Friday, April 28, 2006

Poetry Friday: the word is "Muddy"

jo(e) picked the perfect word for this week.


What does that word feel like to you? What kind of 'muddy'? Feel free to include the word in your blog today, however you want to do it.

For Group Masturbation Poetry Friday (or whatever we call this thing), I have three entries. One short story (more an intro), one two-part poem from the kindergarten Mona that didn't want to get out of bed this morning, and one of my favorite poems from my favorite poet, ee cummings. Have a good weekend, y'all!

The Traffic Lights Turn Green For Me

My mom has a tattoo on her arm that says ‘Butch’.

She’s not a lesbian. Sometimes I wish she was. Butch was her boyfriend before she met my dad and popped me out. Butch was the guy who sat her on the back of his Harley and took her from Durham to L.A., Vancouver to Tampa, clutching onto his waist with the vibrations of a soul machine between her legs.

That’s why I ride one. For the soul. More for the vibration. Even more for the get-away.

Campus is pretty this time of year. They study the trees, so every street has some new variety, some different nationality, some hybrid or cross, of a tree my ancestors never knew. The blossoms are falling off into the sticky mud of the clay soil (did you know we get more rain here than Seattle, or London?). The muddy puddles are pink and white, fluorescent green, sun yellow, they splash on my bike, my jeans, my old leather jacket. My backpack.

Getting that thing in my backpack this morning was a bitch. I didn’t expect it to be so heavy. I’m not sure why I wanted it, only the light in the chemistry building had this…this LOOK…ya know?...this look that said, “Come on in, April! Somethin’ I wanna show ya!” Well, if the security guy hadn’t wanted me to have it, he would have locked the goddamn front door. Yeah, they’ll miss it, sure they’ll miss it, but I could give a fuck.

They won’t find me. Even if they see my tracks in the hallway, they can’t find me. I am invisible. I am all-powerful. I am April showers coming to wash away guilt, coming to take control.

I just hope mom isn’t pissed I wore her boots.

Recipes From My Five-Year Old Self

Recipe for Mud Number One:
One bowl
One spoon
One brownie smashed in bowl
Mama scoops the ice cream in, the chocolate yummy kind
Smush stir chopchopchop
Squirt the chocolate sauce in til the squirty top thing sounds like ptttttttthhhh
Smush stir chopchopchop
Melty soup

Recipe for Mud Number Two:
My brother
New clothes
Easter Sunday

ee cummings

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloon man whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and



balloonMan whistles

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Tomorrow's Poetry Friday Word Is... jo(e) blog. Ooh, I love it! I want to roll around in it. I want to throw it. I want to make a man out of it.

Please use this word in your post tomorrow, in whatever form floats your float...poem, photo, video of your interpretive dance, audio post, porn, hymn, recipe, map...whatever your creative bend is.


Today's post, besides the Poetry Word, will be short. Bitchy. The Crimson Permanent Assurance just hit port, and I'm a twisted mass of emotional hysteria. I screamed obscenities at pretty much everyone on the road this morning (they DID deserve it, dammit), and Girl-Child and I had a bit of a power struggle in the Getting-Up Phase of the morning (I was TOTALLY right). The boss is a dick today, I feel like pukking, and the peanut M&Ms in the candy machine on the other side of building are yelling my name.


See y'all tomorrow with The Word!

Wednesday, April 26, 2006





so don’t tell my boss, but I’ve spent much of my morning dealing with personal paperwork, like 401(k) stuff, and Flex Reimbursement, and making out a check to the mortgage company, and childcare, and looking up the name of Marshall McLuhan’s great tome to make sure my copy at home is really the *right* copy, because mine says ‘The Medium is the Massage’, and it’s not a massage, not oil and gentle rubbing and dim lights and New Age music that makes one weepy, but more like MASS-age, because MASS communication is where it’s at, baby, we’re in an AGE of it, even though every talking head refers to the book as MESSAGE, like we’re living in an AGE of MESS, which we are, but that’s a completely different thing.

We’re interviewing a new guy today. A programmer.

He’s built like a Big Mac (the burger, not the bridge), but he has a lovely smile and he’s young and hopefully very bright.


I’d rather he look like a hockey player.

I may actually get political on Sergei's other blog today. Imagine...ME! Political! The Political is the Message! Or MASS-age. Without the oil and the good feelings. Strike that...MESS-AGE actually works.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Nothing To Say, So I Say Nothing

1) I keep losing food in my cleavage. Bits of cheese, peanuts, carrots, endive, sunflower seeds, are all somehow ending up in my boob-valley. My boobs haven’t gotten any bigger (unless you count PMS inflation, so don’t piss me off). I think I’m mostly distracted when I’m eating, and thinking of other things to do with my fingers, so any nutrition just…oops!...slips outta them. Either that or I have a hungry pet mouse down there that I’ve forgotten about.

2) From the homeowner department: Does anyone know of a product that will clean the gunk and stains off shingles? (The regular tar-paper-stone shingles like on most houses.)

3) King GWBush will look into price gouging by oil companies. Hmmm…isn’t that like the fox looking into why the chickens are disappearing from the henhouse? The Bush family is oil…their American friends are oil…their Middle Eastern friends are oil…why in the hell would they want to question the profits of their friends and family? Ain’t no way this shit will end with gas at $1.29. The article says it’s a world-wide demand for oil and not just demand in the US. However, figures show Americans are using less oil this year than they did a year ago. Demand is DOWN, folks, why are prices going UP? Oops, I guess this lil rant belongs on Sergei’s political page. (Has anyone else noticed that if you bookmark an article on Yahoo, later if they update it, they over-write the article that was there earlier? That sucks.)

4) Last Friday was my friend and co-worker Tom’s last day. Dammittohell. I’ve requested that we find a replacement that’s young, male, smart, and cute. Whatcha wanna bet they get a 23-year old 40DD blonde girl with a potty mouth and the ability to accessorize? Then I will have no choice but to hate her.

5) Bitch PhD found this, and it’s hysterical. (Note the emphasis on hysterical…look it up here.)

6) I have of late, though I know not where, lost all my mirth when it comes to fantasizing about men. Shit. SHIT! Is it the weather? The PMS? The constant mom-worry? I can’t even get a good shower masturbation fantasy in my dirty little noggin anymore. WTF. Any ideas how I can get that back?

Monday, April 24, 2006

Short Sharp Science

From the New York Times (no signin needed, but skip the ad, close it in upper right corner)

My comments:

1) Fish Gotta Eat: That video is freakin' me out. But it does cover some evolutionary gaps. And it makes me want to never eat fried catfish again.

2) The Nitrogen Thing: Unless you're a geologist, reading this is like listening to the grownups in Peanuts. Wahwahwahhhhwahhwahwaaaaaahhh

3) Munching On Mom: Oh no, they're wrong...human babies munch on their mothers...breasteses, cheeks, errant limbs. And later they eat our brains out with constant questions..."Why? Why? WHY?" I'm a zombie now, a brainless, breast-nibbled zombie.

4) Alien Light: I volunteered my work pc for the SETI project. I have yet to find aliens. I did find that the building charts they use would look really spectacular if I were to drop acid.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Poetry Friday: the word is “Carousel”

Jeremiah has chosen the word for our Group Masturbation Poetry Friday, and the word is:


I love this word. There were so many images that came to mind when I heard the word, reaching all manner of emotional and physical memory. I’ve chosen to do 2 writing assignments…one five-minute-fast-write, one little ditty.

Five-Minute Free-Write: Carousel

Carousel horses always seemed sinister. Their frozen smiles made me wonder just what they were up to. Who would want to ride a panther, or an ostrich, or a kangaroo, when there are so many fine-bridled horses there? The slow ones had to sit on the benches, in the proper cars, or take the horses that were psych!, not moving up and down but suspended on some sort of sick metal rope, and the spinning, the dizzy lazy crawl, let you know how unfortunate you were. The mirrors on the inside sometimes reflected your own frozen grin, or your hair in the summer breeze and the barnyard hay and the caramel apple oops and kisses stolen under the grandstand, oh, that boy named, what, Mike, who you met at the carousel. Who worked at the carousel. Who had the brilliant black dog named Sheba, and let you ride for free. The boy named, oh, Mike, who took you to his carny friend, what was it, Fred, and got you on the spinning stand-up ride, where Mike reached for your hand and found a sweaty warm sixteen-year-old mess of virginity and want.

There’s a carousel that the kids love to ride because the horses race, actually race, Kentucky-Derby style without the mint juleps, three or four at a time, their heads bobbign and weaving forward/back, and families, whole families, time it so grandpagrandmakids can see who is the winner, who gets the footlong hotdog and the extrabig icecream cone, who’ve never ridden a horse, a real horse, and smelled the hairy sweat and felt the creaking leather beneath them, who’ve never pulled on the reins and felt the power of stopping a passionate animal, who’ve never smiled at horse spit on their hands after carrots and apples and sugar cubes, the tail swishing at flies, and your mouth,

One Little Ditty: Carousel

She straddled the middle
Legs strong and tan
Wrapped tightly at the sides
Hands hard, holding
Head thrown back, a furious grin

He began to move
Up, and down, his back
Arching under her bottom
Between her thighs
The world spun cotton candy

She had no breath
Her mount, the pole,
The rhythm, her gasp,
The spinning lights
The golden ring

He bucked and toppled
Eyes forward watching
The dizzy climb, the descent,
Music and her throbbing
Round and about, down up

Softness, she

Hardness, he

They fought with gravity,
They fought with Control,
The shouts, the sighs
Exhausted cries
Collapsing in sweaty summer skin

Please feel free to play along today, with whatever creative activity strikes your fancy. I nearly posted a recipe for my Chocolate Carousel Cake, a recipe I created prolly fifteen years ago, that will truly send you spinning, but I forgot it at home. Ah well, maybe next time!
Have a good weekend, on whatever carousel you're riding!

Thursday, April 20, 2006

The Word for Tomorrow's Poetry Friday

Is at Jeremiah's post.

Go. Now.

It's a brilliant word. You'll love it. I gar-rawn-tee.

Your creativity can stretch the gamut: poetry, short film, recipe, dance, novella, photo, whatever floats yer boat.

Good luck, and I'll be looking for y'all tomorrow!

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Paradise by the Dashboard Light

I'm on a field trip with Girl-child this morning and then work is gonna kick my ass.

1) Well, yeah! What two consenting teenagers do in the privacy of their parents' basement, under the bleachers during a football game, or crunched in the backseat of a 78 Olds at the drive-in movie is nobody's business. (And I reserve the right to change my mind when Girl-child is 14. Seriously. Check back for THAT backpeddling session.)

2) The Cruise Spawn has hatched. Look at this photo...doesn't Katie look like she's about to run, like that Runaway Bride who jilted her fiancee and make up some crazy 'kidnapping' story? Mark my words, this is not gonna end pretty. It's gonna end Michael-Jackson-weird. Katie will 'mysteriously' relocate and leave the baby in Tom's 'capable' hands. And there will be no wedding. (And I reserve the right to look embarrassed and say, "Yeah, I was SO wrong on that. Check back for that lil gem.)

3) "I wanna go back to my little grass shack...." I LOVE that song, and I even know how to pronouce the name of the fish (you do, too, if you know that song).. Ain't it cute?

4) OH! So THAT'S why I paid nearly $3 a gallon for gas the other day. Those Exxon boys needed another yacht. As long as they invite me on board, I'm so cool with dat. Fuckers.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

I Call This One “Linky”

1) I don’t watch Saturday Night Live anymore. I lost interest when they had a ‘sucky’ cast however many years ago (which sucky cast? i forget). But I have, of late, been catching some of their hipper sketches on viral video. This one yesterday made me want to go home and see if my cat had the safety on.

2) YouTube makes me hot. Again, SNL stuff, y’all prolly seen Lazy Sunday (I'd link to it but the NBC link is whack and won't let you come it). Then some smarty-ass did a parody, West Coast style, called Lazy Monday. THEN some bored Midwesterner did a parody of THAT, called Lazy Muncie (as in Indiana, folks). Now everyone and their perverted Uncle is making crap-ass "Lazy Whatever" videos. What a good time-waster.

3) I have a girl-boner for Eagles of Death Metal. Veeery sex-ay stuff, y’all. Reminds me of 70s Porn. Audio/Video is here. And their site. Be prepared to rawk out and disrobe.

4) I’m on a diet, and so is Sergei, and food should be the LAST thing from my mind, right? RIGHT? So what did I go and buy from Amazon that came yesterday? Paula Deen’s “The Lady and Sons Cookbook”. I love this woman, I truly do, ‘cause she uses sugar and butter and cream and (damn) that stuff’s gooooooood. But I can’t MAKE any of these recipes now because I’ll EAT IT ALL. Dammit…I should have bought a yoga video or somethin’.

5) You must go to see zee Pisser now. She makes da funny wis de plahsteek toys. Und cupcakes.

6) A pint of Guinness, a plate of fish and chips, and a tattoo. Sounds like the perfect day.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Y’know It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp

1) I saw “Hustle and Flow” last night. After all the hype, I was expecting something along the lines of ‘Electric Boogaloo’ with a gangsta bent. Luckily, it was no such thing, and only a handful of cheesy “money” shots (the camera pans in on a face, and you realize this is a ‘moment’, or an ‘awakening’). Nice script, great acting, and solidified that Terrence Howard must MUST be on my Fantasy Boyfriend list. Again. Damn, but that man’s fine. And now I have the songs in my head today. ("with the Cadillac and gas money spent/and a whole lotta bitches jumpin' ship")

2) This week on the movie-watching agenda is “Howl’s Moving Castle”. Miyazaki is an excellent filmmaker, fast becoming a family favorite of ours. After seeing “Spirited Away”, we bought the DVD and now lend it out. Our kids insisted we purchase “My Neighbor Totoro” after we rented it. They're on the Japanese Anime cusp and they're beautiful, with interesting story lines, and sweet, so the kids can watch them. Check 'em out if you haven't.

3) I worked in the yard on Saturday. I planted a lilac bush, a snowball bush, strawberry plants, carrot seeds, pulled weeds, bagged branches, and transplanted some hostas. On Sunday, I woke up and my back punched me hard and said, “No no, silly girl, you will pay attention to ME today,” and promptly seized up. Like I was an old, old woman. The spasms in my spine were so bad I couldn’t breathe. I took some Motrin, and luckily remembered we had one of those Therma-Care back things, they stay warm for 8 hours, so I strapped that bad boy on and…ahhh…relief. Until bedtime. I couldn’t get to sleep, and then I slept mostly naked and uncovered, with stupid dreams. This morning my back grabbed me with force and hissed in my ear, “Remember me? Punk? I’m gonna make yer life hell today.” So I have that to look forward to. Which is nice.

4) Does anyone else get a hard-on when they receive a package from Amazon?

5) As Sergei said, yesterday we allowed ourselves to eat sugar and crap and whatever else we wanted. I didn’t go overboard, some of the kids’ Easter candy during the day, a dinner roll, and 2 desserts after dinner. This morning I feel like hell, twisted stinkin’ hell. My belly is plotting revenge, and my bowels are in on the action. Fack. Interesting to note that when I have sugar or carbs, my joints and muscles refuse to move during the digestion process. Sugar is the devil. The yummy, chocolate-coated, caramel-laced devil.

6) Poetry, Jeremiah, Chunk o Funk, Butch Stroll, and Gypsy had awesome posts! (If I neglected to mention yours, please email me with a slap.) If you haven't read them, you MUST. GO. NOW. and read them. I forgot to mention, the 5 (or 10) minute 'Fast Write' rule doesn't need to apply to this new thing...I surely couldn't write that monster in 10 minutes. Hell, I can't write my grocery list in 10 minutes. This week, Jeremiah will be choosing the Word. Stay tuned, and please feel free to play along!

Friday, April 14, 2006

Poetry Friday -- the word is HIDDEN

We're trying something new here. A word to inspire, to provoke, to love or hate. This is an open call, feel free to post something of your own design around the word. It need not be poetry. (Mine turned out to be more of a short with no Hollywood ending. And in case you're wondering, it is NOT autobiographical, although my parents do have a snowball bush I used to hide in as a child.)


The glass was where she’d left it, wedged in a branch of the snowball bush, right beside the cutting rock Kenny had found two summers ago.

Morgan picked her green triangle of glass from the scarred gash of the limb. She rubbed it between her fingers and lowered her bottom to the dirt circle in the middle of the gigantic bush. Through the branches, she could see polka dots of white clouds floating between the oval leaves. Her head hurt, and her lungs ached from sobbing.

(so cool the glass so cool and smooth, it feels like love, wine at communion, love, green bottle love)

Kenny’s glass lay atop the cutting rock. Big as a biscuit, it was milky-white with small blue flowers. He’d picked up the piece after his dad threw the contents of the china cabinet at his mother that day she made the bacon too crispy. Kenny had held it throughout the day, even after the police came and took the gun away, and took his mother away, “Just to talk, honey”, she’d said. Even after the ambulance siren faded in the distance, carrying the bits of body that were once held together with skin and called “dad”. Even after Granny came and held him, cried into his hair, took him to her house to bandage the gash, took him to her house to live, and wait, until his mother came to take him home, a new home, with no fist holes in the walls, no shouting, no slapping at his bare bottom with leather belts and fireplace implements.

Morgan lived with Granny and Kenny that one summer, while Morgan’s parents missionaried in South America and Kenny’s mom got ‘talked to’ and ‘re-bil-tated’. Before she got better and tucked Kenny into a new bed in a new house in a new quieter life. Morgan remembered how dog-like Kenny had been after his dad was gone. How eager he was to follow her, to play and fetch and curl at her feet. She tried not to take advantage of this new good-natured Kenny, but she found it irresistible to command him. ”Pee on that tree!”, she’d squeal, and Kenny would unzip his Levis and piss on the maple, circling it like an artist chipping at marble, intent, artful. “Play dead!”, and Kenny would fall onto his back, fingers like twisted claws, mouth agape, tongue rolling lush and wet from his mouth.

The blood started coming from Morgan’s fingertips at the unconscious digging of the glass. It sliced through the old scars on her three middle fingers. The thumb and pinkie too, she thought, and dug the edge of the glass in. A squeeze of the fingers and blood dripped onto the cutting rock.

(like water, like the river, washing all the sin away, so clean and pure)

The snowball bush that Morgan hid within had been planted by Grampee when he married Granny. Every spring, the bush would bear flower clusters big as softballs, cool and white and delicate. Grampee would take Granny to the bush on their wedding anniversary each year and kiss her long and hard, like he was eating her mouth, while the family stood nearby and clapped and exhaled with ‘Awww!’

Granny was the one who told Morgan about the hiding place. During “The Summer of No Parents”, Morgan followed Granny to the corner of the backyard, on the hill overlooking the river, to the cool green corner of nowhere, to the anniversary snowball bush. Granny parted two of the tallest limbs, nodded at Morgan, and stepped inside. Morgan followed. Granny kneeled in the middle, grinning through errant teeth, and beckoned Morgan to sit beside her. From inside the thick limbs of the bush, they heard the pitched songs of birds, the mumble of swelling river water, bees dive-bombing honeysuckle. It smelled of summer and mud. The dappled sunlight played on their arms and cooled the hot day. “This is your treasure”, Granny would tell Morgan. “When you feel sad, you come inside here and let all that sadness out! Just dig it out and you’ll find great surprises!”

The cutting started accidentally. A bottle of redpop, broken inside the bush while she was hiding from Kenny, the pool of red in her hand, the amazement of her own body. When the letters from her parents suggested more time at Granny’s, when they signed off with ‘Jesus loves you’ and no mention of their love, when Granny insisted on clean plates and straight garden rows and nightly prayers, Morgan would cut. Just a small slice, only the hands, not like Uncle Jimmy who’d done the wrists and bled to death on Granny’s good lace tablecloth. Morgan used the green glass triangle she’d found by the burn barrel. It had a good sharp edge and smelled of grapes and old vomit. By pressing a leaf from the bush into a cut, she could stop the bleeding in under a minute.

(my treasure, let it fall out, sad so sad, out out)

Kenny found the cutting rock by the river. He was carrying it up the hill to Granny’s back yard when he heard Morgan sneeze from inside the bush. She didn’t want him to find her like that, six fingers dripping the sorrow out, her cheeks covered in a film of dirt, two tracks of clean where the tears had finally come. Kenny pushed his way inside the bush and lay the rock in front of Morgan. He stared at her fingers, and then gently lay his hands on hers. “S’all right”, he cooed at her. “I seen blood before, doncha worry ‘bout it.” From his pocket, Kenny pulled a blue bandana and unfolded it to reveal his own piece of broken glass. He looked at Morgan and pressed the jagged edge to his palm. A thin red ribbon appeared, and Kenny, oh, Kenny smiled at Morgan, as drop and as drop fell onto the flat gray rock he’d found. Morgan reached for his hand, pressing into hers hard, and watched the blood drip, drip onto the stone.

Granny was put in the ground today, in the cemetery north of town, beside Grampee. The family was inside the house now in a post-dinner reverie, the aunts crashing dishes about, the uncles boasting and joking, baby Luke squealing, Kenny giggling. Morgan’s parents had brought their boring slides of Brazil, and their preachy voices carried out and over the garage. Morgan knew the house would be sold. The snowball bush would no longer be her sanctuary.

(this is my blood which is shed for you for your sin, this is your treasure, treasure)

Morgan sat in the dirt and pressed sweet leaves into the cuts. The bush was too green, too tired, she thought, and she could smell school in the rustling of the branches. Idly, she picked up Kenny’s white and blue biscuit glass and started cutting her name into the wet soil. Em…Oh…Are…Gee…


Morgan rubbed the glass over the catch, a stone of some kind, to loosen it. The stone was flat on one side, with a small bump in the center. Morgan brushed the cool earth away, and found the stone to be a button, a coat button, gold and heavy, with an eagle pressed into it. Did this belong to Grampee? She dug some more, near the cutting rock, scraping back and forth.

Another stone, this one a ring, thin gold wrapped with small gold leaves.

Scrape, scrape.

Another stone, this time a small spoon, but the spoon had teeth and the handle was stamped with writing she couldn’t understand.

Morgan picked up the cutting rock and used the sharpest edge to dig, deeper, deeper, frantically, inside the bush. There was no time to be gentle. No time.

(treasure, dig it out, treasure treasure)

The river burbled.

The cardinals and sparrows fought over mulberries.

The red ground yielded, and Morgan turned over chunks of earth, cool, dark and wet, her treasure treasure.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

My Life...My Card

I had a blog post, a sexy blog post, all ready to compose, and then I felt like hell and just couldn't write it. The stomach, the head, all fulla crap. So I'm ganking Used Hack's idea and meme-ing my American Express advertisement. Please, feel free to do the same.

My Name...Mona Buonanotte
Childhood Ambition...To be a famous actress and marry Davy Jones of the Monkees.
Soundtrack... Good days: "The Nightfly" by Donald Fagen; Bad Days: "Nine Inch Nails"
Retreat...My bed, naked
Wildest Dream...Constant, mob-gathering fame, many men wanting me to bed them, Dave Matthews and Mike Doughty writing a song about my beauty and deliciousness.
Proudest Moment...When my kids were born
Biggest Challenge...Not punching certain co-workers in the, uh, how about, not fantasizing about Fantasy Boyfriends when stuck in traffic
Alarm Clock...Two of on my husband's side of the bed, also a portable alarm clock on my side. Without the backup, I oversleep.
Perfect Day...I'd take my lottery winnings and shop with my family. Then I'd buy us a lovely cottage on Lake Michigan, and sit on the sand drinking pretty frozen drinks with my Fantasy Boyfriends as cabana boys.
First Job...Carhop at Famous Old Restaurant
Indulgence...Favorite indulgence: Ice cream; Most recent indulgence: 16 peanuts
Last Purchase..."McSweeneys #18", included "Wholphin"
Favorite Movie...Oh crap. There are a millionjillion of 'em. I dunno, how's about, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"?
Inspiration...Every kick-ass women I've ever met
My Life...Fantasy with a good swift ass-kick of reality
My Card...Mastercard with unbelievable interest rate

Poetry Friday (aka, "Group Blogging Masturbation") Update -- for those of you who want to participate in a creative circle-jerk tomorrow, post a poem, story, photo, audioblog, drawing, food creation, what-have-you-creative-thing, that comes from thinking of this word: HIDDEN. (Future weeks you'll all throw a word out there for our collective's word was prompted by a co-worker this morning.)

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

4 Down…A small leftover…”ORT”

1) Work is hell. Work. Is. Hell.

2) I just found a long, GRAY hair on my sleeve. It’s long and curly, and it’s mine.

3) Aging sucks.

4) No way I’d pay for a $148 sandwich. This is all it is: sourdough bread, beef, fois-gras flavoured mayo, brie, cherry tomatoes, rocket (arugula), and roasted peppers. I’m sure Zingerman’s Deli could make me up something just as good for $8.

5) I feel the need for an internal spring cleaning. By that I mean a colonic or a juice-fast that cleans out my bowels. Because I saw this site and can’t get those images outta my head. (Warning: it’s not pretty.) Suggestions for a do-it-yerself purge are welcome.

6) This morning for breakfast, I had meatballs, chunky tomatoes, and green beans. BREAKFAST. Which may explain why I need a colonic.

7) I was doing something in the shower last night that I may want to involve you all in. Group blogging masturbation. NOOOO. I’m kidding. I kid. I kid and I kiss you because I love you. No, the thing I was doing was this…I’d let a random word pop into my head and then I’d make up a poem about it. Sort of the ‘Free Write’ posts from a couple Poetry Fridays. Then I thought how cool it would be to get more people involved, doing whatever creative it is you like to do…write, draw, take a photo, sculpt, cook, speak…and post them in a mass blogging frenzy. Okay, I guess it is like group blogging masturbation. But in a more artistic bent, and with no spooge to clean up afterwards (unless THAT’S your creative bent). If you think you might want to try this out, let me know. I’ll be doing something like this anyway, and if it turns out not to work, I’ll just post pictures of my underwear.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

What I Learned From Tamagotchi

After weeks of searching the local toy and ‘everything store’ stores for tamagotchi, which are now the hottest toys in the elementary school set (AGAIN…these were popular, what, ten years ago?), last Friday we finally found tamagotchi (more specifically, "Tamagotchi Connection, Version 3") for Boychild and Girlchild. They used their own money to buy them, and are dutifully caring for their handheld ‘pets’.

Yesterday, I asked Boychild what tamagotchi DOES. This was his response:

1) They play a lot
2) They make connections with friends
3) They try to avoid the poop

How human they are!

You’ll have to excuse the short post today, my work friends and I are scrambling, shorthanded, trying to avoid the poop.

Monday, April 10, 2006

The Spit, Not the Blood, and the Endless Mouth

Yam yam yammering on and on today. I didn’t post Friday because the kiddos and I were Spring Break-in’ (“Breakin’ II -- Electric Boogaloo”, only we can dance better). I just finished wading through 50 or so work emails (not bad), so I feel the need to spew.

1) I did, indeed, collect 15 vials of my spit, stored them in my freezer (between the Drumstick Ice Cream and the Girl Scout Cookies) and dropped them off at the University Lab this morning. I then had to run to the ‘regular folks’ lab down the street to get my blood drawn for my on-going thyroid problem. Got there, 2 folks ahead of me in line, the lab tech in the room with a client, and she was swearing. The lab tech was swearing. SWEARING. And tap-tap-tapping on her computer. After about 5 minutes of this, she announced to all of us waiting, “Just so you know, our entire network went down. I’ll have to get a computer guy in here to retrieve my data, so you might want to leave and come back later.” FACK. I rilly rilly hate having to re-schedule blood draws. Heck, if you show me the angle, I’ll draw the damn blood myself.

2) Sergei is, indeed, a slip of himself now. He’s so dedicated, I’m so proud. He's a sexy man, and now, even sexier (if that's possible). I’m a slower loser, and though in general I’m slimming down, my belly pooch is laughing at me, laughing and giggling and pointing and begging passers-by to ‘Pillsbury Dough-Boy Poke’ it. Ah well. At least my jeans are saggy and threatening to slide off my hips. That's somethin'....

3) From my email this morning: “"Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities." – Voltaire”. Which reminds me, Sergei has started a political blog, of which I am invited to post. Soon, soon.

4) From the Obsession Department: Since I was a kid, I’ve loved Steely Dan (The group, not the ‘item’ from “Naked Lunch”…although….) Donald Fagen and Walter Becker are just two of the coolest cats around. Donny-boy just released a solo CD, “Morph the Cat", which I dutifully purchased Friday whilst dragging the children hither and yon. I’ve listened to it once, and I think it’ll ‘grow on me’. ("The Nightfly” is definitely his best, "Kamakiriad" second…at least so far.) What kills me is when I see how old he’s getting, and how old other folks are getting, as in ‘Oh my god, Danny Bonaduce is just hella craggy!’ Which means I’M getting old. Fuckkit, I’ll just listen to my cd and not think about it.

5) So wait, the French government wanted to pass a law for people under 26 years of age, so employers could enact 2-year ‘trial periods’ for jobs, in which time the employer could fire without notice. 2 years? TWO? Most American companies have a 6-month trial basis. TWO years? That sucks. But what I don’t get is this double-speak: “The prime minister said he was convinced that the only way of addressing joblessness in France was a better balance between flexibility for employers and security for employees. The new measures would aim to help the most disadvantaged young people find jobs, he said." Wait, wait…flexibility for employers, sure, but where’s the security for employees? If you can let them go for no reason, 1 year and 11 months after you hire them, where’s the security in that? Can someone clear this up for me?

6) Anyone know where I can buy dark chocolate Easter bunnies that don’t cost $35?

7) Call me wacky, but I think this Pianka guy is a nut job.

8) Sergei and I worked in the yard yesterday for hours. HOURS. After bending and stooping and cutting and hauling and raking...for my legs and arms hurt in that good muscle-tear way. Sorta like I had really interesting, really complicated "throw your leg over here, baby" sex. With the trapeze.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Swapping Spit, and Other Stories

1) I’ve pretty much told Local University that they can do whatever they’d like with my body. I’m now participating in a study of moms and stress for the medical department. I recently had a one-hour phone interview about my life and my stresses (including such favorite questions as, “Have you ever seen anyone get shot or stabbed?”, and “On a scale of one to five, how often are you beaten or abused by your partner…if 1 is Never and 5 is OhMyGodCallThePoliceMyEyeball’sMissing?” This morning I started Phase II of the study. They want my spit. Spit. Saliva. Sputum. 3 times each morning, and 2 times each evening, for the next three days, I have to stick a cotton wad the size of a super-plus tampon under my tongue, hold it there for three minutes, and put the soggy thing in a special test tube, labeled with lab code, and record the time in a journal (along with other “daily stresses”). The spit stays in my freezer. Next to the ice cream (which I will probably throw out just because of the grossness factor. Or maybe not.) The thing that freaks me out is, the cotton wads are in this special jar that has a mini computer in the lid, which keeps track of every time I open the thing. The labrats will download that data and check it against my journal entries to make sure I’m not lying. That creeps me out. Big Brother is monitoring my spit.

2) Good friend/co-worker Tom turned in his two weeks yesterday. He’s an amazing guy, he picks up new computer languages like *that*, always friendly, willing to sit with the users to find out how he can best serve them, he’s quick, he’s helpful, goes above and beyond. We’re totally fucked. We could use a good dotnet programmer, if y’all know any. (And please, for my sake, can they be male and really sexy?)

3) I just walked by Tom’s cube, and he has two frosted cherry Poptarts just sittin’ there, unattended. Methinks I should have one for my breakfast, yeah, that would show him….

4) HAHAHAHAHA! Oh, boy, this gives me such faith in Homeland Security! You know, if you're the Press Secretary, you should know about media...all sorts of media...and how information is disseminated. You should know that if you're sick enough to hook up with a 14-year old girl online, that we will find out about it. And your life will be over, ya pedophilic bastard.

5) Oh crap. Well, I guess this will kill my Diet Squirt habit.

6) Tomorrow I have the day off work. The kids are on spring break this week and this is my ONE day to ‘do nothing’. HAH! Yeah, right. I already have a list started of half a dozen places I need to drag them to. Girl-child is INSISTING we have an ice cream party, though, and who am I to argue with that??

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Blue Jello Blues

I sat on the toilet at 5 a.m. this morning. The angry buzz of my alarm clock flew circles in my sleepy head.

I was pissed.

Usually I don’t mind getting up for an early work shift. But last night I got to bed a little after midnight. I had juuuuust fallen asleep when I had a (CAWF!CHOKE!) coughing fit (HHAAAAAWWWKKK), a coughing attack (UUUUUUUUGGGGG), a coughing paroxysm (caHOOGA), that shook my every bone. When I finally did get to sleep again, I slept hard, I mean PAVEMENT hard, where your body doesn’t move and you breathe long and deep.

I sat on the toilet at 5 a.m. this morning. Pissed. Unsure why the pissiness.

Then I remembered the very last thing I was dreaming of before the alarm went off.

Then it all made sense.

Then a big shitty grin found my face.

I had a vivid dream, a very sexy dream, but it didn’t get really interesting until the end.

The End: I was in a room with three friends, 2 girls (Brunette and Blonde) and 1 guy (Guy). We were drunk, there was a party goin’ on right here, a celebration (to last throughout the year). Outside the patio door, some school kids were dressing up the street corner with Christmas lights (now I KNOW I dream in colour). The four of us had just done something, some prank, and were feelin’ mighty mighty. We sat on the floor in a circle, the guy across from me, the girls to my left and right. We got sort of touchy-feely, in a way that you are with your bestest friends. Brunette on my left produced a pan of blue finger jello, actually jello shots with vodka. Blue jello. Brunette suggested that Guy take a jello shot, place it in my cooter, and eat it. My pants just (click!) disappeared, and Guy did as he was told. He did it veeeery well, which seemed to inspire the girls. Brunette tried it, then Blonde, then Guy again, and Guy AGAIN, with the girls ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ all the way. Then Peekaboo Street (that skier chick, remember her?) slid down the patio door from the top and called to her friend, Brunette, who got up to talk to her. Guy and Blonde and I were in our little threesome, them slapping blue jello shots on my cooter fast as you please, all of us giggling and moaning and hootin’ it up.

The alarm interrupted my three-way.

THAT’S why I was pissed.

A-Ha Experience #427.

On a totally different note, today is my one-year blog-a-versary. One year! It seems to have flown by, and yet, not so much. Thanks for y’all’s support and readership, really, you're all terrific, and I'm a lucky girl (dabbing at grateful tears). Is there cake? Do we get a cake for this sort of thing? If not cake…jello??

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Mashin' On Up

1) I stayed up late last night, writing that mystery hotel thing in the post below (damn you Wil Wheaton for twanging my writing obsession). My story was set on a ship. I was pretty happy with it until I went to bed, somewhere around 1 a.m. Then I tossed and turned all night and obsessed about how CRAP that story was, and had feverish dreams that I was on that ship and forced to read my own crappy writing. I woke up about 3 a.m., wide awake, couldn’t go back to sleep. I was hot. I was cold. I was on a ship…GAH…reading my own crappy crap. The alarm went off at 6 a.m. and I sighed, “Finally!”, and got up, feeling very seasick. I’m fighting the urge to delete the story, such crap. I can’t stand to watch myself on video, and I can’t stand to read my own writing. Fack.

2) Some twisted cop in our fair state scared folks far and wide by saying he pulled over a car at 3 a.m., the occupant shot him, then ran away on foot. A manhunt ensued in surrounding neighborhoods. Schools were in lockdown that day. Kids had to be escorted in cars. Streets were cordoned off with yellow police tape. The shooter was never found. Well, guess fuckin’ what? Turns out, yesterday the cop admits he MADE THE WHOLE THING UP. He was ‘tormented’ by a previous police action he’d been part of, and ‘dealing with a divorce’, and he went off his nut and shot his police car AND HIMSELF. And who, you may ask, WHO did he initially say shot him? A young black male. For the last few weeks, every young black male in the entire area has been stopped by police and questioned. I say, Twisted Self-Shooting Cop should first get some psychiatric help. Then he should apologize to everybody (residents, school kids, young black males minding their own business), give them each $100, and allow himself to be strung up like a piñata and have everyone who wants to, take a crack at his tidy whitey ass with his own billy club. Mutha-pus-bucket, this cheeses me off.

3) So Chevy decided to turn to the internets and allow folks like you and me to create the ad for their new gas-sucking Tahoe SUV. Folks like you and me…you know, smart, twisted folks. Folks with opinions. The ads, it turns out, aren’t all in favor of Chevy. Metafilter has links to some of the videos. Unfortunately, some are no longer working. Here are a few that caught my eye:

a) Peak Oil
b) Death Machine
c) Gay
d) Trippy
e) Ung
f) Base

If my head weren’t throbbing so, and The Crimson Permanent Assurance demanding I retreat to the bathroom every 20 bloody minutes, I might even try one myself. Of course, then I’d prolly have nightmares about it and it’s crappy-ness, so maybe not.

The Wil Wheaton/Shane Nickerson Writing Experiment

From Wil Wheaton's blog, via Shane Nickerson's blog, comes this interesting challenge.

Write a short story about this picture of a mystery hotel:

(Shane's Flickr has details.)

Here's my late-night attempt.

All Ships Are Female
by Mona Buonanotte

“Tobacco’s a nasty habit.”

Eli idly kicked at the spittoon in front of the cigar counter, watching the thick brown liquid inside swirl side-to-side, with the gentle roll of the ship.

“Yes, yes it is. ‘Cept it keeps the passengers happy, “ Eli’s father, Otto, replied, fingering the new box of Manchesters.

The Schooner Kelly was returning from three months in Europe, fifty passengers exploring ports of France, Spain, and England, their temporary home a rocking berth in Upper Deck No. II.

“You sure I look alright?”

Eli stood awkwardly, shoulders haunched, the new glasses sliding off the slimness of his nose, unsure where he should stand, for how long.

“We’ll have to git you a new jacket,” Otto remarked, “And you’d best relax a bit, like we practiced.”

Shaking, Eli tugged at the tightness of his new clothes and turned away from his father. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can. You can and you must. You can’t undo what has already been done.” Otto’s voice rose above the clamour of engine and wave.

The doors of Aft Deck opened, and Ruth Mackey burst in, camera in hand. “Well, so we’re underway!”, she roared. “I simply must buy one of your 7-20s for my husband. Tobacco is a nasty habit!” Ruth started toward the counter, but stopped when she saw Eli.

“Oh. Where’s your daughter, Mr. Fox? Did she stay behind this trip?”

Otto flushed. “My daughter is in Europe, Mrs. Mackey. This is son, Eliza...Eli, Elijah.”

Ruth squinted at the younger man, her lips pursed. “I see. similar. Are you twins?”

Eli stiffened. “Yesss...yes ma’am. Twins.” There was a curious stirring in Eli’s loins, something the French doctor had warned him might happen, would happen, that he would have to face sooner or later.

“Mind if I take a picture?” Ruth asked softly, raising the camera to her face. As she pressed the shutter, Eli admired how Ruth’s dress clung to her slim body, how her breasts swelled, how beautiful, and the curious growth between Eli’s legs let him know that this would, indeed, be an interesting trip home.

Monday, April 03, 2006

The Secretly Cool Thing About Being a Mom

Get a kid.

Now let that kid get to be, oh, about six years old.

Get yerself a raging, phegmmy cold, complete with leaky eyes and hacking up bits of yer lung, a slight fever and, oh yeah, PMS.

Got it?

Okay, now accidentally breathe on or kiss the six-year old kid.

Feel really bad about making your child sick.

The next day, you will have the perfect excuse for napping.

"I'm sick, and so is my child."

Girl-child and I cuddled on the couch most of Sunday afternoon, watching "The Electric Company" * episodes, and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"**, drinking ginger ale, and petting the occasionally-in-the-room backside of our fluffy cat.

Girl-child had my cough, my leaky eyes, my ennui.

We were quite a snotty pair.

Girl-child didn't want to sleep.
I did.
I didn't beg, but I came awfully close.
Finally, I stretched out on the couch with my head uncomfortably resting on the curvy arm of the thing, on my right side, closed my eyes, and said, "Momma's gonna nap now."

It must have been, oh two minutes later, when I felt Girl-child move. She lay her warm body over my top leg, and rested her head on my hip (hoorah for cushiony hips). She pulled the blanket from underneath my foot and wrapped it around her body. Next thing I knew, she was snoring.

So what the hell, I snored too.

We slept through the rest of the movie, through the end credits, and I came to from my cold-induced coma long enough to hit 'Stop' on the clicker, whereupon I fell into cold-coma again, and didn't wake up til time to start dinner.

The Secretly Cool Thing About Being a Mom is that sometimes, when you and your little one are under the weather, you can cuddle all afternoon and not care that the tub really needs cleaning, and the bills need paying, and you really should ride that exercise bike, dammit.

If I don't feel better today, and Girl-child is in a "Bard's Tale" battle with said cold germs, we may stay home and cuddle some more, drippy and feverish and ginger-aled.

* "The Best of the Electric Company" is on DVD. Get it...NOW!

** I was skeptical about Tim Burton remaking "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" because I loved the original. Yes. I had a 'thing' for the boy who played Charlie (who's now an animal vet), and Gene Wilder was god-like. But. However. I saw "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"...and loved it. True to the book (Charlie DOES have a dad, dammit!), Johnny Depp in creepy-Michael-Jackson-ish mode, and with Danny Elfman's music/singing, oh yeah, this is a classic, folks. Plus, how can you go wrong with an actor named "Deep Roy"...and it's not even porn!