...and I found myself giggling and squishy in a pile of my own goo....

I Wanna Get With You (and Your Sister)

I’m listing today. Like a boat with an unbalanced load.

1) What does it mean if I never feel full? That I have an eating disorder? That my stomach has stretched to the approximate size of a black inner tube you float on at the lake? That there’s something wrong in my brain-pan and I need some groovin’ meds? What? WHAT?!?!?

2) I am feeling full this morning. Number 1 was just a question, people.

3) Saturday night Girl-child wanted a sleep-over with me. We piled sleeping bags on top of each other on her bedroom floor, scavenged blankets and pillows, and went to bed At A Decent Hour. She claims to have slept great, to the point of wanting to ditch her bed and take up permanent sleeping space on the floor. I, on the other hand, slept like back-breaking crap, waking up every 5 minutes to turn over or groan or remover Girl-child’s punch from my face or ribs. I was a cranky bag of brittle bones Sunday morning. And now…Boy-child says he wants a sleepover this coming weekend. Heh. Yeah.

4) Saturday afternoon, Boy-child had an outdoor soccer game on a playing field with no wind breaks. The wind that day gusted up to Sixty-Hella-Seventy miles an hour, pushing us cheering parents off our feet. Blowing up our noses so we couldn’t breathe. Making cell phone conversations laughable. The cumulative effect dried my contacts onto my eyeballs, and they still haven’t recovered. The beautiful flowering trees I wanted to take photos of yesterday were flowerless, having been shaken off like so much snow off a hat. Crap. So much for that.

5) I can’t find a good version of the Beck video in the title. So we’ll go with this one.

Poetry Friday: The Word is ROCKET. And maybe CROTCH.

Well, that’s the last time I pick a Poetry Friday Word (or set of words) based on something I know nothing about! Irrelephant schooled me on Crotch Rockets, and I found an absolutely terrifying video of crotch rockets that made me nearly pee my pants. Jeebus. Gar.

The Poetry Friday Word for Today is ROCKET. And as a secondary word, CROTCH. Feel free to use either or both of these words in your blog post today, in whatever shiny silver form warms up your naughty bits…story, poem, photo, leather-strap-and-ball-gag ensemble, video of that time you went to Space Camp….

I wrote a dirty limerick, and am attaching the above-mentioned terrifying video. According to Urban Dictionary, a crotch rocket is a real thing, a real type of motorcycle. A dangerous mom-fearing type of bike. Holy Hand Grenade, I hope my kids never think this is cool.

Have a good weekend, y’all!


Rocket…The Dirty Limerick…Inspired by Dr. Strangelove

There once was a girl from Woonsocket
Who kept a dildo in her pocket
When bored she would stick it
In her hairy thicket
And ride it like Kong on a rocket.


The Crotch Rocket Video:

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow…I'm not dead yet!

Oh dear baby jeebus and all the wing-y things that fly around his head…where has the time gone? You know how it is…you have a brilliant, witty blog post in your head, or a crappy stupid one where you talk about poop and sanitary items, and you're no where near a computer…or the cat pukes on the living room rug…or you find out at bedtime that your daughter has pages and pages of math homework due the next morning…and that blog post shows you its butt in the rear view mirror…totally gone.

Today is the day I’ve been dreading all month. Overlapping events involving kids and sports and work, last night I baked my tootsies off for two work events, tonight there’s 2 soccer events, an outing for Girl-child, and I have my last cardio strip-tease class, which always makes me feel like puking when the instructor runs us through her boot camp of crunches and pushups and butt lifts for the first 15 minutes. Yes, I’m apparently out of shape, thanks for asking.

Plus work. Ah yesh, the job I love. Lately, though, work has pushed me very roughly to the desk, bent me over, pulled down my panties, and is spanking me with the hairbrush of Overloaded. Whap! It’s not even in a “Secretary” sort of porn way, either, it’s people hounding me throughout the day…”Do you have Major Internet Payment Method attached to our 10 internet sites yet?” Whap. “When will you get those emails done?” Whap. “This needs to be done ASAP…but so do those other projects I gave you this morning.” Whap frickin’ whap.

Sigh.

Enough complainin’, alright?

This morning on my way to work, I heard a commercial for motorcycles, and the snappy voice-over guy said, “Get your crotch rocket NOW!” Crotch? Rocket? That gave me pause. Firstly, the word “crotch” is dirty to me somehow, dirtier than ordinary names for genitalia, in my mind, I would much rather hear "dick", or "clit", or "bouncing ball sacs". Second…rocket? Does anyone really equate motorcycles with rockets? And if so, is that something you want thisclose to your crotch? I got a visual of some poor schlub in leathers and a helmet, straddling a rocket like Major Kong in “Dr. Strangelove”, riding his Harley rocket to great heights, singeing his pubic hair on the way, shiveling his balls, and falling ass-over-end to earth, where he makes a crater big enough to fit in the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.

The Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is ROCKET.

For extra credit, also use the word CROTCH.

Feel free to sprinkle these words liberally over your hot dish of blog posts tomorrow, in whatever tasty form you choose…story, poem, photo, guitar solo, answering machine message, excuse for what that red mark on your neck REALLY is….

I’m hitching up my crotch and rocketing over to get more coffee. Hasta banana!

Work, spanking me, in Spanish:



Crotch/Rocket:

Poetry Friday? I'm an unholy mess of a girl

Anyone got any valium? Maalox? Straitjacket?

I feel like hell. There's a few stomach bugs going around, one of which my boss brought back with him from his Spring Break, and now my own belly is flippy-flopping in a most unnatural and disturbing way.
(I'm warning you...this IS the scene you remember and yes, it's disturbing.)




From the second I get to work til the time I beat the snarling dogs off to escape, I'm swamped. I can't tell you about the super-secret work I'm doing (or I'd have to kill you), but I will say that Teh Internets be wantin' to kill me. And my co-workers clearly overestimate my ability to be a Computer Goddess.



Poetry Friday? Not this week for me. Please, feel free to do some little jig of your own on your blog post today, and comment so we can all see. Extra points for silly dances.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

The Spring Peepers Are Here!

The clock on my dash said 5:50 A.M. I stepped out of my car into the chilly air after scanning the parking lot for vagrants, skunks, and the company bunny rabbit who makes her morning rounds to chew on our greening grass.

I heard them.

It was like a dream.

The spring peepers were out, in all their glory, making a fabulous fussy racket.

I’ve really missed them.

And with the stress of this week and last week and the week before, they’re just the sedagive I need.

Poetry Friday: The Word is NEGATIVE

I got nothing. Nada.

Kids are off on Spring Break...blogging is hard.

Feel free to use the word NEGATIVE in your blog post today, however you choose.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, and a handful of frustration

Yesterday was the first day in a long time that I would have given my good molars to win the lottery. So I could stalk into the boss's office, state with a clear and defiant voice, "Today's my last day." And then yell "Fack You All!" as I squealed out of the parking lot.

Most times the people I work with are great, or peachy, or at least tolerable. Yesterday I found nearly every one of them deplorable. They’re small-minded, conniving, blind idiots, oblivious to what it means to work hard and earn your keep.

Okay, I think I’m still feeling that way.

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is NEGATIVE. Like my attitude. Or like 4th grade math, when you first learn that 10 minus 15 doesn’t make sense in the real world, unless you’re talking about the temperature drop on any given Winter day. Or like the old-style film process on real cameras, the strips of reddish-black negatives in your paw, trying to see if your butt looks as huge as you remember it.

I think it’s spreading. (Weird segue…yes, my butt is spreading…I meant the negativity…but now that you mention it, maybe my butt is part of the problem.) Night Operator Guy came by a few minutes ago (it’s usually just me, him, and a warehouse guy this early in the morning), and NOG burst into my cube, his hands cupped.

“Can you do something for me?”, he said.

“Uh, I guess so.”

He held out his cupped hands. “Hold this for me.”

My first reaction being that he was holding a bug, or a mouse, or some other critter who likes to come up to the back door of our wetland-encroaching workspace, I recoiled. “Ew…no?”

He held his hands over my desk and opened them. They were empty.

“Here. Take my printer frustration. I’m gonna start throwing things if I don’t hand this off.”

With that he stalked away.

I knew he was pissed. This is the guy who Loves to talkandtalkandtalk, standing thisclose to you, after not seeing a bar of soap or deodorant for a good week.

Maybe there’s something in the air. Y'all better not breathe too deeply.

Curly hair and a pork-pie hat

I spent more time on the title of this damn thing that the actual writing of the blog post. Huh. Gonna be one of those days. Okay then...a list.

1) I’m TIRED. My own fault, and that of my genes (or my jeans, damn them and their smooth fit), and of this movie that I watched last night until my head bobbed near Midnight and I had to call it a day. (And I dreamed of making soup with turnips. I hate turnips.) It’s much easier for me to watch stupid comedies nowadays than serious movies. Gawd how I'm lovin' Judd Apatow. Although tonight we’re watching this little gem, and I can’t wait.

2) I have a good friend…co-worker, caterer, farmer…who raises beef cattle. We buy all our beefy comestibles from him. Last week we got our years worth, which meant I had to clear out the upright freezer to make room, and took out two packages of last year’s haul to thaw. Last night Girl-child complained when I said we were having beef. “Can’t we have Breakfast for Dinner?” she complained, which on any other night I would have done (I could eat breaky for every meal), but the beef really needed doing up. I opened up the packages, threw them on the broiler pan, BAM-ed then with Emeril seasoning, and slid them in the oven. Minutes later I pulled them out…6 steaks, sizzling…and cut up part of one for Girl-child to taste. First bite, her eyes popped out and she ran to get her own knife and fork to cut off juicy bits. She ate half the piece. (I helped a little.) For dinner she had the other half. And then more. It felt weird for Sergei to come home and for me to mention, casually and with no fanfare, “We’re having porterhouse steaks tonight.” Like we're farggin' Rockefellers or somethin'....

3) Sergei took me to Ikea last weekend. Holy crappin' hell! I expected big, but not the extreme that it was. And me with my addictive personality and love of all things plastic and cheap. I was very good, and bought 3 things, totalling less than $10. If Sergei hadn't been with me, I would have used the entire Stimulus check that the Pres is sending us later this year. Must...control...urge...lovely...cheap...European...home...furnishings....

4) Some of the soccer moms and I are taking a Cardio Strip-Tease class. We’ve had 4 sessions so far, and it’s a riot…a stuffy dance studio full of middle-aged women, huffing and puffing and trying to look and feel sexy. With the 24-year old lithe fit perky instructor making us all think, dammit, I use-ta look like that. Sergei said he sees a difference in my middle. I'm just glad my hips finally figured out a way to sashay and shake off some-a those fat cells. Sorta like this. (I am NOT in this video, so don't go gettin' all pervy now.)

5) Gary is spreading the love! And I spread the love to y’all…rawk on!




6) I had this song in my head when I woke up. The chorus is irritatingly infectious. And dammit, the world needs more poppy cute Canadian bands.

Me-3D

Years ago, many and what seems like many more years ago, I created a pop-up resume.

Don't laugh. Okay, laugh. It's seriously funny now.

At the time, I was feeling creative and unappreciated for it, and thought, hey, what would catch someone's attention more than putting myself in 3-D resume form, instead of the same ol' boring CV that everyone uses?

So I took my work experience, my theatre experience, my education, and a few lessons from a pop-up instruction book, and set to work.

My education was printed on a white paper mini "diploma", rolled up and glued to the Education page, threaded with red ribbon.

My writing experience was listed in a mini book pop-up, a separate page for each item of interest, a quick flip of the pages told the story.

My computer skills were written on small cardboard floppy disks and on a green bar paper printout scrawling from a cartoon computer, opening the page flipped up the floppies and spread out the paper.

Theatre experience? Behind the curtains of a small pop-up stage, the tiebacks of which were directional arrows.

There were 8 pages or so, the others forgotten to the dark cobwebby recesses of my brain.

I made out 4 copies, and sent them out to The Head of a Major Sketch Comedy Show, The Editor of a Mid-Sized Publishing House, The Head of Spy Magazine, and someone I now forget.

I only ever heard back from the Spy Magazine guy.

His letter was short, sweet and sour.

It said, "Love the resume. Have no idea how to use you."

Bah.

I stopped making pop-up books after that. But I still have a soft spot for them.

So it struck me as funny, odd and tart like sour grapefruit, when I saw this video today. I could have done this. And so much more. Someone kick me for having missed this opportunity.

Poetry Friday: The Word is Away

I'm AWAY for Poetry Friday...Spring Break has me with the kids and with Extra Kids, play dates and lunch dates and Chuck E. Cheese and god-I-need-a-beer.

Feel free to use the word AWAY in your blog post today, in whatever form tickles that soft spot on your ribs...poem, story, photo, song, family vacation recollection, smeared lipstick smile....


Okay, this just kills me...the white suits! The guitars! The hair! "Disco"????





OTOH, this effin' rawks!

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, and does your butt itch?

Spring Break is next week for most of the schools in the area, and last night at Girl-Child’s dance class, The Other Moms were talking about their plans…”We’re going to Hilton Head”…”Our family is flying to DisneyWorld”…”The Caribbean is only a short jump from Miami anyway”….

Well good for you, beotches. ‘Cause while you’re gone I can drive around my city and not have to deal with your dumbass driving techniques. I can eat out anywhere I want and not have to deal with your misbehaving children, especially that 3-year old that you let throw toy cars at people. I don’t have to hear you blabbing on and on about your church, your financial situation, or how you don’t understand how working moms can be GOOD moms.

Don’t let the door hit ya in the ass on the way out of town.

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is AWAY. As in, going away. Far, far away. Feel free to use this word in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever coconut-scented SPF50 you desire…poem, story, photo, limerick, instrumental variation on Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, thong-panty reveal….


At Girl-child's school musical yesterday, a nurse friend of mine said some child at school (a snot-nosed dirty boy, I assume) has come down with pinworm. I have only a vague notion of what that is, so I asked her what it meant, and she said, “Worms come out your butt.”

Heh.

Sure enough, I read the note in Girl-Child's backpack and this is what it said: “Pinworm is an intestinal infection caused by tiny parasitic worms measuring about 5 to 10 millimeters (about half to one centimeter) in length…About 2 to 4 weeks after a person acquires the pinworm eggs, adult female pinworms begin migrating from the large intestine to the area around the rectum. There, they will lay new pinworm eggs, which trigger itching around the rectum.”

And so on.

And it’s really hard to read this stuff without laughing.

So, you get this parasite from some dirty kid. You put your finger in your mouth, the pinworms go on Spring Break down to your intestines, and when they want to lay eggs, they travel to the amusement park called “My Rectum”, and do the deed. You then scratch your butt, touch the counter, someone touches it after you, the pinworms get in their RV and travel into their mouth, etc.

The funniest part was the diagnosis. “Your child’s doctor may ask you to help make the diagnosis of pinworm by placing a sticky piece of clear cellophane tape against your child’s rectum. Pinworm eggs will stick to the tape and can be seen under a microscope.”

Tape my child’s butt cheeks together? And then examine the results?

HAH!

I’m secretly hoping someone we know will get it, and tell me how all that goes down. Tape your butt hole and look for eggs? Now THAT’S some sort of fun!