...In My Mouth

This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, given my posts on smoking, eating, and sex...but I'll just say it for the record:

I'm orally fixated.

Dieting sucks 'cause I just wanna stick anything in there to fill that gaping hole. And if I go too long without anything rolling around my tongue, I go through a sort of withdrawal and start shoveling pens, paper clips, tins of mints, and people's digits in there. Okay, just my digits. Usually.

So I thought, since time is of the essence today, and my pals in the blogosphere are doing all sorts of groovy things with lists, I'd do a manic 10-minute exercise (between visits from my boss, who keeps stickin' his graying head in my cube to ask questions about work). I'm gonna list 'Things That Have Been in My Mouth the Last 12 Months". Spoiler Alert: Could be very lame.

Okay, here goes, and in no particular order or frame of reference:

1) raw fish, baked fish, fried fish, smoked fish, fish crackers
2) simultaneously, 8 fingers and 2 thumbs (none of them mine), 3 pieces of gauze, 2 cardboard xray tabs, 2 steel files, 1 mirror-on-a-stick, and a partridge in a root canal
3) scotch bonnet hot pepper
4) cable remote control
5) needle and thread
6) wax lips, plastic dracula teeth
7) Sergei's cock and balls (sounds like an upscale restaurant..."Sergei's Cock and Balls, Serving Only the Finest Meats Since 1970")
8) pens, pencils, markers, crayons
9) bottle caps
10) a stray hair (mine), a pubic hair (not mine), cat hair (someone's got to give the kitty a good tongue-wash)
11) an entire cucumber, at once, to impress the boss
12) half a can of Reddi-Whip, at once, to impress the kids
13) 6 oz. of bubbly water, exploding outta the bottle (impressed ME)
14) paper clips, hair clips, chip clips
15) a pack of postits
16) paper money (bleech....)
17) toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, listerine, sharp metal objects not approved by the ADA
18) party horn, harmonica, a blade of grass as a high-pitched whistle
19) my fingers in the heat of passion, Sergei's body parts in heat of passion, half a Hershey bar, all at once, in the heat of chocolate passion
20) nails, tacks, a steak knife
21) beefalo steak, a pig's loin, bacon, bacon, bacon

I gotta go to a meeting, and the list is pretty lame. In past years I could have included rattlesnake, emu, assorted toys (sexual and otherwise), but I'm at a loss right now.

I DO know this though...tonight "Things That Have Been In My Mouth" will include greasy food, chocolate, and some pinot-something wine. And lots of it!

OhBabyOhBabyOhBaby

I don't mean to brag or anything, and I'm sure you ladies out there have already guessed (and you guys too, what the hell), but I have to give a shout-out now....

SERGEI IS ONE HELLOVA GREAT LOVER!

Not to embarrass Sergei or anything. And how could that embarrass a guy, anyhow? Hell, isn't that something to show to yer friends! "My woman says I'm a great lay! See! I tol' ya!"

Sigh.

My beloved, darling hunk of man-meat gave it to me this morning. Again. And again. And yet again (I had to ask him at one point if he'd taken Viagra, 'cause...DAMN!!!!). I don't know what I did to deserve such a lovely, shuddering time, but I'm not questioning it! And we could have kept going if it weren't for the fact that we had to go to work...and the kids were threatening to wake up and come check us to see if the screaming meant someone was hurt.

Y'know those endorphins that are released during sex? The ones that make you glow? And give you that shitty grin all day? And make the smell of sex just ooze outta every pore? Yeah. I'm feeling it. I'm a cloud of it, I'm relaxed and happy and squishy (still), I'm a buzzed ball of calm and feel all fuzzy inside. (and just a bit fuzzy outside, but looking forward to a Brazilian wax...!)

One of the blogs I read every day is by a musician outta New York. He's not a MAJOR star, but he's major in the college-music sort of way. I dig him a lot. In his post yesterday, he mentioned that he'd broken up with his significant other and was feeling blue. And I felt blue for him. 'Cause even though he could probably get sex whenever he wanted it with who/whomever he wanted, there's just something about fucking someone you really like, or love, or are infatuated with, or whatever, that makes it so much better. You let go more. And if you're really into them and them into you, you can talk afterwards and before, and cook some breakfast, and not have those freezing silences where you don't know what to say after you just barked like a dog for them, and went 'round the world.

I don't comment on the musician's blog, I don't email him, I'd feel like some groupie (okay, shoot me, I AM a groupie, but a lurker). But I just wanna tell him to chill out, find a cool chick, find a Suicide Girl, chat up the waitress, find someone who makes you feel good, that you can talk to, who can have a conversation about Louis Armstrong or Akira Kurosawa, or romance languages or good Thai food, and nurture that. THEN fuck her brains out, but good! And get a few tips from Sergei, 'cause even after 10 years of marriage...OH MY GOD!!!! Can I get an Amen, someone??!

A-Fucking-Men!

Blaaaaathalathalatha

Y'know those days when something really good happens to you and you feel all relieved and shit, and you just want to pull out a megaphone and announce to the world that you really DO have a brain and people DO listen to you and dammit, next time don't be so fucking pigheaded that you don't listen to reason the FIRST time and make me dump a cauldron of shitkicks down on ya?

Know those days?

You finally crawl your way outta some dank deserted well, probably leaving bits of your fingernails embedded in the wall ("It puts the lotion in the basket"...damn Buffalo Bill), and you finally gasp fresh air at the top, and then find the gun the bad guy dropped when he was picking up the sack of loot, and you shoot him in the left butt cheek, then the right, then you leave him sobbing just a bit before you come after him with the machete you remembered was above the fireplace?

Well, not quite like THAT, I'm really not that vindictive. Not really.

Pissed off, you seek out those in misery like you, and you band together and sneak furtive meetings in dark corners, whispering, plotting, scheming, planting a mole in the garden of their stinking flowery excuses. When the time is right, you pounce on 'em with teeth bared, menacing, so they know you mean business, then you let them come to their own conclusion to get the hell outta there.

Dammit, animal reference.

We won a battle last night. The collective 'we', as in 'It takes a village to raise a child', and the village is spared for another year.

But what pisses me off is this:

THERE'S NO PARTY!!!!

Seriously! When something great, terrific, awesome, fucking brilliant happens, I want to PARTY! I want to get totally fall-down black-out drunk, and crank up Nine Inch Nails and Daft Punk and old Soul Coughing and older Al Green! I want to shout over the other shouting, I want to smoke and cough and bash shoulders with my fellow fighters, and hug 'em all in that 'just-won-the-Super-Bowl' way and scream into the invariable camera, "I Love You, Mom!"

Instead, we nod. We smile. We exchange polite chitchat. We discuss afterwards, and look forward to smoothing out the wrinkles of our plan. And that's all fine, ya know, it's nice and grownup and businesslike.

But wha-the-fuck, we need a kegger and some bad-ass music! Show us yer tits!!! Shake dat ass!!! Fight the power, baby!!!

Kiss Me...Er...Don't

Big meeting tonight.

Alas, also big lunch today for co-worker's birthday. Middle Eastern restaurant. Big chicken schawarma salad, bigger than my head and shoulders. Full of onion and radish and cucumber and parsley and spicy chicken (mmmm...orgasmic, really).

Now, the question is:

At big meeting tonight, with breath being all stinky, do I:

a) Decline to speak and only send written notes to the podium?
2) Speak only at podium, into microphone, but not face-to-face to board members?
iii) Greet each board member beforehand with hearty handshake in a modicum of personal space, lean in to them, and cheerfully say, "Hhhhiii, hhhhhhhowww niiiiice tooooo seeeeeee yooouuuuuuu!"

Hmmm...here I sit weighing repulsion in one hand and a dozen boxes of Altoids in the other...which one should I choose? What would YOU do?

dirty ol' man

I didn't do anything I thought I'd do this weekend. I was busy, but distracted. And today everyone's telling me they saw me on local gov't tv this weekend because of the whole school board business, and how I looked professional, and sounded great, and was sexy as hell. Well, that's nice.

But I still feel like I need another weekend...RIGHT NOW...!

So, in lieu of doing anything constructive, I thought I'd give you all a poem from my favorite guy, ee cummings. A damn sexy man. Okay, he's been dead 30-odd years, but every time I read his dirty poems, I get all gooshy and tingly. How's THAT for sex appeal?!?

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

I Wouldn't Say I'm MISSING It, Bob!!

Didja ever see 'Office Space'? Brilliant chunk of movie, especially for all us cube-dwellers who rage. I feel like I'm trapped in that movie. Without even the sexy every-man sensibilities of that uber-cute Ron Livingston to at least create a 'quickie-up-against-the-wall' sort of diversion.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!

Why, why, WHY is it that managers, board members, and top brass are hired seemingly because they had a lobotomy that removed the 'reasonable and rational' lobe? (No offense to other lobotomy patients, who really need it to calm those pesky inner voices.)

WHY is it that presenting a number, like this number I presented last night, "You will LOSE $250,000 if you do this project!", is met with a sort of hand-on-the-penis stare and, after a beat, gets this response back, "Hoo-kay, thanks, SO, when are we gonna get this project started? Oh, and by the way, I'm gonna need to you come in on Saturday, okay? That'd be great, thanks."

Well, thank you, Mr. Short Fucking Attention Span.

Didja not just hear me???

YOU. WILL. LOSE. MONEY.

YOU. ARE. A. TEAKETTLE. FULL. OF. PISS.

YOU. HAVE. THE. IQ. OF. A. POTATO.

YOU. SHOULD. GET. A. JOB. SWEEPING. COW. SHIT.
(No offense to those who DO sweep cow shit, for that is a damn nasty job and I thank you for all your efforts. Now get back to work.)

We need ANARCHY, people! We need to get the idiots outta here and ship them to, oh, I dunno, Iceland or something. (No offense to the inhabitants of Iceland, we will gladly do a 1:1 trade...and, heck, we'll throw in a tube of polygrip so's you can glue their mouths shut.)

I'd talk more, but I have to go make a shiv from an old stapler. I have a meeting with the Operations Manager this morning and she wants this project done....

I'm not sure if this link will work (I'm blowing Sergei this weekend and in exchange he'll show me more blogging tips), but go here for more little spitwads of work inspiration.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0151804/quotes

Addiction

He was standing outside the student rental house. His hair was bed-smashed, curly and sexy. He wore a sweatshirt adorned with an anime character of unknown origin, and brown corduroy slippers probably previously seen under his grandfather's bed. He looked at once menacing and childlike, staring absently up the sidewalk. He raised his hand to his face.

And took a puff.

A loooong, deep inhale that I could feel, through the metal skin of my car, stopped briefly at the corner, the morning sun making simple shadows of complicated things.

I exhaled when he did.

God.

I miss smoking.

I do.

Let's get this out of the way before I get to the pleasure part. I DON'T miss smelling like sticky tar. I don't miss yellow teeth, stained fingers, ash spilling onto the carpet, feeling desperate when I can't find a lighter, plunking down $5 I could use for food or heat, coughing bits of my lung up every morning, and knowing I'm doing 'highlight-delete' on several years of my life.

What I DO miss, when it comes right down to it, is the ceremony.

Every new pack is a present. The clerk plunks the pack on the counter with a satisfying thud, the expectation in your sweaty hands. Ceremony, the pack thumped against your palm, the smooth tearing of the celophane wrapper, ripping away a corner of the foil to expose those white and brown beauties.

Oh, the smell!

There's few things that smell better to me than fresh tobacco. It's like leaves in autumn, like harvest time, things growing and useful. There's a specific motion to coax a cigarette out: left index finger up, right hand holding the pack, open corner up. Tap, tap, tap. Pack to left hand, right thumb and middle finger pick out the longest one, lick your lips, and place the sweet stick in your mouth.

(Deep breath.)

Lighting a cigarette...oh...holy fuck...I can't explain the sensation. It starts with taste and smell, undeniably intertwined. Burning leaves, but school's out and we're free!, and your body begins to take over.

It's simple.

Breathe in deeply, hold it, let the smoke curl up like a warm cat inside your lungs, swirl about heady in your nose, it's like riding a huge wave, bodysurfing naked, and your lover coming inside you and with you, again and again. Each time the same and still different and you have but a few seconds to relax between the peaks before you arch upwards again...higher, so easy....

Relaxing.

I suppose I also miss the drugs inherent in cigarettes. Nicotine is ruthless. But that's not the part that fuels my obsession. Not really. It's in my hands, my mouth, the shape my body takes when I inhale, exhale, the excitement of a new pack and expectation of another cigarette.

I haven't smoked a cigarette for 10 years. And still, every once in a while, especially when stressed, I feel the obsession creeping back. A friend, an ex-smoker as well, has agreed with me. Smoking is like any addiction. Once you're a smoker, you're ALWAYS a smoker. Just non-practicing. The urge never quite goes away.

I think I need more coffee now. My only drug. I have no choice but to drown myself in it today. It, too, has a smell I love, and taste. But it's damn hard to light.

Crazy as in Frantic (and possibly the other way)

I'm a maniac today. All run-run-run, no time. Coupla things that struck me this morning:

1) My daughter finding rhyming words and coming up with this string, "bunny, funny, cunny!". And how a blog I read recently had a lovely bawdy dirty poem using the word 'cunny' as replacement for...er...c*nt. So my daughter's comments reminded me of that dildo at the shop with bunny ears that makes me laugh. So much for rhyming!

2) Another misogynistic pope? Urgh. Glad I'm not Catholic. Pissed I'm not Catholic so I can plan 'upheaval from within'.

3) I have to flesh out this idea, but I think I have the answer to unwanted pregnancies.... It involves the man responsible for the pregnancy, surgery, hormone injections, and giving birth through his penis. It's all about parity, people.

4) There are now 12 (TWELVE!!!) food pyramids. The fuck? The old one was WAY flawed, c'mon, 6-11 servings of breads and cereals a day? Wonder why we're obese, USDA motherfuckers? Do ya?!?!? When I was in school they had a program geared for kids called "Mulligan Stew" with the chant "4! 4! 3! 2! That's the formula for me and you!" 4 breads and cereals, 4 fruits and veggies, 3 meat/protein, 2 milk. Pretty simple! And we were NOT FAT THEN!!!

I'm sweating like a mo-fo, have to plan a school board presentation for tomorrow night, and I have a stress headache and forgot to eat breakfast...again. On the flip side, my son let me kiss him goodbye this morning at school in front of his friends! OMG! And my daughter took her teacher's hand this morning and gladly let me leave! And my darling Sergei was SO sexy this morning I wanted to crawl inside his skin and nuzzle him for the rest of the day.

Fuck. And I have to make cookies and brownies for a work thing tomorrow. Jeebus, does the madness EVER END??

It's Sex-shul Choc-lit, Baby

There's half-nekked folks running around outside! Sweaty and dancing! Heathen lust oozing out of their tight un-wrinkly pores! Sexy sex sex everywhere!

It's finally spring ('bout damn time) and yesterday it hit the mid 70s. Today is supposed to be even hotter. After getting tangled up in my sweater yesterday afternoon whilst trying to strip the sopping wet garment from my body, I decided today to bare my legs (bear legs...grrr...thank goodness I shaved recently, otherwise I'd look like two saguaros rubbing together and causing all sorts of nastiness and people crossing the street so they didn't have to walk past such a hideous display of pasty white pickery skin).

Ooh, do I feel SEXY today!

I have a skort on, which still fits from last summer (so I feel somewhat smug even through the massive holiday eating machine that was my mouth). My legs are restless and keep crossing and uncrossing, I swear I'm not doing it consciously. They just want to see my office! They want to see the sun! They want to semi-flash my boss during our weekly meeting...woo-hoo! It's not MY fault, ya understand, it's the weather!

And the drunken hoards of college students are filling up the sidewalks and playing football in the street and laying on blankets on front lawns with bikinis the size of string-cheese wrappers. I ogle the men. Hell, I ogle the women! Not in the 'wow, I'd do HER' kinda way (although I sometimes DO do that, 'cause...DAMN!..., and if Sergei is around I nudge him and nod towards the bodaciousness), but in the 'how many miles a day would I have to run to get THOSE legs?' kind of way.

College guys run in packs, and they scare me worse than wild dogs. 'Cause wild dogs don't set couches on fire when they're drunk, and wild dogs don't crank up the same Nelly tune 5 times in a row just cause it's bitchin', and wild dogs don't pee on the corner of the neighbor's house. Okay, well, forget that last part, wild dogs DO piss anywhere they want, they're just not doin' it with a blue plastic cup of Bud in their paws and a 3 inch long cigarette ash sticking outta their maws.

But tell me something...ladies...gentlemen...what the HELL is it with tube tops? They're back with incredible vengeance, and next to 8-inch-fuck-me-pumps are the most uncomfortable, scary, wiggly things a female can wear! I've fallen out of tube tops before, and at least then I was younger and had less up top to fall out! Ya think I'm gonna tempt fate with my mommy-sized boobies NOW? I'd scare children and old men everywhere I went! Even the Target flyer in the Sunday paper had a page with tube tops and halter tops...oh god!...so now my old Aunt Ethyl can think she's hip.

I'll say this once:

Tube tops are only attractive on 1% of the population.

This population includes:

1) Skinny models who need the form-fittingness to display the small bumps that are their boobs
2) Pamela Anderson and the ilk who, frankly, amaze and allure me with the size of their cups...I swear, I CANNOT look above this woman's bust line, I feel like a guy, with drool and everything (oh, is THAT another post)
3) Guys

Guys? Yeah, uh-huh, there was a music video I recall from a few years ago with some geek band of half a dozen geek boys singing about tube tops and prancing happily around a city-scape modeling tube tops. THEY were sexy. No doubt.

Tube tops. Yes or No?

Buffalo Bill's Defunct

In 'Silence of the Lambs', the character Buffalo Bill would prance around his bedroom naked, and try on the suit he made of human female skin. Okay, yeah, I can hear y'all retching now, that was pretty gross. And every time I see that actor (he's in "Monk" playing the boss, and has the sexiest voice this side of Tim Curry), I can only picture him naked, 'tucked', and with the fluid dancers movements only since seen in the cast of 'The Adventures of Pricilla, Queen of the Desert.'

Why, why, WHY am I bringing this up? Because it finally hit me this morning that, as a woman, since puberty, I and a great number of my fellow gender have been doing the same thing. Trying on different skins. Which one am I today? Am I fat/thin/just right? Am I professional/boho/slob? Am I high maintenance or am I granola? We flipflop depending on what we're doing, where we're going, how much baby poop or soccer mud is on us, how much is in our bank account, and how many pounds of fluid we're retaining.

AND THAT'S FINE.

The thing is, I realized today that I'm finally, goddammit, FINALLY comfortable in my skin. Or various skins, as it were. I've grown to a point where I simply DON'T CARE what most people think of me if they see me on the street. (And, let's be honest, we're all just so fucking sexy anyway!) Last weekend I went to the store with sweats on and no makeup. Did I freak out, like I would have in my younger days? HELL NO!!! Last night I went to a pre-school board meeting with sweats, lip gloss, and a stack of obsessive notes. There were 10 or so moms there, and one dad. The dad wore a nice shirt and pants. The moms? We wore sweatshirts, Birkenstocks, bike clips and exhausted countenances. And we were FINE. The skins we had finally fit.

I like being part of that club, the Buffalo Bills who finally fit in their female skins. Of course, without the 'tucking the penis' part. Ouch, that would pretty much suck, I think.

Fried On Friday

Every Friday for the past, oh, 5 years or so, the Serglets and their parents celebrate the end of the school/work week by indulging in fast food. Ah, glorious food of the gods! While the choosing of the grease-bucket-buildings takes the kids quite a while ("I want Burger King!" "NO! I want McDonalds!" "And Wendys! A Frosty at Wendys!"), I usually indulge the fam in 2 or 3 choices. The parents are able, because of age and ...oh yeah...paychecks...to request take-out from actual restaurants, as long as it's fast. All this order-taking and running around takes me quite a while to accomplish. Especially 'cause everyone and their goddam brother gets fast food at EXACTLY the same time I do. Piss.

I have come up with some personal rules, though:

1) No Chili at Wendys. Okay, I know, the lady that 'found the finger' probably put it there, she's tried suing other big companies, she's a fucking loony. Sheah!!!! Ya didn't notice an inch-and-a-half-long FINGER on yer spoon before you put it in yer mouth???? What, did ya buy a gallon of the stuff and stick a garden trowel in there and shove it in yer maw??? Fucking bitch, thanks a helluva lot for ruining MY glorious chili buzz at Wendys. Lady, you can suck the wind outta my jigglin' ass for all your trouble. Cunny wench.

2) Onion rings...always get the biggest size box you can find, and ALWAYS get the sauce. Even though I burp and fart like a burping-and-farting-type-sailor, I HAVE to eat as many of these delicate o-rings as I can. (O-Rings...suddenly I thought of cock-rings, and I'm not sure I can order the onion variety tonight without trying them on Sergei, to see if they 'fit'. Heh heh, be warned.)

3) McDonalds has gender-specific toys. Yeah! Get them! Run like bloody hell right over there NOW. "One boy one girl" happy meal toys make for fewer fights, lots of sharing, and I get to play with twice the variety.

4) Always get the drive-thru stuff LAST. If you really want Chinese, or that spit-roasted chicken at the specialty place, or the juicy steak sand that begs leaving your car for, do that first. Fast food is chemically created to turn to frozen lead in approximately 5 minutes. No more, no less. Besides, it'll ensure that you don't eat all the fries and onion rings whilst visiting the other stops. (See 2 above, for cock-rings...er...onion rings....)

5) Shakes are dessert. They are not a beverage. It's ICE CREAM AND MILK, and something fake to flavor them. Frostys are the same thing, only rock hard and only chocolate. You will get these frozen concoctions ONLY after you have cleaned up your plate young man! Young lady! (Note: if you're eating alone, this rule is totally null and void. Drink away! Ya might wanna splash some rum in there, too, why not?!?!)

6) If you have kids, only order the smallest size meal for yourself. We make Fridays a picnic by plopping down in front of the television with our greasy bags of carby goodness. And if something really fun is on, like, oh, Spongebob, or the Munsters (they should have spelled it 'Muensters', cause those shows were SO cheesy), the kids won't eat much anyway. You'll have their half-plates of food to devour 'cause there's starving kids in China and you CAN'T throw away food! Travesty!

7) Make sure there's beer in the fridge. Because it's FUCKING FRIDAY, that's why!

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Ahem. And Now, A Poem

I'm home from work again today, and while the drugs begin to take effect, let me celebrate Poetry Month by composing, on the fly, something that came to me as I was getting ready this morning, watching my beloved sleep. I hope it doesn't suck.

My Baby's Like a Furnace

My baby's like a furnace
sending out waves
great huge showers
of heat and light
wherever he is and
to who
whom
ever
he touches

My baby's like a furnace
as the kids faces turn pink and ruddy
warm and soft
when they see him
and yell 'Papa!"
and run toward him to touch
him
to perhaps run their fingers
their bodies
up against his warmth

My baby's like a furnace
pushing crazy comfort out
through the ductwork of
e-comm
into the blogdom
into the world
blanketing his houseguests
with
smiles and guffaws
and more than a little heat
in the hearts
and loins
of those that reach out
with their own ironworks of heat

My baby's like a furnace
His pilot light blooms
and
unconsciously
reaches out to find
my
pilot light
that little button
and push-starting it
until my furnace is more like
an
incinerator
next to his
raging bonfire
splashed with gasoline
and we throw off the covers
so the house won't burn down
and we gasp for air
more
more
air
for the fire to burn higher
thrust up skyward
even
h..i..g..h..e..r
until we disappear into
ashes
and raise up
phoenix-like
into
two
warm
furnaces
side by side
pilot lights flickering in sync
and silent

My baby's like a furnace
and I cannot wait
...
I cannot wait
to be near him tonight.

Things Overheard in the ER Last Night, 7 to 10 p.m.

(Me): Why did I bring so much shit? Two books and soda and a damn coat, they musta moved me like 4 times. I must really be sick or else they wouldn't have shuffled me back so quickly. Fuck. Jeezus, my face is swelled up like fucking Elephant Man. Damn dentist, I'm gonna kill that mutherfucker.

(Man at End of Hall): AAHHHHHH!!!!

(Doctor, to mangled patient 5 feet from my gurney): So, were you drinking, or taking drugs when you fell down the stairs?

(Nurse, to me): I'm going to need 3 vials of blood, sweetie. Oh, and take this, it's an antibiotic.

(Man at End of Hall): HELP! URGH! PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP MEEEEE!!!

(Old Man Across Hall): Hey! Hey! My feet are cold!

(Doctor, to Man at End of Hall): So, how long have you had these suicidal thoughts?

(Man at End of Hall): AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

(Patient in Room Beside Me): Beep...beep...beep....

(Doctor, to mangled patient 5 feet from my gurney): We're gonna take you down now for a CAT scan. You'll be alright.

(Paramedics, to Girl on BackBoard wheeled in where mangled patient 5 feet from my gurney was): We know it's uncomfortable, just let them check you out first. Is there someone we can call?

(Old Man Across Hall): Next person that passes my room without covering up my feet is gonna die!

(Nurses Passing with Trays and Glasses of Water): Room C, then Dr. Weingold needs me in E.

(Man at End of Hall): Hey! Hey! Where is everybody???

(3 College Girls, to Girl on Backboard 5 feet from me): And when the softball hit your face, you just went down, BOOM!, like a sack of cement, and the whole crowd just sorta went....(GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASP).

(Nurse to Old Man Across Hall): We're gonna take you down to XRay now.

(Old Man Across Hall): Unnnunnnnhhhhnnhhhh.

(Man at End of Hall): (Doctor walks in with big bag, takes off his coat, closes the door. Man is quiet now.)

(Girl on Backboard 5 feet from me): This HUURTS...(crying)...can someone please, PLEASE get this thing off my back?

(Patient in Room Beside Me): Beep...beep...beep....

(Doctor to Me): Here's a scrip for Penicillin. And one for Vicodin. See your dentist tomorrow, he may have to do another root canal to drain the infection.

(Me): Hoo-kay.

(Nurse to Me): I'll show you to the pharmacy.

(Me): Thank you.

'Cause Heywood Jablowme Was Already Used

Sometimes I have occasion at work to create fake signins to test my software. This one from last week made me titter.

Userid = poopoo
Pword = baklava

Such a funny visual image there.

Titter. Hee hee. Love my job.

(Sniff) Is That MY Ass Burning?

Uh-oh. I'm obsessed. Again.

Hello, I'm Mrs. Sergei, and I'm hot.
Hello, I'm a geeky software chick, and I rock.
Hello, I'm a mom with awesome cleavage.
I have many hats (just this morning I wore a fetching red beret). But last night I was...

TA-DA!!!

Pissed Off Mom at the School Board Meeting!

Not SO pissed off, not that they saw, I just seethed quietly underneath Robert's Rules of Order and tried to keep my hands from shaking as I read my scribbled notes. But I was angry, man, angry that the school district that just spent $4.5 million dollars for a new olympic swimming pool at the high school wanted to save a measly couple hundred thousand dollars by cutting elementary teaching staff. What the fuck?!?!?!?!? I was angry that money took precedence over the education of our youngest of students. I was well aware that the in the board's mind, this is a done deal, and they had to go through the motions of hearing the community speak.

BUT.

I had to add my two cents (more like a buck twenty-five, but still not enough to sway the board).

After the meeting, I stayed up til 2 a.m. making notes for my NEXT presentation...next week...and I have a lot of people in the community to talk to in the meantime, gather data, etc. I dreamt about the next meeting when I finally fell asleep, and the haunting notion of miraculously finding half a mil $ in grants to keep the program going.

It's been a while since something has lit a fire under my ass. I do enjoy a good fight, especially when it's civilized and is all about words, words, words. I have a game plan. I have a strategy. I have numbers and will get more numbers to show the board and the superintendant that they are, basically, full of shit in their plans. Budgets are budgets, I know that, and I know certain things are gonna have to be cut. But you don't cut the kids, man, not when you throw away money on other things (too numerous to go into here).

Fight I will. And if we're shot down, well, at least we all tried. Hey, it's not like I haven't been on the losing end of a good argument (I can't even get into the presidential elections, I end up spitting and furious and saying FUCK!!!!!! a lot). But at least I'm feeling passion in my bones, not 'love' passion (and thank you Mr. Sergei for your passion this morning...woof!), but the sort of passion that snakes up your spine and smacks you in the kisser and propels you, shaking, up to the podium and keeps your voice steady as you state your case.

Anyone got any pointers on writing grants for elementary schools? 'Cause I sure could use some help...and FAST.

Who Wants Their Teeth Done by the Marquis de Sade?

At least the chair was comfortable.

And I was so tired. Late movie, coughing jags, weird dreams, children's bathroom trips, all succeeded in trimming my sleep time to, oh, about 3 hours last night.

I was to have the second part of my root canal done today. Now that the swelling was down and the penicillin a memory. I climbed up in that comfy chair, laughed and joked with the dental tech and the Quack Dentist himself, got numbed (not in the 'nummy-nummy' way, but with shot-o-Novacaine) and promptly fell asleep to the mid-80s Muzak piped in over my head.

So I was pretty relaxed when Quack approached me with a silver tray of what can only be described as circular metal nail files. Yes, to go up in my tooth. YES. Uh-huh. Okay. And it was alright, actually, until he went a leeeeeeeeeeeet-tle too far up there, and...

FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHCK!!!

BLOODY FUCKIN' 'ELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Was he trying to stab my eyeball from behind?

Didn't he know I have to house a brain in the space above my jawline???????

FUCK.

"Little pain?", he asked.

I whimpered like a nursing puppy. "Unh-Hunh."

He let up on the file a bit...just a wee bit.

And two classic movie scenes popped into my head.

1) Bill Murray telling Steve Martin (aka, Dr.Orin Scrivello...D.D.S.)..."I think I need a root canal. A very slow, very painful root canal."

2) Laurence Olivier standing over Dustin Hoffman, quizzing him, "Is it safe?"

Is it safe? Is it SAFE, Muthafucka? Can you just stop now? Can you? CAN YOU JUST STOP?!?!

After it was all over, I slunk to my car, no more chatty to the staff than a day-old pancake, and coughed my lungs out. (Still have the cold/cough thing, the Quack is DARN lucky I didn't cough while he had all those tools and fingers in my mouth...he'd be digit-less.) I treated myself to a lovely strawberry milkshake on the way back to work, where I sit now, gingerly sucking down the sweet fruity goodness (on the good side of my mouth, the mouth with not-so-much-drool), and I can only think to myself as I tenderly lick the new filling,

Is It Safe?

I Want A New Drug

Excuse me for just a moment.

CAUWFFFFHACKKKKKKKK(gurgle)AAAAUUUUUUGGGHGHGH.

(Gasp.)

I have a piss-bucket of a cold. Not any demure little thing where I dab my nose with a lacey hanky, or raise my hand to my forehead as I swoon delicately to the satin-sheet covered bed. No. Of course not. Mine came yesterday as, and forgive me if I shout, mother-oF-GOD-MY-FUCKING-THROAT-IS-CLOSED-AND-I-CAN'T-BREATHE-AND-I'M-COUGHING-MY-LUNGS-OUT-MY-NOSE...FUCKIN'-HELL!!!!!!!!! Sort of like that.

What kills me, besides the porcupine quills seemingly stuck in my tonsils, is that I've been on penicillin for the last 10 days. Totally unrelated thing, I had a tooth problem that started with a small lump and ended with the dentist cancelling all appointments to do an emergency root canal and write me a Rx. (Side note: I have a sneaking suspicion that my dentist is a quack. But I'm just too lazy to try to find another one that's close in proximity and takes my insurance. But I do have a really good OB/GYN. And I'd much rather lose my teeth than my snoopy, if ya catch my drift.)

Isn't penicillin supposed to kill everything in it's path? Especially when you take 4 horsepills of it a day? Isn't it the cure-all? From my vantage point, I imagined each pill slowly dissolving in my body and sending out little SWAT teams that would sweep the area, search and destroy, and leave all my insides squeaky clean, like I'd squirted a bottle of hand sanitizer in there. Instead, I got Barney Fife holding the gun sideways and looking like someone just snuck up and bit him on the ass. Nice. Thanks.

Dear Pharmaceutical Industry,

Thank you for Motrin. Thank you for the pink bubble-gum stuff that makes my sick offspring feel like dancing again. Thank you for NyQuil, and it's heady alcoholic effects.

But please, for the love of god, get off yer asses and make something that will kill all the bad germs inside me. I know you have the technology (better...stronger...faster). I know you have billions of dollars to give to the brightest and best researchers in the world. If you know what's good for you (and this is not a threat, for that would be illegal, I think), you will do as I say, find the cure, leave it in a brown paper bag by the Northwest Airlines ticket counter, and no one will get hurt.

Sincerely,

Mona

Baby, You're Much Too Fast, Yes You Are

Y'know, I think I'm a pretty cool chick, in my own odd way, and that I'm pretty open to people doing their own thing, but this morning I totally showed my age and crochety-ness.

After dropping off my girl-child at school, I was driving...doodeedoo...down the neighborhood streets close to the school, close to the local university, and was stopped at a stop light when I saw IT. And it was beautiful.

Shiny, red, sleek, big-ass front end, tiny back end, 2-door, 2-seater, racecar-lookin', sexysexysexy. The driver was a college boy (how did he afford this?!), and he zoomed around the corner and went from, I shit you not, zero to 50 in 2 seconds. I suddenly felt like I was in high school again riding around with my boyfriend in his new/old car, going waaay too fast on country roads, high and drunk, waaaaaaaaaayy too fast, wheeeeeeee!!!!! I'm young and free and can't be stopped, muthafuckas!

Then the old lady-me punched the girl-me in the jaw and said, "Wake up! He's gonna kill someone in that thing!" And I realized the old biddy was right. I silently wished for karma to catch up to Mr. Speed-Demon and proceeded to the gas station to fetch a sick-sweet toffee coffee (yeah, yeah, I know, but my recent labwork said my blood pressure and glucose levels and cholesterol were all too low, so I figure I need to honor it with sugar and more sugar).

There was a cop car outside the gas station. Hmmm. Interesting. I could bust the red car guy. Karma had intervened!!! I went inside, got my coffee, chatted briefly with my favorite cashier, then caught the attention of the cop. All cops around here are really nice, I mean, seriously. Even when they've pulled me over (not many times, just broken headlight stuff and that one fucking speeding ticket), they've been the very model of decorum and politeness. Anyway, I informed Mr. Blonde Policeman that there was a very cool Saab speeding on the streets that morning, a cool car nonetheless, a red sporty car that we'd all love to have, but he was still going waaaaaaay too fast (wheeeeee!). Mr. Blonde's eyes sort of lit up and his lips parted in a boyish grin, and he said, "Thanks, I'll keep an eye out for it."

So I left, feeling all smug and superior and fuck-you-Mr.Indy500. Doing my civic duty to protect my children and all their friends and college students and old folks.

Yeah, cool car though, damn that paint job was good, fantastic body shape, speeding away from me with no sputter or nuthin', speeding away with that damn car logo, that logo with circles, that...fuck...FUCK!!! That was no Saab, that was an Audi!!! I told the cop it was a Saab! FUCK! Does that mean I should call the police station and ask to speak to the cute cop who was buying coffee at the Speedway at 8 a.m. this morning and who got a tip from an obviously crazy lady about a red Saab? And that this lady obviously needs stronger eyewear because she totally messed up the make of the car?

Nah.

They'll find it eventually. I'm sure the cops have enough information to go on.

And maybe they'll find a nice red Saab to bust along with it.

The Other Kind of Throbbing

Yes, my little poony was quite the quivering seed for a while. Then things changed at rush hour. In the enormous span of, oh, about five minutes, the oh-so-sweet thumpthumpthump left 'the Y' and shot straight up to my head. In that familiar aura-surrounded, nausea(barf)-inducing, light-sensitive, fuckfuckfuckitsamigraine sort of way. Fuckfuckfuck. No more swang in my thang, only hoping I would make it home without yakking.

And what does THAT mean, my glorious friends?

What it seems to mean to more and more of my fellow females, as we age and bear offspring and generally fall apart...My Aunt Is Coming To Town. And not the cool Aunt Sheila that takes you shopping and buys you lunch...I mean the angry red aunt who screws up your sex life for 5, 7, 8 days, who punches you in the abdomen and then laughs in your face as you reach for the Motrin, who sneaks up on you in the nighttime and soils your undies, and makes you buy chocolate and wine and twinkies instead of a wholesome dinner. THAT aunt. I fucking hate that cunt.

My solace is that by tomorrow, the whoosh of sicky-tummy and tight stocking cap full o' whoop ass will be gone, and I'll have a good week or so before the angry red aunt visits to fuck my husband...proper fuck. 'Cause if I squeeze my eyes shut and take a cleansing breath, I can picture him behind me doing that thing that so permeated my shower thoughts last night. Maybe THAT would make my headache go away.... I'll let y'all know.

Ah, Zee Lamour! Ah, Zee Toujours! Ah, Zee Scrubbing Bubbles!!!

I'm innocent.
Really.

In front of me are spreadsheets, work notes, a bottle of water, my pc, and a grocery list. I have nothing but good, clean, work thoughts and intentions.

And yet my snoopy is still throbbing.

Why? I don't know!!!!

Some errant thought must have squeezed its way into my brain via a repressed memory of a shower fantasy and twanged on the trigger that controls vulvar function. And I'm REALLY trying to get some work done...but, alas, all I can concentrate on is the pulsing, and the image in my head of someone's face buried deep "down there", all distracting and yummy.

Not that I'm complaining too loudly. But I have to watch my breathing, 'cause one of my cubemates is bound to yell over, 'Are you okay? You sound like you're hyperventilating.' I tried crossing my legs as a sort of breakwater, and that only made it worse, the whole flesh-to-flesh thing. Gahhhhh!!!!

I read this morning that men spouses who help with the housework get more sex, and better sex. I do know it turns ME on. There's something about seeing my Big Fine Daddy with a roll of paper towels and a squirt bottle of disinfectant cleaner that makes my nips hard like frozen peas. When he breaks out the vacuum, my nether regions get all tingly, and if I see him in the bathroom scrubbing on the shower tiles, I find the nearest pillow-type object to moan into. Still not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm not the cleanest of cleaners, and someone assisting with the odious tasks leaves me more time for self-stimulation, which I, of course, enjoy. Or maybe it's just the idea of showering without mold growing between my toes.

Yep, still all throbby. Sheesh. This is going to be a loooooong afternoon.

Kickstarting

The Word of the Day for April 5 is:
yawp • \YAWP\ • verb 1 : to make a raucous noise : squawk*2 : clamor, complain.

Example sentence:Bob was unpopular with the office supervisors because he was always yawping loudly about his working conditions.

Did you know?"Yawp" first appeared sometime in the 14th century. This verb comes from the Middle English "yolpen," most likely itself derived from the past participle of "yelpen," meaning "to boast, call out, or yelp." Interestingly, "yawp" retains much of the meaning of "yelpen," in that it implies a type of complaining which often has a yelping or squawking quality. An element of foolishness, in addition to the noisiness, is often implied as well. "Yawp" can also be a noun meaning "a raucous noise" or "squawk." The noun "yawp" arrived on the scene approximately 500 years after the verb. It was greatly popularized by "Song of Myself," a poem by Walt Whitman containing the line "I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."