine I was able to find last time I went shopping, raised it over my head, tilted my head back, twisted the cap, and greedily gulped down about two liters of forgetfulness.

It didn’t work. Or maybe it did, because when I woke up that evening in a puddle of cheap wine and bitterness, I couldn’t remember how I got there or how I had gotten so desperate in life to be drinking wine from a cardboard box.

Oh yeah, him.

It was dark outside, so nobody noticed when I stumbled into the back yard and peed against a tree.

What? Holy shit! I must have been drinking cheap wine for more than just tonight! I’d completely forgotten I was actually male!

I raced back into the house and found a utility bill amongst the pile of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. Then, I extricated my wallet from a jacket pocket, pulled out my driver’s license and compared the two address. They didn’t match. They weren’t even from the same state! What the…. Who the….

And then it dawned on me. I’d spent so much time recently reading other people’s blogs, I had somehow managed to take on the identity of a female blogger. Cripes. What have I done!?!?!

I looked again at the address on the utility bill. The name read “Michelle Malkin”. And then I looked on the back of the envelope that had been left on the front porch. Rubber-stamped were the words, “From the office of the Democratic National Convention”. Time seemed to suspend itself while I headed back to the fridge, looking for another box of cheap wine. (Commander Other)

Because all I could find in the fridge at this point was a moldy orange and a styrofoam container of questionable leftovers, I decided it might be a good time for me to get the hell out of there. This "Michelle Malkin" might be behind my current identity crisis. I was vaguely starting to realize that I must have been hypnotized. But, why? What in the world would Michelle Malkin want from me? Some visceral image of a diaper and an airport bathroom was starting to come into focus, the discomfort of which made me happy to distract myself with the prospect of... escape?

I had keys in my pocket to a car in the garage that I didn't recognize and I got in the car and drove instinctually toward what appeared to be a down town area. I decided I had to get myself to a hotel room and a location with internet access to find out who this Michelle Malkin was and how the hell I ended up in Dallas, of all places. (Freida Bee)

I hereby give even more big, infectious kisses to:

Pidomon
Faded
GETkristiLOVE
Devilham
and

(not Randal)

to carry on the Splotchy Story Virus name. Go do me proud. And, please no one tag me on this thing again please. Really. Please.

Froodle Production Hath Resumeth...

Click to Embiggify

In days long ago, Comrade Kevin requested one said Froodle with quality yea "Making Fun of Hipsters." And so, it shall be madeth forthpreviwithily.

Arrgghh! I've Been Re-Infected!

Well, I can't say I didn't deserve it, nor can I say I mind being re-infected with this particularly juicy strain of the Splotchy Story Virus. Some of you may recall when this was going around last year. Some may not.

Here's the deal:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours. -Splotchy

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)

Despite the throbbing pain in my knees and the dull ache in my lower back, I bent down slowly and picked up the envelope...

Oh no. It did not say this, did it?

Oh yes, it did. It did.

The handwriting was familiar in a way that inspired a cold sweat and a bout of nausea. It was the penmanship of my former husband. You know - the one that was presumed dead.

He disappeared in a suspicious blogging related accident a number of years ago and was never heard from again. I was devastated. I had hated the blog, loathed the thing. What began as a hobby that took but a few minutes a day had morphed into an addiction, the proportions of which could not be measured. It was pure evil.

The blog turned into a cruel and demanding mistress and her siren song was more than I could compete with. One day he left for an evening event, never to return again.

All fingers pointed to one blogger, but I could never get the charges to stick. That one is slick- slick, slick, slick. He can talk a good game and write like nobody's business. But there is something about him, it just is not right.

So my husband was gone, that other one kept blogging and I had to rebuild my life, which I did.

So I finally had the bastard declared dead. And now this. (FranIam)

I took the envelope inside and got out a magnifying glass. I studied the scribblings on the front and made out the words “This is for you. You KNOW why” just above the undead bastard’s name. What the hell?

What could it be? What did he mean, I “KNOW” why? What did I do? I had never been anything but faithful to him and his "interests." I followed his stupid blog as it meandered through the vapid expanses of his small mind, trying my best to be polite when he talked about some comment he’d gotten on a particular post, or a funny link he’d dropped into a post.

Just thinking about it made my stomach hurt.

Despite a fleeting fear that there might be anthrax powder in the envelope, I opened it and pulled out the contents. (dguzman)

A noodle, a meatball and one of the six legs of a squid? (Squid have six legs, not eight, right? Unsure I rushed to my computer to ask The Lord Google. OMG, I was wrong! Squid do have eight legs. And two tentacles. Like cuttlefish. I digress. Damn you Google!)

What was he working on when he had that blogging accident? I thought back to the nights of feverish typing. The nights the keyboard fairly reeked of despair, flopsweat and ricola. He would babble "vision quest" "noodly appendage" "the alpha and the semolina" "green sticky spawn of the stars". This last I just attributed to far too much interest in the pussy photos of Britney Spears.

In shaky handwriting was the couplet:

That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange æons even death may die

I felt that I was beginning to understand. He had been killed in an epic battle of Good versus Not-So-Good or even "meh!" (Jess Wundrun)

Feeling the need for sleep, I turned off the computer, flicked the lightswitch and headed up through the pitch to bed, where, within minutes, I was floating in the blissful land of Nod.

Rudely interrupted by the nocturne call of nature -- you know, a can of Schlitz in the fridge -- I stumbled down the stairs, not into the ground floor of our house, but into a heretofore unknown level of hell.

My Flying Spaghetti Monster, the stench!

I had forgotten to dispose of the noodle, meatball and squid leg. Yes, that had to be the reason for such a nauseating, putrescent odor. Holding my nose, I turned the corner into the den. The computer desk was empty, save for a translucent, vaguely green goo that had slid onto the floor, inexplicably forming what seemed to be the tracks of an inhuman, shambling beast.

My eyes followed their path. It led into the kitchen. (Randal Graves)

With great trepidation, I grabbed an umbrella (for protection?) and followed the glowing foot prints through the kitchen to find the back door ajar. I looked outside and flinched when I saw the hideous form that was my husband, but not my husband, oozing and glowing as he swung on our children's swing set.

It was a good thing I had an umbrella in hand, because, as I neared him, he stopped swinging and sprayed as he spoke. "Honey, I just had to come see you and the kids before it was too late. This is what blogging did to me. I know I am hideous, but I just had to..." the rest he gurgled, but I could not understand him.

That's when I saw that he'd somehow consumed the computer and continued speaking to me by way of words on a computer screen in the place where his comforting chest used to be. The words said, "I am quickly losing my ability to speak, and can now only blog what I want to say, but I just had to come and warn you that you and the kids are in danger." (Freida Bee)

I hereby give more big, infectious kisses to:

Function of Time (or f(time) as I'd like to call her)
Pain
Romius T.
Cowboy the Cat
and
Whiskeymarie (Just (continue to) ignore the meme I sent your way the other day if you'd rather not do two.)

to carry on the Splotchy Story Virus name. Go do me proud.

Housewife Log: Stardate 38.666...

Alright, the shell-shock of the semester is wearing off and I am in severe danger of blogging about housework. Seriously, you are this (imagine infinitesimally small amounts of something) close to getting posts on housecleaning. That's not a threat; it's a cry for help. I mean really, if the before pictures of under my sons' bed were not so embarrassing, it would be what you would be seeing, of course, only after I had an after picture ready to go. Who knew these people were so messy? As it is, I am afraid my cat's writhing in the birdbath may have to suffice.

For the life of me, Florence Joe is ashamed to show her face after her last Wal-Mart escapade and my froodliness is somewhere close by, but not fully accessible. I imagine they will show up again while I am at work this weekend, when blogging is nearly all there is to do unless I actually read a book or crochet or knit. Maybe this will be the year I can crochet my grandmother a blanket for Christmas starting several months in advance like one ought to. The problem is that she gave me four half-finished blankets that she started, for me to finish for others last Christmas, and they're far beyond my current crocheting abilities. I would actually have to read a pattern. And, then you may get posts of before and after crocheting projects. Before: ball of yarn; After: baby blanket for my cousin's son who is nearly five now made out of terribly itchy synthetic materials. Oh, the grandma-nity.

My daughter has taken up the guitar this last year, which is very thrilling to me since I have always known that her angelic voice and tendency to stay up all hours of the night, even in early childhood, and sleep until noon, made her a natural to be scatting in some nightclub for a living. The problem is that she has been too shy even for choir. But, with a guitar to sit behind, the singing just fits and she's doing it. It makes me very glad I lugged her to all those lesbian acoustic shows as a wee lass. She and her sister and their friend even became the Butta Fly dancers many years ago, part of their act. She belongs on a stage. She has been looking up guitar chords online, and after my suggestion that she write some lyrics, even promising to help when my school was out, we collaborated on writing a song together for the first time the night before last. I must say, it rocks. She's got a very sophisticated sense of humor and our song-writing chemistry was cool. It was basically me saying, "What do you want the song to be about?" Her spouting off a potential list. Looking at the list with her and saying, "I like this one." We sat there. I might say a couple lines, about half she liked, the other half I am proud to say she has the balls to say suck (or are too 38 year-old) and her singing that line and then another, line by line, mostly her singing the next one. When she was stuck a couple times, she took my suggestions and I imposed the stanza chorus stanza chorus stanza chorus chorus fadeout structure on her, that I just considered might be passè, and we had ourselves a pretty darn good song. A great one for a first. She's been playing it the last few days and lugging her dad's acoustic guitar around everywhere with her. It is her second guitar, since I already had given her mine before he offered his to her. That got my sons down in their rooms rocking on their electric guitar and drums before too long. I am the keyboard player and random instrumentalist- the children's toy piano, recorder playing shrill accompaniment, and harmonica are my specialties, by default, and with my husband on bass, we should be Partridge Familying it before summer's end. This might make things seem all active and shit around here, but these events have just taken place around the boys' bedtime a couple times recently when everyone seems to be most active. Markers have had to be used in lieu of drumsticks, however since the actual drumsticks were last rumored to be under the bed somewhere.

Otherwise, I have managed to vacuum my bedroom floor, which took some doing with all that shit on it and fold laundry while watching movies. Thumbsucker is on today's agenda, as are the boys' dressers which we haven't even used, in favor of fishing straight out of laundry baskets, ever since January. Excitement at it's finest. I would be all relaxed and all if it were not for the fact that my mom is coming to town in a couple weeks and I have a ridiculous amount of stuff I feel the need to accomplish before then, and what do I want to do right now? Nap. Did I mention that I have been sleeping on the couch for the last three nights? When my husband asked me why this morning, my honest answer was, "Because I am comfortable here." I know that is on multiple levels, at least physically and emotionally, and evaded the issue mostly by saying because I am trying to sleep, but I would find it annoying if he were to do the same, I know. I even had the gall to say it was cleaner (I just washed the ketchup off the couch cushion covers the other day.) He said, very truthfully, "The last sheet we had on our bed we didn't change for a month (ew, it's true) and we've had this one on for a week, and it's too dirty?" I understand his confusion, but our couch is incredibly comfortable, as my 13 year-old can attest, as she sleeps on it every other week when she is with us (even though she does have her own bed). I reassured him that she will be with us next week, so I would have to return to the bed by then. I am such a catch of a "wife", I'll tell you what.

I have been making fabulously delectable meals, even cooking chicken for my meat eating family while I have a veggie option. Yum, portabello cheese melts while those poor saps have turkey burgers. I was feeling it the other day when I cooked such lovely baked chicken and garlic, paprika and dill mashed potatoes that I took a picture of my son's plate. Option number two, behind the cat in the birdbath pic. What the hell, I'll just post the damn pictures. So, we have my mother's visit, housecleaning, and my 20-Year class reunion to look forward too. On top of that, next week I am getting my haircut again. Oh, joy.

I managed my 3.5 GPA, which should bring my pathetic historic average on up to a 2.77. Great. I started back with a 1.8. That's hard to manage, a 1.8. It reflects the definite capacity to not give a shit that I simply do not have in me anymore. I am not going to be able to reach 3.0 before graduation, and my advisor is okay with that. She assures me that people are so desperate for math teachers that they will not care what my GPA is. My Uteach GPA is 4.0. Those teaching classes are my favorites, though I suspect they make them easyish as not to dissuade potential teachers, especially since we are going through the technical requirements of math or science degrees as well, in my college. I had a 89.15 in Number Theory, and my teacher gave me the B I earned. I had 86% for classroom participation (it was a Moore-method class), based on my attendance (there was flu season for the kids and then my getting the flu early on and a few crunch days that had to give) while my UTeach history of math and science class teacher gave me 100% on class participation for missing even a few more days, nearly handing me my 92% A, so I figure it all worked out in the end. I felt as though I rocked the NT final with an 88% and darnit, I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and some people even like me. It's time for my nap. If I start watching soap operas or Jerry Springer, will someone please come to my house and put me out of my misery during one of my naps? I'd prefer death by sexual exhaustion, if you must know.

Also, do pretend that the two cool, unidentified pictures I found in my phone's photos and herein contained, are paintings I just painted this morning, alright?

And, an additional note: I recognize that the lighting in my kitchen or something makes that food look a little pekid. I guess you had to be there. I have passed on food related post before for this very reason.

A New Strain: The Virus Mutated!

Funny how blogging is ten-thousand times more alluring when one has 32.67 thousand things to do. Just as I was relaxing into my summer state of mental complacency, which found me hard pressed to come up with blog fodder, I became infected with the Splotchy Story Virus again. Some of you may recall when this was going around last year. Some may not.

Here's the deal:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours. -Splotchy

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)

"Meet me at two o'clock at Grisham Square. Don't be late!"

What? I already had an appointment at that time. In fact, that was the only reason I had even taken off work that Wednesday. But, when I saw the photos, I knew I had to go and see what the hell was going on. Oh gosh, now I wish I hadn't, but how was I to know then that Elizabeth would take this whole thing so far? (Freida Bee)


I hereby give big, infectious kisses to:

Suzi Riot
M. Yu
Fairlane
Mathman
and
Randal (twice in one week- sorry)

to carry on the Splotchy Story Virus name. Go do me proud.

Goodbye, My Zombie Lover

Today, I'm feeling a little sad. The sky is acting like it wants to cry, but it's just not quite doing it. I fell asleep with my sons last night and have been sleeping quite a bit since I started taking an anti-depressant. Is that a little weird since I wasn't sleeping enough without it and am now and depression is characterized by what...? It's kind of understandable for me to be exhausted though, since I just took my last final yesterday. I found out that I made two A's and a B, and the verdict is still out on another class, where I am between an A and a B. This semester turned out much better than my last, which was my worst since returning back to school 4 fucking years ago.

I found out two of my grades when I awoke in the middle of the night and checked. Then I went and looked through several photos that were taken of people affected by the earthquake in China, and I have to say that while I am extremely sad about the devastation in Myanmar, it is far easier for me to relate to the people of China. Seeing people going to schools to find their children buried really breaks my heart. I am sure that the media has a lot to do with it. I've read that the Myanmar government's refusing aid and/ or not passing it on to those that need it, and I am sure there are not so many photos online of their plight, and that is one thing. We are seeing, very graphically, what is happening in China, and it makes events that have impacted us here in the US seem small, as far as the scale of casualties goes. The fact that so many of those killed were children is also very tragic.

But, there have been many more people who have died by our government's hand in wars in the last few years and we are to look at pictures of a happy presidential family having their pretentious shindig an hour and a half away from here this past weekend and feel all warm and cozy? It's disgusting is what it is. It sure could make someone wish that some drunk first lady had left the potato salad out of the fridge an hour too long.

I am also daunted by the fact that I may have promised a certain lumberjack that I would mow our 1 out of 5 mowable acres through the summer and totally organize the house in order to get him to shut up about my not helping with housework much through the semester. I want to take it back, now. It really didn't work. He still complained. This morning he informed me that he needed laundry done by tomorrow (our washing machine is broken and we've been using the laundry mat for months now) and I, still laying in bed, said I would see what I could do. It doesn't matter that he's been Mr. Momming it for months now on the weekends while I'm at work, I still take it as his being a misogynistic jerk when my non-commitment irks him and I have thoughts of stringing his work shirts up in the trees and telling him I thought it was going to rain.

I think what must really be bothering me is that yesterday I was going to finally get up the nerve to kiss my boyfriend, who has been looking dapper since changing out of his Santa suit, goodbye for the summer and take a picture of us together, but he was gone... without saying goodbye. :(

I'm Over It

It's that Florence Joe. She's so Jr. High (or maybe she's just High).

A Mother's Day Meme: At Least Somebody Cares

What would Mother's Day be without a little martyrdome and nothing says martyrdome like a meme. The fantabulicious Katie Schwartz hath bequeathed me the honor when no one else bothered. Oy Vey. Sorry, I hardly know what that means, really. My Baptist grandmother made waffles for us, her grandchildren, and had supper on the table when her drunk husband came home from the bar complaining that it was cold, and she never complained once. She may have felt the need to, in between teaching us that "Now I Lay Me Down to Die in My Sleep" prayer and chastising me for saying the word "vagina", chase us with a flyswatter, but that was in the name of discipline. (I promise my grandmother never chased us with a flyswatter, but I did get spanked with one by my own mother more than once- I figure she had to have learned it somewhere.) Oy vey, what kind of daughter am I to go recounting tales like that on Mother's Day. They should be more like this and this.

Have I caused you enough squirminesses for now, to feel sufficiently grateful that I even bothered to write the damn meme for you (it was all for you) when I have my last final tomorrow. And, after all those two days of research and writing (and I scrapped my whole rough draft and started over the day before the due date because you said you didn't like it...) I only made an 80 on my paper. Can she hang onto an A in that class after all? Will Chad find out his wife's a slut who writes about giving blowjobs to Wal-Mart cashiers (uggh, when you put it like that...)? Will Celine's breast enhancement surgery push Dirk away? Will she ever get to the meme? Stay tuned...

...alright, here it is.

Ten Year Ago what were you doing, Freida Bee?

Ten years ago today I was helping to organize a Mother's Day benefit concert and getting sloshed. I was a single mother with two daughters who went to their Dad's on Wednedsday nights and every other weekend. I was floundering between half-assedly apprenticing with a midwife and pulling my ass out of a coffee shop, where I would play chess and smoke pot out back with my friends, to go clean houses to make a paltry living. I lived in a little house out in the country under the auspices of a barter arrangement to keep the house up while the owner lived out of state, but I was really not helping much at all. I was isolated, depressed, smoking and drinking as much as I could afford to and on the verge of meeting a fetching young heroin addict who would grace my womb with his super sperm, so that I could bring the genius to life and meet a Lumberjack, my current "husband", for the first time in the ninth month of my pregnancy. It would not be until the next Halloween when I, dressed in boy drag, and he, dressed in girl drag, would be at a party where we would see eachother, go smoke pot out in the children's playhouse in the back yard, and talk, pissing off my girlfriend at the time to no end. A couple months later, the day after a dream in which I levitated off the ground while kissing him (oh my), we did actually kiss and I have been complaining about not levitating ever since.

Five Things on Today's "To Do" List...

1. Listen to the CD my friend in my class (a wonderful woman who will be a keeper friend when all the suffering ends) made me of a couple of lectures I missed, and I delude myself into thinking I will listen to the classes I attended as well. (Do I really want to hear myself being a loudmouth know-it-all?) And, study my notes and catch up on those readings; Paley, Darwin, here I come.

2. Offer my co-worker a blowjob. (I'll probably procrastinate this one until next weekend again though.)

3. Take back those rental movies that are ridiculously late after work.

4. Go to bed early tonight. (or, take a 'lil catnap here at work, just in case I end up blowing this to-do off in favor of watching a movie or giving a transferential blowjob to my husband). (Have you noticed this is her third post in a week about or referring to blow jobs? What's up with that?)

5. Just 8 more hours of "working". In the immortal words of my first boss ever, Roy from the BK Lounge, "If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean."

If I were a Billionaire, I would...

1. Never have any more problems. Right.

2. Buy the land where we live and hire my husband's (employer's) company to remodel and expand it, make it greener, and pimp it out for the kids.

3. Take this job and shove it.

4. Buy a cool old house in the city, one bus from the university, and greenify it and stay there in the weeks while I finished school. (I only have one more semester of classes in the fall, then a semester of student teaching.)

5. Buy a love nest for me and (o)(o) in New York City.

6. Graduate and then start and run a foundation to promote and build organic gardens in Austin schools with kids, including native plant wildlife habitat gardens and sustainable agriculture food gardens. And, take kids to Mexico to do do the same thing in schools there.

7. Buy an electric car and a posh vintage wardrobe.

8. Give some money away and invest in Eco-friendly businesses, but mostly buying prime properties and greenifying them.

9. Travel. Travel. Travel.

10. Write. Write. Write.

Three Bad Habits I Have...

1. Pretending I do not have any bad habits.

2. Blogging. (C'mon, admit it; it's your bitch too.)

3. Wanting to have sex with everything that moves. (I think the thing that makes this a bad habit is that I don't.)

Five Places I've Lived

1. Arkansas (in an undisclosed location)

2. Austin, TX (and her outliers)

3. Philadelphia, PA

4. Arlington, TX

5. That's as an adult, above there. I lived in a buttload of cities growing up when my father was a disc jockey: Atlanta, Cleveland, Omaha, and St. Paul were most prominent.

Five Jobs I've Had

1. Plant nursery worker.

2. Line cook, room service person, dietary cook (all in differing years).

3. Companion for a woman with Alzheimers.

4. Office manager.

5. Toilet duster for rich people (i.e. housecleaner).

I hereby declare the following folks taggalicious:

Randal

Scarlet Blue

Bubs

Pidomon

Whiskeymarie

Remember Her?

Florence Joe ain't got nothin' on Blowjob Girl.

I have two finals today, one from 7-10 PM. Isn't that against someone's religion or something?

Just Hangin' Out...

Ok, for those of you wondering if my blog is, in fact, safe for work anymore, for those of you thinking, "How far is Florence Joe (if that is, in fact, her real name) going to go?" and for those of you just wondering if I even give a shit any more, the answer is, "I don't know." Half the time I hate my hair and the other half the time I think I look suave, like that cute guy from Flight of the Concords. Half the time I think blogging will, most ungracefully, do me in, and the other half the time I can't imagine going on without it. Half the time I write here because I think it's therapeutic, and the other half the time I am deeply ashamed of myself. The other half of the time I just want to drink more than a little Kool Aid.

It could be comforting to me that there are others who have stooped lower, but it's not. I started this little blog to be mildly political, of course, having no idea whatsoever that anyone would actually read it. I am not sure what to say about politics these days too much. I am hoping Obama wins the Democratic nomination, though I do not think for a minute that Hillary Clinton should drop out of the race until she's damn-well ready to drop out. It is a close race and I think that she has every right to fight hard for what she wants. In fact, I admire her for that. I am a little suspicious of her tactic of winning one primary with fewer delegates and losing another with more and then declaring victory, but it is politics. It's what I would expect. I would, however, be most unhappy if the candidate with fewer regular delegates wins it from the supers or by co-opting the Michigan and Florida delegates.

I ended up focusing my research paper that I kept on an on about those two times on the idea of competition in science, otherwise recently phrased as the "Science Wars." I will likely post my paper over at A Noble Undoing, but I am going to wait for it to be graded first. The two-second synopsis, though, is that the whole notion of a "Science War" is really contradictory to what science actually is. If realists are worried that belief in pseudo-sciences is on the rise, I think two things need to happen. These ideas need to be talked about in schools and children need to be presented with the "facts" (Do you know scholars actually debate what a fact is? Of course you do. You're so smart.) and allowed to see the experimental results for themselves. They need to form hypotheses and test them rather than always just believing something is true just because they are told as much by an expert. They don't need to (always) rotely follow the directions in some crummy lab manual. When they wonder if a bowling ball will take the same length of time as a feather to fall off a building, they need to be able to test it, and then they need to test a box filled with sand against the same size and shaped box filled with cotton balls and see which one falls faster. (Go ahead go do it.) And they need to think about what this all means. That is how students' misconceptions can be dispelled, by identifying them and encouraging them to think for themselves. They will come to decide for themselves if it is a preacher, a parent, or a science teacher they believe is more knowledgeable in the ways of science. There is that, and then there is the very real likelihood that science does not encompass all of the phenomenon people observe, as it is incomplete, dynamic, and changing and it needs to get off its goddamned high horse and admit it. What I learned in the researching of my paper is that if people will just get down to the doing of science, then the process will prevail. If anomalies arise, then they should be tested and theories should be revised or expanded as needed, but the standard upon which to base that which contrasts what we assume day in and day out must be stable for those anomalies to be detected.

Now that I have bored you thoroughly, the recipe states that I am to shock you now. Would you prefer a sexually graphic descriptor, an uncomfortably intimate detail, or some heretical absurdity encompassing the two? I took a three hour nap in between two sentences in all of the previous (hint: not at a paragraph break) as I am under-rested and just medicated enough to succumb to sleep and think that blowing off studying for finals until the day before they occur in favor of doing dishes, laundry and napping is the saner choice. I happen to concur. I just wonder what it is I have left to say here in this venue, and am worried that I may have to go reading and researching, i.e. working to come up with something new. I think this may the point I had to get to to become ready to write a book or some fiction for real, because I will go to such extents to avoid doing work. An old boss of my husband's used to say that he loved hiring lazy people, because they were bound to think of some easier, faster way to get the job done. I think he was misunderestimating lazy people, though.

H/T to M. Yu for the photo. After he showed me some of his bondage techniques, I implemented them with my son. I'm a natural, don't ya think?

Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together: People Like Us

Tegan and Sara cover Bruce Springsteen's Dancing in the Dark



The Country Bachelors cover Talking Heads' People Like Us

Tha Security Guard Files: This Here's Ma Privates

Ah jes' cain't says it enough. This here's ma diary an' these is ma privates, so don' you go tellin' no one wha' ah's gonna tell you, else ah's gonna come ta you's house, drink you's 'quila an' fuck you's husband. (Do you hear me, Jina Paige?)

Las' night ah tol' Ray Jean ta' watch Avery Ron whiles ah went ta gets we's milk an' Huggies. Ah only had two dollars, so ah took ma change jar on o'er ta tha Wal Mart. Ah know ah said ah ain't goin' there no more, but they's prices is so low an' ah knowed Shirlene was off she's shift an' ah thought maybe iffin' Hal was there he might give me a coupla dollars. 'Sides, ah don' think nobody's gonna take tha' dang 'straining order seriously no how.

Ah walked inta tha supercenter right 'bout 11 o'clock an' headed mahself on o'er to tha diapers. Ah foun' me a 'lil package fer $3.29 an' then got me a gallon a milk an' was headin' ta tha regster when ah passed tha panty part a tha store an' saw tha cutest 'lil cow print thong you ever did see! Ah 'cided ta try it on, so's ah went on past tha lady guard inta tha dressin' room. She tol' me ah couldn't take mah's merchandise in there, but she said she could hold it fer me.

A course, it fit me jes' right an' ah jes' had ta have it fer work tha next day. Ah knew it'd get me some extra tips from them rich cowboys visitin' from they's ranch in Crawford ta get they's blowjobs; ah needs tha money, ya know. Mamma tol' me tha' 'cause ma homeland security number is big, like a milllion, ah ain' gettin' ma check 'til July. Tha's tha only thing 'bout them rich coyboys; they's full a they's cocks an' they's bull like they knows tha Prez'nent or somethin'. They tol' me ah would get it in May.

Ah put ma old thong on tha coat hanger an' put ma low-cut Wranglers back on o'er ma new thong an' walked on out. Tha security guard was pretty an' she smiled a' me an' gave me ma milk an' ma Huggies an' then ah went ta pay fer ma stuff. Tha checkout guy was real cute-like an' didn't even make me go to tha Coinstar ta cash in ma coin jar. He jes' said ah hadta count tha coins mahself. Ah knowed he was touchin' he's self an' lookin' at ma ass while ah was standin' there. It was kinda cute. An when ah gots ta $7.45 an' was still short, he even covered tha 23 cents.

As ah was all walking out tha door, alls of a sudden tha' lady security guard walks up an' says I should come wit' her to she's office. Ah go there an' there's tha' cute cashier guy jes' sittin' there. She says ta me she knowed ah stole that cute thong, an' ah 'jes started ta cry. Ah tol' them ah was sorry an' ah would give it back. I begged her not ta call tha police on account a tha' 'strainin' order; ah'd have ta go ta jail 'gain. She tol' me jes' ta calm down an' sit down on she's couch. She said we could work it out jes' fine. When they got quiet, ah started ta get worried. But when tha two a them started they's whisperin' an' then they's kissin', ah knowed things was gonna be 'jes fine.

Ah opened ma pants, an' ah asked 'em iffin' ma new cow print thong made ma ass look fat. Tha cashier came o'er ta look closer an' ah tol' him ta go ahead an' slap ma ass 'cause ah knowed tha's wha' he wanted ta do. Ah opened he's pants an' touched he's hard cock. It were a sweet one. Now, this here's where things started ta get weird. Tha' lady officer came o'er an asked iffin' she could kiss me. Now, ah done threeways plenty a times, but ah ain't no thespian, so's ah was nervous as a preacher in whorehouse next door to he's wife's Canasta club meetin'. She were pretty an' ah toldt her it were okay. It's really weird, but it were jes' like kissin' a guy, so's ah got into it.

While ah was kissin tha lady security guard, tha cashier pulled o'er ma cowprint thong tha' was real wet-like an' started ta lick me like Fred Ricky do. Carl Wayne don' ne'er do tha'. Ah sat down on tha couch an' swallowed tha cashiers cock real sweet-like. After he grabbed ma hair an' fucked ma mouth fer a while, he tol' me ta lay down on tha couch. Ah tol' him ta get he's sweet cock back inta ma mouth an' was gettin' all ready ta fuck him when alls of a sudden ah start ta feel tha' lady's tongue on ma privates. Dear sweet Zombie Jesus, ah ain' never felt nothin' sweeter and e'en though ah knewdt it were a sin, it felt so good tha' ah let her keep goin'. She were so good at bein' down on me ah couldn't e'en wait for ma fuckin'. 'Bout tha same time tha cashier were sqirtin' he's man-goo on mah face, ah was tingling all o'er, e'en in mah toes.

After ah put on ma new thong an' mah pants, an' said my g'byes, ah got ma milk an' Huggies an' went on out tha door. Ah saw Hal was talkin' to a cop out by tha reg'sters. He was smilin' real big-like an' ah went on o'er ta say hi to 'em an' he up an' tol' tha officer tha' I weren't s'posed ta be on tha premises on account of ma 'strainin' order. When ah ran out tha door, ah heared tha 'larm sound. but ah made it ta Fred Ricky's truck 'jes in time ta' get 'way. Ah drove 'roun' to tha back a Jina Page's place. She opened tha door an' ah rushed on in. She asked me wha' were wrong. Ah noticed she was lookin' extra pretty las' night and ah tol' her, "Alright, ah's gonna tell ya somethin' iffin' ya don' go tellin' no one. This here's ma privates."

It's Congealing....

The ten page paper will never be mentioned after today, unless it is, at least not as an excuse for neglecting my blog. (I'll have to come up with some new ones then.)

I have resisted another Security Guard Files for the time being and it's about Froodle-time. Thanks for stopping by and for indulging me on my last post somewhat. I wasn't looking for the compliments (but I'll take them, thank you), but rather what it is your inquiring minds want to read about. Smut, personal angst, I don't know, whatever people who actually read like. I've forgotten.

Toodles and Froodles.

-Freida

A question...

If I were to write a book, what would you most like to see it be about?

I'll have some time on my hands this summer and I'm thinking too much about the future rather than the tasks at hand.

Maybe if I could get a little support here, I could make it happen this year for a change.

I'm kinda tired of only the first chapters and you guys inspire me, even if I end up ignoring everything you advise.

Fiction, full-length, collection of short stories, plots or character suggestions, scenes. Let me entertain you.... (Or rather, I will gladly entertain you Tuesday if you will entertain me today.)

Zoloft Log: Stardate .5

I have the overwhelming urge to write here, at my precious, my blog, but once again (it's about weekly or so, isn't it?) without much idea on what it is I want to focus. My ruminations are regarding the end of the semester and Zoloft. Classes are over and I thought I would be ruing the extension I got that extends my pre-finals assignment season until Monday, but I know it were no mistake.

I shall be spending much of my weekend reading Thomas Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolution, as much of what I referred to in my 10-page paper rough-draft concerned its contents which I must have subconsciously absorbed in my lifetime, as his is such an important and impacting book, according to my professor; and, I understood her suggestion to go freakin' buy the book, as it was not available in the library, as an imperative, at least as far as getting a good grade goes. I am not above a sweet ass-kissing, and it's really easy with her as it is so pretty, which is extremely demeaning for me to say that given the fact that I believe her to be one of the most intelligent goddesses of all time. It made it all the more flattering that she requested that she could use my and my teaching partner's baby, our geometry lesson plan based on the history of world map projections (so hot), as an example for upcoming students and to post on a future database of lesson plans.

This has been a good week in school, though, my GPA, still yet to be determined, could be anywhere between 3.75- 2.75. Every single one of my class grades is borderline and depends upon how I perform in the next week. No. Pressure. Things have mellowed slightly on the personal front, kinda. Not so much has been bombarding me, but really there have been circumstances that should be more rare than they are. A positive emotional coping strategy might be for me to revise my thinking so that I am not thinking, "This should not be happening" to accepting events as they are. (Read that with a whine.) All's I care about is that I am starting to flinch when I answer the phone. Seriously.

I went to see both my counselor and my new (and only) regular psychiatrist this week with whom I had an exchange yesterday in which he referred to my feeling energy with my hands, one of my only schizophrenic symptoms besides feeling at times as though this whole material charade is not necessarily real (Is there a glitch in the Matrix?), as not really occurring. Of course, I quipped that he could not possibly know such a thing any more readily than me, what is real, but I was really just begging him or anyone to freaking do a scientific study in which I can participate, but instead I will surely get into trouble with the reality police. I am not confused, the out-of-body stuff he dismissed as related to meditation, because it was consciously sought (Kinda- or was I coping with what started to happen uncontrollably?), but if the half-pill of Zoloft I just popped for the first time ever happens to dampen my sensitivities or makes me think twice about writing from my sexy redneck slut alter-ego, there may be a problem.

I understand they are seriously questioning my judgement there in the mental health center. I have been seeing the way they look at my haircut. They think that it is good for me to be open to feeling better (is it?) and that with a temporary visit to Laura Bush land, I may habituate some different thought patterns, and be a less stressed and unhappy person in the long run.

Where have I heard that line before? "Just for a little bit, baby, then I'll pull out." Oh, alright.