My Wish List

Do you ever get to this point in the holiday, and you're so wrapped up in getting the perfect present for everyone that you complete, unselfishly, forget to think about what YOU might like? Yeah, I rarely do that, but this year seems to be one of those blue moons. My co-worker asked me earlier this morning what I want for Christmas, and I had no answer.

Not that I am a materialistic person, either. I'm making presents for everyone this year (everyone, that is, except my husband; sorry babe!) and it is really nice not dealing with the Christmas shopping traffic frenzy.

Anyway, so now I'm thinking about what I want. If I could have ANYTHING I wanted, what would I want? I've surprised myself with what comes to mind.

I have an amazing husband.
I have a wonderful and loving family.
I have a job that I enjoy.
I have a new house on the horizon.

I have all the things in the world that I could ever want. I am the happiest I have ever been. And these are my personal truths.

Then the devil on the other shoulder says, "What do you REALLY want?"

I want a shit-ton of money, so my time can always be my own.
I want to write, shoot, and direct a movie. (Therefore, I need a really nice digital video camera, Satan, er... I mean Santa Fairy. And Final Cut Pro 6.)
I want a full photo studio lighting setup. On a suspended grid system. Wireless.
I want a new digital camera body, and a really nice lens.
I want a pimp-ass treehouse.
I want to spend a few years in Europe, then Australia.
I want to grow the best weed money can buy.
I want an electric guitar, a stack, a drum set, an upright bass, a baby grand, and some studio microphones.

So yeah, get on that Santa Fairy, because I was thinking about this, and you've really never gotten me exactly what I asked for. It was always some cheap version of the real thing, and dammit, I wanted Keds, not the look-alikes from Wal-mart.
I guess that means you owe me.


I Married a Saint.

So yesterday I hosted a little girly get-together, the Ladies Listening Lounge, basically because I want to hear some new music, but I'm too lazy to actually, you know, go seek it out, so I disguised my laziness under the guise of a girl's night with wine and cheese and little sweet potato pies and invited over the hottest girls I know and told them to bring some music. And it was great, but that has little to do with my saintly husband, since, you know, he's a he, and this was a ladies thing, but I will get to that.

Ladies Listening Lounge (maybe I should change it to Lazy Ladies Lounge; I really like the "L" thing—it makes me feel like a hip lesbian or something) was a smashing success, mainly because I heard some great new music and we managed to kill 4.5 bottles of wine in about 2.5 hours. And, as I mentioned earlier, I invited the hottest women I know, so that was good.

But the reason that my husband (I've been calling him my boyfriend lately because we have so much fun together that saying husband just sounds too stuffy; we need a new word) is a saint is because when I RUSHED through the door at 5:10, he was there, cleaning the house. AND he helped me make dinner and delicious sweet potato pie thingies, and he MOPPED THE KITCHEN FLOOR, and that my friends, is why he will now be known as The Saint.

HE MOPPED THE KITCHEN FLOOR. Willingly! And I didn't even mention it to him. AND I was going to do it before the hot ladies came over! AND DID I MENTION HE MOPPED THE KITCHEN FLOOR?! Obviously, you can sense how vile and repulsive I find this particular chore.

Then, after he helped me cook and clean, he left. The Saint is a saint. Maybe that's my new word for him, instead of husband/boyfriend. If I hadn't been exhausted and ddddrunk last night when he came home, I would have given him a "home" to "come" to, if you get my quotes.


A Quick Gripe

You know what really buggers my ass? When people use the "it's going to look so horrible when you're old" argument against getting tattoos.

Guess what dumb dumbs: we ALL look like shit when we're old. A little skin decoration isn't going to change that.

So suck it.


Ink Makes You Think

About getting more....

And it really makes me happy...


A Video Blog: Seven Reasons Why I Love...

National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation:

7. The sled scene:

6. 250 strands of lights:

5. Trapped in the attic:

4. "Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Kiss my ass. Kiss his ass."

3. The shitter was full:

2. The best monologue ever written:

1. Squirrel!!


And in This Corner...

It's beginning to look a lot like campaign time, and I can only begin to imagine the piles of steaming shit that We, The People, are going to have to sift through in order to find a shred of decency and dignity in what should be the crowning tradition of our country.

It is that time again: you can almost smell the Democratic desperation and hear the rumbling Right Wing, taking one another to the mat over a single misconstrued statement, or a tiny little box on a form that may or may not have been checked, or a puff of smoke from 30 years ago. It is time to fling the clods of fear and manipulation against the ever-sullied wall of democracy, to skew truths, misinform the constituents, and create all-around feelings of helplessness and wrath.

Not only do We, The People have the opportunity to be overwhelmed at any moment with thinly-veiled propaganda and the constant overexposure of the bobble-talking-head of the moment, but this round of elections dares to unleash something far, far worse:

Celebrity Endorsements.

Isn't is bad enough that we are force-fed every single details of these peoples' privileged existences, each day of our lives? Hell, even my local news station has the lack of grace to report on Britney Spears. Britney motherfuckin' Spears. And now, when every other ad on TV is going to spout the same self-righteous, I-am-better bullshit, we have to deal with celebrities joining the crusade.

Sure, four years ago we had the typical politically active celebrity sect, but this year has shown us that was only a forward glance in a cheap crystal ball. Oprah, the Matron of Mothers, the Builder of Boarding Schools, has thrown her elephant-like clout behind Obama. (He said it better than me.) But this, my friends, I fear is only the beginning. Now, the other Behemoth of Broads, Madonna, has placed her support behind Clinton. What's next: the Osmonds for Romney? The Yanks for Giuliani? Chris Daughtry for Edwards??

Really though, I have to question Madonna's interest in American politics at all. I mean, isn't she all about being British now? Doesn't she have an affected British accent, live in a manor, and ride horses with teeny tiny saddles? More importantly, DOES SHE EVEN PAY TAXES IN THE U.S.? Someone with her earning potential could single-handed pay for Katrina relief with just a percentage of her taxed income. Personally, I think if she isn't paying taxes in this country, then she doesn't deserve to have a say in how the country votes. So FUCK OFF, Madonna.


Alright there Virgil—Treading on Thin Ice

Virgil tagged me, so I'll do it. But I'm not gonna like it.

The Rules:

1) Put your iTunes/ music player on Shuffle
2) For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3) YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER WHAT. (This is in capital letters, so it is very serious. The blog police will come and find you, and you will go to blog prison! And if you are lucky and aren't killed in blog prison, you can live bloggily ever after. But if you are killed in blog prison, then you go to blog hell. You go to blog hell and you die.)

After you’ve answered all of the questions, tag 5 other people and then let them know they’ve been tagged to do the meme themselves!

Orange Moon
, Erykah Badu
Commentary: You know, this is a pretty good song for me when I feel ok, so yeah, that works.

J'ai Deux Amours, Dee Dee Bridgewater
Commentary: AHA!

The Prodigal Sun, The Black Angels
Commentary: Someone that runs away, breaks your heart, and expects you to take them in with open arms when they return? Not so much.

Zap Bebes, Zap Mama
Commentary: Ex-zap-ly.

Boomerang, Black Lips
Commentary: I have no idea what this really means.

Hope, Bjork
Commentary: Perhaps, but only 57% of the time.

Wrists of Kings, Isis
Commentary: Hey now, my wrists are more of an immortal, dei-ific nature.

Staple It Together, Jack Johnson
Commentary: Staple my parents together? I don't feel like being metaphorical today, so no.

Brazil, Maynard Ferguson
Commentary: Indeed. Indeed I do. Brazil.

10) WHAT IS 2+2?
Alien Lover, Luscious Jackson

Extra Ordinary Thing, Aqualung
Commentary: Aww, that is kinda sweet.

Ponderosa, Tricky
Commentary: Ponderosa, my home sweet home.

Beloved, Luscious Jackson
Commentary: This could go one of two ways. Choose your own adventure.

Avec Le Temps, Dee Dee Bridgewater
Commentary: Wow, this is like looking into a crystal ball. And seeing a fucking glass ball.

Permit Me to Introduce You to Myself, Dee Dee Bridgewater
Commentary: Finally, one I can really get behind. I couldn't have thought of a wittier song title for that question.

La Vie En Rose, Madeleine Peyroux
Commentary: Yes they do. I have a charmed life.

Booty, Erykah Badu
Commentary: You know, this had me wavering for a second, but now I am firmly on the "yes" side. Thank you, Erykah Badu.

The Windmills of Your Mind, Michael Legrand and Bud Shank
Commentary: This would actually be a GREAT funeral song. Appropriate mournfulness, filled with a sense of loss, but a beautiful, flitting melody that trails along like the dead lady's fingers in the water.

Coffee, Aesop Rock feat. John Darnielle
Commentary: Sometimes, not always, but not never. Just sometimes.

Sheela-Na-Gig, PJ Harvey
Commentary: I guess it is still a secret, then.

Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own, U2
Commentary: Awwww! This one is so sweet too! :) You really CAN'T make it on your own. THANK U2!! *Big thumbs up*



Moments of Beauty

The way my brother can make me laugh with just one look...

My dad, skinny in his smoking days, before he was really my dad. His mustache looking huge on his slimmer face, he smiles his open mouth, closed eyes smile and begins the only dance we ever saw from him—the shuffle feet quickly/turn in a tight circle dance—as he turned up the Doobie Brothers and sang. That day, my brother, sister and I got up and danced his dance with him...

A memory of my mom, from when I was a small child, playing hide and seek with me. I sat in the middle of the couch, drew my knees to my chest, covered my eyes and giggled as I watched her pretend to look for me from between my fingers...

Dressing in pseudo-drag with my brother, sister, and two cousins, and then parading before the family cameras, before we decided it wasn't cool to be a kid and play dress-up...

Every time my brother and I retell THE VERVE PIPE story....

Watching my sister wipe tears from her face when she laughs too hard....

The flecks of green in my husband's brown eyes that I can only see when we are close enough to kiss...

The way my uncle Brian can tell the same story hundreds of times, but it is always so funny we all end up on the floor, gripping our sides and begging him to stop...

The black tail that wags furiously when I come home, and how excited she gets when I pull her leash out of her toy box...

The feeling in my heart when I am with the people I love most in the world, sharing time and laughter...


What a Little Moonlight Can Do

Wow. I mean, WOW.

We really needed a vacation. Now that we are home and back into our rhythm again, I can see how much more relaxed and pleasant we both are about everything in our world. It feels so good to lay those burdens down now and again, and I am working on being able to do that with more ease and grace. It just feels so damn good.

The vacation was wonderful, and we didn't do jack or shit. The island was amazing—it was the perfect time of year to be there. We swam with the pup, walked on the beach, lit fireworks, spread my dad's ashes, ate delicious seafood, drank beer, and I took a shitload of pictures, up until I dropped my very professional (read: expensive) camera into the gloomy, gray Atlantic. Oh yes. I did.

But like hells bells and sandy vaginas, it dried out after a few days and is working once more! Glory be for professional equipment!

As I'm sure you are as well, I'm back to work after the holiday, but unlike many years before I have an amazing energy and zest for the days coming up. Usually, this time of year, I am run down, exhausted, and well on my way to becoming a full-blown alcoholic (not to mention the extra weight from 'holiday grazing.' Gah.) But this year I feel differently than I have in the past. I'm eating well, working out on a semi-regular schedule, and going to bed early.

OH SHIT! I've turned into AN ADULT!!!!

Fuck. I was wondering when that was going to happen....


Vacation: Day 4

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.


Vacation Blog: Day part deux



Vacation Blogging, Because Yes, I AM That Cool

So it comes down to this: I have no time in my normal life to keep a log of the numberous aspects of my normal life. I must go on vacation to find peace, solitude, and the opportunity to write. I have been overworked, overstressed, and now, on the first eve of my long-awaited reality-break, overly sick. Well, I exaggerate. Not OVERLY sick, just plain 'ol sick.

And I'm not totally done with work: I have a book shipping on Tuesday, which basically means I'm plugged in until then. Gah. But c'est la vie, ya know? Then, THEN, I have the rest of the week to myself. Me, my man, and my dog. On a remote island. For Thanksgiving. We plan on eating lots, drinking lots, doing a whole lot of nothing, and then more of the same. We arrived today, and already I feel like the weight of the world has, if not disappeared, shifted slightly off center, ready to tumble as soon as I shrug my hopefully suntanned shoulders.

It's been a while since me and the man have had a vacation—since our honeymoon, matter of factly. Since then, a lot has happened, and frankly I'm fucking exhausted. Sometimes I just want to shake free of the contemporary world, rid myself of posessions, and scamper away into the setting sun. Is that such a bad thing? I don't want to deal with other people's shit—work shit, friend shit, family shit, life shit. Sometimes, all I want to do is deal with my own shit for once. Of course, one could argue that my caring about the surrounding shit is my own choice, and that one would technically be right. But the reality of life is that we DO have to deal with ours and everyone else's shit; it is how the world functions. It is how a responsible individual is expected to behave, and when someone doesn't deal with their shit, they are usually dumping it on someone else to deal with. Now how is that ok? Answer: it is not.

So I think, since I'm equipped with a company laptop and nothing but time to be me, I will do a bit of vacation blogging. I'm learning to deal with my shit after being really good at dealing with other peoples', so now I think I need some "ME" time.

That, and I'm going to be doing more photography; something that has eluded me for quite some time, despite moments of clicking. There is a whole wide world inside myself to discover, and I'm ready to realize the fullness of that world. I'm already a fully-alive person; I can't imagine what I will be as soon as I give myself the permission to be it.

Watch out.


Nova: Goodbye.

She was a month old when I found her at the shelter. Tiny black body, with puppy blue eyes. She was so timid at first, and when I sat on the shelter floor to calm her, she curled up in my lap. That has been her favorite place ever since. Even 11 years later, arthritic legs and back, grunting when she tries to sit, she still crawls into my lap.

She did, until today, when our family decided to let her go. It was the right thing to do—she was in pain. But damn is it heartbreaking.

I couldn't even bring myself to go to the vet, so my wonderful husband took my mom there. My mom couldn't go inside, so my very wonderful husband, with love and tenderness, escorted Nova (our loyal protector and warrior, playmate and friend), to her last breath. He sat with her there as she fell asleep, taking with her a piece of all our hearts.

Goodbye Nova.


Ice Cream Date

A little girl, anxious and distracted
waiting waiting waiting
sunny front porch, warm bricks
and a southern sun, thinking of sleep

for Christmas, mommy gave me a red dress
(maybe she made it from curtains, or her old dress,
or material from the thrift store
beautiful with ruffles, and bows, and things the girl loves)
my only dress, because it is special, she says
because I am special, she says

Don't worry, mommy, I won't get it dirty
Daddy is coming! Daddy called.
look at the sky! the clouds look pink
What does pink taste like?
maybe sprinkles

Don't worry, mommy, I'm not cold.
Daddy will be here any minute
he called me special, to take me for ice cream
ice cream!
He means it this time, mommy, I promise.
(I hope he didn't promise her this time)
He promised.
Oh! Look at the clouds now mommy.
red, like my special dress.

Maybe I will wait inside, at the window
it is starting to get dark
don't tell mommy, but I'm afraid of the dark
not like red, I love red
I can still see from the window

Ice cream is special, but I
don't eat it very much.
Mommy says desserts are for the weekend
(but Kool-aid popsicles are cheap, I hope the kids
like those, we can make them)
but not every weekend

Mommy, look at the stars!
I see a red one. And a blue one.
But not one that looks like Daddy.

Did Daddy forget again, mommy?
I love ice cream. And my red dress.
my special red dress, for special occassions

How long has it been now mommy?
I hope the ice cream store doesn't close.
It is really dark now.
I love you mommy.


Weekend Update, For Better Or Worse

What a beautiful time of year to live where I live. The drought has created some water issues here, but on the bright side, the gorgeous autumn leaves have hung on for weeks! I thought last weekend was the peak, but this weekend proved me wrong.

Anyway, had a crazy good and somewhat weird weekend. Friday I had dinner with some lovely lady-friends, and then we went to a good friend's incredible art show. Her pieces are exquisite, and in my opinion create the perfect blend between science and art. Thoughtful, technically fantastic, and so so so creative. I own two of her pieces already, the hubs and I are in negotiations (with each other) about acquiring a third.

After the art show, we went to a CD release party and heard some awesome punk/pop music. Watch for this name: Bullets and Lace. And come ask me about way back when, ok? Just file that away for future reference. Good beer, good people, good music: good times. And then, drunken pizza eating at 2am.

Saturday: what the hell did I do on Saturday? OH! I put finish on the fantastic shelves my bebe is building for a client. I can't WAIT until he starts building awesome furniture for our new house, which better happen in the near future. I should be getting, in no particular order: a dining table, a bedroom suite (bed, sidetables, and lamps--glee!), and possibly a concrete countertop island for the new kitchen. Ga-LEE! FYI: my husband is a fine woodworker. Fine in SO many ways, but in this case meaning he does everything by hand. He does gorgeous work, people, and we can deliver. (Not-so-subtle plug for my bebe.)
So, a couple hours in the studio with my bebe, and then we showered, ate dinner, and watched a movie at a friend's place, on his GIANT screen TV in his own, personal viewing room. With refreshments. Ah, life is good.

After that, things took a turn for the strange. My husband is not much of a night person, unlike me, so he opted to go home and relax while I opted to go to a bonfire play-along with some friends. I didn't realize that this would be a bonfire of a SHIT TON of people, so I was mentally prepared to walk into the dark backyard and have to fight for seating space. That, and a person that I call a friend put moves on me, in a not very attractive or respectful way, so that was awkward, to put it nicely. I mean, he grabbed me in a hug and pulled me onto his bed! What the eff?? He was totally, obliteratingly drunk, but that is never an excuse for me. The best I can hope for is that he doesn't remember doing it, so we can just pretend it didn't happen. That, and I will never let myself be in a room alone with him. Gah. That shit just stinks.
Needless to say, I fled the scene, back to my loving husband, where I reveled in his warm, sleepy arms and sweetness. It never fails to make me appreciate the man in my life when weird shit like that happens. I appreciate him on a daily basis, actually.

Ok, quick tangent and I'll get back to talking about me. Girls, tell me something: do you ever get tired of the wolf-whistles, the stares, and the general trashy things that men do to get your attention? In my town, a lot of that goes on. Even the damn homeless guys. It's weird, they ask for change, and then give you the undressing-eyes look. Creepy. So yeah, it's times like that when I appreciate my uber-thoughtful, sensitive, artistic, atypical man more than ever.

Another tangent: I think I'm more masculine that my husband. I don't mean in terms of physicality, AT ALL. He's a hairy, well-formed (VERY well-formed, I must say) man with no tendencies towards fancery. I mean, it's all I can do to get him to wear a shirt with a collar if we go out somewhere nice. I'm speaking of masculinity in terms of attitudes and interests. Por ejemplo: I love sports, and during football season, my Sundays are spent plugged in, either at a sports bar with my brother or with a beer on my couch. He would rather take a bath, drink some tea, and read. (I do that stuff too, but just not on Sundays.) Also, I am a dirty old man. He is not. Ok, well maybe it's just the sports thing, then. I'm addicted to pro football and college basketball. Gah, tangent over.

So yeah, going home to my bebe was really comforting. God, I love that man.

Sunday, I was hung over. We met my mom and brother for brunch and the best bakery in the world, had delicious quiche, coffee, and soup, and talked about holiday plans (including the Green Mill Jazz Club in Chicago=HELLS YES). AND hubs and I saw our house plans. (We're building a house.) And they ROCK. I can't believe how lucky we are right now, to be able to do this. It is only the beginning. Me and hubs have SO many plans, and it is very fulfilling to see something come to fruition.

Ok, so brunch was great, and we went to the house site, and that was awesome (I found pink granite rocks all over the place! great energy), and then we went home and I crashed for what I thought was the rest of the evening. Oh, how wrong I was! The awesome, excellent, amazing hubs come home from the studio with two free tickets to see The Regina Carter Quintet, and we had less than an hour to eat dinner, get ready, and scoot. So we did. And DAYUM, that woman can play! Jazz violin is so rare these days, and she is single-handedly bringing it back. It was an amazing show. I commented to hubs that we have good damn luck when it comes to seeing great jazz music. The show was so fantastic, and it really made me want to start performing again (I used to sing jazz, back in the day), so if you live in my general area and you play jazz and are interested in getting a gig together, let's talk.

All in all, a good weekend. And now I need a weekend to rest from my weekend. Which happens to be my song and dance, as of late.



And This is Where I Get Nice

Confoundit, Virgil! Ok, well, I did get some action yesterday at lunch, and seeing how I said that might be the "nice" option, I guess I'll play. Hate to be a stuck-up party poop, ya know? That and why waste a good opportunity to talk about myself? So, here we go.

A). Link to the person that tagged you (done!) and post the rules on your blog... (done!)

B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...

C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...

D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Ok, lemme see, lemme see. Hmm, seven wild, wonderful, weird things about moi:

1. I love it when my husband wears my clothes. There is something so sexy about that....especially the pants that are oh so tight on his nice nice ass. (Well, this is as much as you should expect for a post after a good lunch session.)
2. I was driving dirt bikes at the age of 12.
3. When I was a kid, I decided that if God really did exist, then he would make my action figure toys come to life if I prayed for it hard enough.
4. I have a never-ending hunger for anything pickled. Seriously, my mouth is watering as I type.
5. I am a dream-seer. Take it as you will.
6. Nuclear war scares the shit out of me. If I think about it too much, I feel a desperate need to find a deserted island and hunker down.
7. I've always wondered what it feels like to have a penis. Not envy, per se, but more curiosity.

Geez, that's more tiring than I thought it would be. So here's the part where I'm supposed to "tag" people, but I like the bad luck that comes with breaking a chain letter (FUCK writing that shit ten times over) so I'm going to go against the grain and end this little path here. Go elsewhere for your trail into the rabbit hole, friends. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!


Kate, as Alice Cooper

kate, as alice cooper
Originally uploaded by girlnamedboo
One of my best friends, as the hellfire wrought Alice Cooper. Awesome photo by me.


Bob's Big Boy turned into Dirty Old Man

Well, at first I was going to go as Bob's Big Boy, a suggestion courtesy of my friend Kate's cool boyfriend. But somehow, that didn't quite work out. So I asked myself, "Self?" says I, "what is a comfortable option for a costume, preferably one where I can hump people's legs and wear a diaper?" And thus, this picture:

The key to a successful costume: a good prop.
(See also, dirty old man balls.)


Ear Candy: Cat Power

This woman sings my life.

Cat Power's Lived in Bars

And an interview with her about her alcoholism, etc. Very candid.


Ear Candy: Roisin Murphy

Sometimes you just need a crazy hat, long gloves, a good beat, and the robot dance.

A somewhat Early Madonna-esque mix of Roisin Murphy's: Let Me Know.


Out Loud

I am loyal. I'm fun to hang with, I love to make people laugh, and I'm up for anything. I yell for my teammates when no one else is yelling; I cheer when there is nothing to cheer for. I am encouraging, and dedicated, and I live my life out loud. I don't care what strangers think of me. I like to shock people with the things I say. I like to push buttons. I am strong, and beautiful, and the world absorbs me in any way it can.

I wear a bikini although my body isn't perfect. I sing like I will never hear myself again. I work hard and play hard. I am street-wise, and intellectual. I love dreams, and interpreting them. I have kissed men, women, babies, and grandmothers. I don't believe in bedtime. I drink beer until I feel tipsy, and then have another. I smoke marijuana, because I can. I love to give hugs, and get them back.

I am a sexual woman, and not afraid to show it. I have big breasts that are beautiful. I give the people I love everything I have. I look you in the eye; I'm not afraid to connect. I love body language, and I use my body to communicate. I have never regretted the things I've done. I work towards being a better person. And I am a better person today than I was yesterday.

I have nothing to hide. I talk about anything. And if someone cares enough to talk to me, I am a great listener. I have a tender heart, and want to be loved. I choose who I am, I don't just float along and assume things about myself. I love my body enough to decorate it, and I'm not afraid to have something permanent on my skin. I think about the things that people will say at my funeral. I think that they will have a lot to say.

When I make mistakes, I'm quick to apologize and mean it. If I decide I want to do something, I do it. And when I attempt something, I give it 100%. I'm not afraid to fail, and see that as a learning experience. If something can be done better, I say it. I'm not afraid to challenge people. I'm not afraid to challenge myself. I have learned a few things about myself, and none of them are bad. I love myself, and if you don't, then go screw.

Yes, I live out loud. Does that scare you?



Four heads, like an old lover
black threads and a
long, strong song
first one wave and then another
beating my drums
before I sober
peer, and hang hidden where the curtain
wait to adjust
wait to praise
wait to feel the ground


The "No Time or Energy to Post" Post

I'm slammed at work. Which is great, because the day goes by like...whatthafuck it's 4:30 already? But it can be a bit stressful too, and my therapist told me to remove all stress, so maybe that's just the excuse I need to go back to a mindless, non-challenging job like bartending or something.*

But with good things on the horizon, I'd have to be a major whiner to not be happy right now. As in, a kick-ass social calendar for the next month or so, and then wonderful fall beach vacation, and god, am I feeling THAT right now.

Also, this therapy thing has really helped my state of mind, and state of body. So yay.

I'm currently riding a wave that is somewhat similar to the wave I rode when I first lived by myself. It is helping me to remember why it is so awesome being an adult. Witness:

control over environment
do whatever the fuck I want
even illegal things! (GASP-sodomy)
not that I couldn't do the aforementioned in my parents' house, but it was certainly frowned upon

Also, I've been somewhat hibernating/living out loud, and it is a crazy and energizing mix. As in, staying out until 4am on a Wednesday night (WTF?) and then not moving from the house on Saturday. Relish.

And you know what? FUCK those stuck-up betches. They know who they are. (Ahhh, that felt so grade-school bitchy, and I love it.)

That's a very random and not-at-all related picture there, but I'm in a girl-love phase so I feel okay about it.

*My therapist said no such thing.


Old Friends

the crush of love
a panicked pang and plucky heartstring
then 20 years and silent
smoldering life, this is my gift
to you
a mended heart
still soft


Therapy and Tattoos

Which sounds worse to you: needles poking into the skin over the majority of your back, or therapy?

Here is the current state of my tattoo work. Next is a half-sleeve on my upper right arm, and then probably a little filling in on the back piece. Like it? I fucking love it.

Last night was mine and the hubs first couples therapy session, and it was intense. I didn't realize how things that happened when I was a child affected my adult relationships, and to what degree. I have been really put off my therapists in the past. I had a horrible experience with a therapist right after my bio-dad passed away when I was 14, and that set the stage for how I have perceived therapy up to this point. This guy we are going to is really great. I was shocked at how much one session made a difference (not that we're stopping there, by any means). I am a sad, scared little girl, terrified of rejection with a wall of anger to protect myself.

It's funny, really. It puts so much into perspective for me. I have recently had a good friend cut off all communication with me, and I was trying to be respectful and give her space (with her giving me no reason whatsoever for this abrupt end to communicae). I had really been beating myself up about it, but now I see how much it has truly hurt me. I have been trying to be nonchalant about it, and tell myself that it doesn't bother me, but it really does. Rejection of that kind—no reason, no nothing—is one of the cruelest things a person could do to me, and I think this friend knows it. It is so sad.

Ironically, another friend did the same thing to me last year. No explanation, nothing. After I tried repeatedly to talk to her about what was going on (I literally had NO IDEA), she finally gave me this general "we are moving in different directions" explanation and that was that. God, it hurt so much. She was in my wedding, for christsakes.
And now this friend, whom I work with, and play softball with, and truly thought she cared about me as much as I did her. So it has not that easy for me to put it out of my mind.

I don't know, I guess it is her issue. But I can't know because she won't return my phone calls anymore. So here I am, feeling awful all over again, like a little girl, and my strong side keeps trying to protect that soft side of me.

Well, let me tell you, I was ready for a release, because I bawled like a baby at therapy yesterday.

So I guess tattoos hurt more than therapy, and rejection more than tattoos.


I Want to Have Charles Tillman's Bebes.

In a figurative way, of course. But DAMN did that man save the Bear's asses last night. Against an unbeaten Packers team. Ha. Hee hee hee! Favre was P.O.'ed, and I think that was the best moment of the game. Nothing makes Bears fans happier than a pissed off Favre. Retire already so we don't have to play you, dammit!! Actually, the best moment of the game was 2 minutes left in the 4th, and Green Bay made a stupid mistake, which gave us the 5 yards we needed for a 1st down, and instead of just settling for a field goad like a bunch of weiners, Da Bears took it to the endzone. Sweet sweet victory!

And now, I would like to thank all of those who made this win possible:

Charles fucking Tillman: two forced fumbles in the 1st half, when it looked like Green Bay was going to eat us for a midnight snack.

Brian Urlacher with an interception. (I want to have his bebes too.)

Brian Griese, who only threw one interception and managed the game well. (I mean, come on, compared to the rest of the season, that shit is good.) Now if he could only learn to throw down the line. He's got the center cut run covered.

Desmond Clark. In spite of the f&*king O-LINE.

Greg Olsen, in spite of Griese's inability to throw an accurate pass down the line. Damn dude.

Our middle linebackers, who finally woke up and realized they were sucking ass in the 1st half. 2nd half? Not so much.

Devin Hester, with a hell of an offensive block. HELLO O-LINE! Let's watch some tape.

No one had less to do with this win than:

Rex Grossman.
The offensive line.

Tattoo pics to come soon, Alex, I promise. I just had to take my chance with a positive Bears post while I had it.


Why I Love Liam.

This is what happens when I finish a monster project at work: internet diddling.


Friday Morning

Damn, I love Friday mornings. And as Friday mornings go, this one has been the BEST. Let's recap, shall we? And then you can all be jealous of my fabulous and wonderful life:

--got druuuuunk last night and woke with no hangover
--woke up REALLY early and had great morning sex
--went for a run in the light drizzly rain conditions with hubs and dog
--getting more ink work done today
--eating delicious Indian food for lunch
--yerba mate for breakfast

I feel fabtastic, but that could be because the last two weeks have been weeks from work hell—not that it has been bad, just that it has been crushingly busy—and last night was the end of my big push. Now it's all light lifting from here until my Thanksgiving holiday. Man, I really need to catch everyone up, don't I? I love being so self-important and gleeful about it.

Ok, so last weekend, hubs and I decided to go to the beach. We are tight on cash, and his mom lives in Charleston SC, so we called her up to see if we could crash. We could, so we went and took the dog. She (the dog) is Awesome Dog. She is uber smart, and really sweet, and everyone loves her. Except, apparently, my mother-in-law. And so it begins.

Let me just preface this story with the fact that not only have I never had a problem with M-I-L, I truly like her. But the three long days we spent with at her house pushed me past my limit for fake niceties and overall patience. In fact, she was a totally different person.

Ok, so, hubs double-checked to see if we can bring Awesome Dog, and yes we can, even though they have three highly aggressive cats. (Well, two aggressive cats and one sweet shy one that gets bullied by the other two, poor kit.) But the cats have been pissing all over M-I-L's couch, so they have been staying outside anyway. No big deal, right?

Awesome Dog was, in fact, awesome all weekend. She was really good in the house, went for long, easy walks, played ball in the yard, and not once did she try to even sniff any of the cats (that were, of course, outside). But you would never have known this if you were speaking with M-I-L. If I heard the phrase "terrorizing the poor cats" ONE MORE FUCKING TIME, I was going to lose it. Luckily, hubs saw me reach my limit and told her to shut it, so that I wouldn't have to be the bad guy to my M-I-L. Who is really nice, but can also be really fake nice. You know those people? They say rude things with a smile on their face like it's a joke, but it's not really a joke and they just don't have the balls to say it directly without some sort of flowery way of putting it so they don't have to seem like a jerk? Yep, that kind of fake nice. It drives me mad.

So many things became clear to me over the weekend. Hubs and I have been in the midst of marriage issues, and boy did I see where he shit comes from!! Hint: HIS MOTHER. I don't know if I should really talk about this right now, since we are just starting therapy next week, so maybe I'll save it. Or maybe I just won't talk about it, since it is our private business. But let it be known: my husband's mother limited his ability to deal with negative situations or conflicts. This is so different from my family and how I was raised. Not that one way is right, but it's just different. I mean, my family is a "talk it out, hug it out" kind of family, which I happen to think is pretty healthy. His is a "never be visibly upset, hide it under the rug" type family, and it grates. on. my. last. nerve. especially. with. his. mother.

Arg. Ok, moving on. Not only do we hear bullshit all weekend about Awesome Dog "terrorizing" the cats, but M-I-L is on a restricted diet. She is not eating sugar of any kind, no wheat, and no dairy. Which is great with me, if she wants to do that. But you want to know what one of my biggest peeves is? Others forcing you to comply with their restrictions. Restrictions they have CHOSEN, not that she's allergic to wheat or dairy, you know? And the biggest rub: when we got to town, she had no food so WE had to go to the grocery store and buy HER special foods so WE could cook her nasty-ass meals. Let me tell you, it was pretty gross (aside from the coconut rice dish we made on Friday night because I couldn't stand it).

I mean, who does that?? Who makes you buy their special groceries to cook their special fucking meals for them? SHE IS HIS MOTHER, for godsakes!! SHE should be the one buying the goddamn groceries. She is by no means broke. So there went the other side of my head, bald from ripping my damn hair out.

On top of it, hubs and I had a horrible fight while we are there. (We then proceeded to have amazing sex--goes with the territory). I hate being at someone else's home and fighting. That really stinks.

Oh yeah, because she expected us to be available to her 24-7, we got to go to the beach for ONE WHOLE HOUR!

Anyway, that's the long story behind why we are taking a beach trip at Thanksgiving. Because that vacation turned out to be hell. But on the bright side, hubs started seeing where all his shit stems from, because M-I-L made it really effin obvious. Thanks M-I-L!! you bitch.


Morning (Or Mid-Morning, Actually) Thoughts

-A dislocated finger is no good for my softball skills. But I'm a kick-ass score keeper.

-The best thing about softball: after-beers at the bar.

-Fried jalapeno discs: not so spicy going in; WAAAAY too spicy on the exit.

-You know what I think it funny? Pooping in my work bathroom when someone else is trying to poop in the stall next to me. ALL kinds of poop-shyness occur. Unintentional hilarity.

-Coffee makes for a more spastic morning poo than tea.

-I love my new skirt from Anthropologie. Witness:

-Tonight I'm watching my TV drug: America's Next Top Model. Two words: Tyra's vag-pits.



The Good, The Bad, and the Hideously Ugly

Let's get right to it:

The Good

Last night me and the hubs saw Queens of the Stone Age, with Dax Riggs opening. One word: SA-WEEEET!!! Dax Riggs=hot and very talented. Josh Homme=hot and very talented.
Great show at a cool club. My friend even got a hug out of Dax. (Oh, and if you haven't heard his latest album, RUN, DO NOT WALK, my friends, to get it: Dax Riggs, We Sing of Only Blood or Love.)

Bonus: Jack White showed up to our little mountain town with his supermodel wife to catch the show!

The Bad

I just received an email from my mom (I love how she always hits me with this crap when I'm at work) about how disappointed she is with me and how I've changed so much in the past couple of years.

Gah. I don't even know how to respond to it right now. I mean, fuck yeah I've changed in the last few years. Ergo: I graduated college, worked as a stockbroker, was a communications director (read: slave) for a museum, got married, bought and sold houses like baseball cards, lost my hero of a father, been on the edge of divorce twice, and acquired a new scar. Um, yeah, I think I've changed just a little bit.

The Ugly

I haven't spoken about this much, seeing as I started this blog after the most recent Superbowl, but I'm a rabid Chicago Bears fan. (Until very recently, I had a Bears tattoo on the back of my neck. Shut up! It was an hommage to my dad after he died. Anyway, it's covered by a black rose now.) They looked GREAT last year, with the exception of an inconsistent QB. But dammit, Sunday looked like my toilet bowl the morning after I tie one on. Shitty. Shitty shit shit shitty shit. Shitty.

Ear Candy to remove the shit:

Dax Riggs: Stop, I'm Already Dead

UPDATE: I had a great conversation with my mom over the phone on my lunch break. We're all good, and I'm a hero, and she should be kinder to herself. Which is all I could ever hope for. A happy mom. Yay.


Photo Love

There are many things that I consider myself a whore for. One of those things is earrings. Check out these fuckers I got from the consignment store yesterday:

Fuck yeah.


Horrible Accidents and Gnarly Scars: A Tour of My Body

I love a good scar story. For many reasons, but a) there is usually a visual aid, and b) the pride with which people tell these stories of pain, stupidity, or sheer dumb luck. Because, let's face it, no one tries to mutilate themselves (and when I say no one, I am not including those sycophantic leaders of tomorrow(i.e. unfortunate teenagers) that cut each other because they are so emo, and I also don't include anyone who gets off on pain. Because that is not in the realm of normalcy).

Anyhoo, love me a good scar story, so in order to get the ball rolling, I'll tell you my best.

  • Middle finger, right hand, age 2.

So I'm two years old, and hanging at the mall with my mom. She is at the top of the escalator, probably fighting with bio-dad, and I have somehow wandered to the bottom of the escalators. I look between the moving stairs, and there is the awesome green light, that in my 2 year old brain I recognize as Jello. (Everyone loves J-E-L-L-O!) So I stick my little hand between the stairs, promptly almost ripping my entire finger apart. By the time my mom pries my little hand from the escalator, I have mercifully blacked out and my finger is dangling away from the bone, which luckily, wasn't broken. I just had to have my finger stitched back on, and now I have a Frankenstein-style scar. Rockin'.

  • Upper left thigh, age 11.
I'm playing with our then-canine pal, Fluffy, (my brother named her) in the backyard of our quaint little home. I jump onto the wooden swing (you know the type; it's a bench with long woode slats) and Fluffy jumps up beside me. I jump off and turn around, expecting her to jump off after me, and she has somehow gotten her little back leg stuck between the wooden slats of the swing, and is hanging there, yelping in extreme pain. Horrified and scared, I run over to free her from the evil swing, and she reaches over and clamps her jaws around the top of my leg, causing me to start screaming at the same pitch of her yelping. My dad runs from the garage to free us both, take me to the doctor, and Fluffy to the vet. Sad ending: Fluffy never came near me again, and ran away about three weeks after that. I was so so so sad. :(

  • Right ankle, age 16.
I played soccer through middle school and high school, and in high school, our team was damn good. (Won State Champ two years running.) During practice, a particularly nasty girl on my team (we were scrimmaging) slide-tackled me, and foot got stuck in a small hole on the field. My foot stayed there, and my body went forward. I ripped every tendon and ligament in my ankle, and was on crutches for the rest of the season. Stupid bitch. She's lucky that I didn't need surgery. I almost did, but I begged out of it. Fuck some damn surgery, you know?

  • Left gluteus muscle, small scars on upper left thigh, age 20.
This is the one scar that I wish I didn't have, mainly because it affects how I look in a bikini (which isn't half bad). Me and my college buds (Craige Dorm effin' rules) went to a friend's evergreen tree farm in the mountains for Labor Day weekend. Lots of drinking and driving ATVs (of which I am a pro; I've been driving them since I was 10 on my grandparent's farm). The cabin is on top of a small mountain, with a long, winding gravel driveway that leads to the road. A few of my friends were leaving, and I was teaching my friend Ali how to drive the ATV. With me sitting on the back. Wearing flip-flops. With a beer in my hand. A combination that I have come to realize would not affect the outcome whatsoever (except for the flipflop part). So Ali and I decide it would be a grand time to chase our friends at top speed down this steep, rocky, cut-into-the-side-of-the-mountain driveway. Coming around the first turn, I can already tell that Ali isn't cutting sharply enough, and as I'm starting to tell him as much, he screams, "OH SHIRT!!! HOLD ON!!"
Our right front tire catches the edge of the road, and we flip off the drive and careen down the mountain. Luckily, after the second flip, I was thrown off, and after the third, Ali made it off. But when the ATV landed the first time, it landed directly on my ass, bounced, and kept going. Being that I can't move, Ali attempts to carry me up the mountain. We make is to a field, and I have to walk the rest of the way to the cabin. My flipflops, of course, flew off, and we have to trek through briars and brambles. My feet looked like I had run through razorblades. We get back to the cabin, where everyone else is blindly drunk, and for the first time I look down at my legs. I was wearing shorts. Protruding from my left leg was over 15 sticks. I pulled them all out, except one, which when I pulled it out it broke right beneath the skin and stayed inside my leg.*
Luckily, I had not damaged my pelvic gurdle (with the weight of the ATV crashing onto me, it should, by all rights, have crushed my bones to powder), however, it completely severed my left gluteus muscle, causing interal bleeding, etc.
But I made it out alive.

There have been other occasions of serious proportions, but after the ATV accident, everything pales in comparison. So give me your worst people. I love this "shirt".

*Oh, the stick was buried so deeply, the doctor thought I was lying. I insisted he cut the fucker out, or I would goddamn well do it myself, right there. After digging 4 inches into my leg, he found it. It was shaped like the barb on a fishhook. I still have it at home.
There was nothing, on the other hand, that he could do for my ass. So now I sport a highly fashionable and well-earned dent that goes entirely across my left ass cheek. Hot, I know. My husband calls it my handle.


Dislocations are Disgusting

Our softball team had a game last night (did I mention we suck? we suck) and as we were warming up ( I was slated to play first base) the shortstop (who throws really hard) threw to me and I dislocated my finger. I wish I had taken a picture of it while it was out, but I couldn't stand it and I immediately popped it back into place.

Let me tell you something: for those of you fortunate enough to never have experience a dislocated finger, it is completely disgusting. For example:

This is exactly what my finger looked like, except it was my ring finger. Gross, eh?

It was strange; I knew the ball had hit my hand pretty hard, and I was getting ready to throw it back when I looked down at my hand and saw it all mangled.

I immediately had to look away from it and pop it back into place. (My brother has played rugby for years, and I have seen him relocate fingers many times. I was confident I could do it.)

So here is what it looks like today:

It is pretty swollen and starting to bruise, but I have some mobility and I don't think I need to see a doctor (contrary to what all my teammates and the Internet says I should do).

I mean, yeah, it is a bit painful, but I can take ibuprofen and it feels fine. The only thing I'm worried about is if I have a minor fracture or something that I can't see without an x-ray. Another issue: I HATE the doctor, hospitals, waiting rooms, etc. I would rather deal with it than go to a doctor, honestly.

Anyway, that's what is new in my world today, so of course I want to broadcast it. I love sharing injury stories, don't you? Tell me a good one.


More iPhone Love

I'm a maniac. But the hubs loves it too. Can you blame us?

Isis, the Protector.

The Hubs.

The hubs first iphone photo. Of course, it is of my chest. Gotta love him.



Yep, I am now the proud owner of an iPhone. And let me tell you, it really is everything that people have hyped it to be. I am SO in love with this gadget (coming from a girl who doesn't even own an iPod; i know, right??), so it's a good thing it was my husband that got it for me. Bless his sweet sweet heart.

So, what should I do with my iphone today? I think I will take it for a walk. Maybe you would like a tour of my cubicle.

Let's start with the main attraction:

Hello! This is me, today, at work. Notice the plethora of lovely colors that abound, as well as the amazing quality of this photo, taken with my iphone. I am the coolest person ALIVE!

This is my desk! Hello desk. And work that I am totally avoiding today. And guess what: it is SO worth it. Play time has never felt so good. (Notice the discarded cell phone lying useless and unloved atop my to-do list. I am a fickle master.)

And this is the kitchen at my office.

And this is the women's bathroom at my office.

Now I must go and play. See you all soon. :)
I'm in Boo-heaven.


Ear Candy: Wig in a Box

When I feel low, or even just blah, this song really makes me smile.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch: Wig in a Box



I have felt so unmotivated to post anything funny, creative, or resembling entertaining, as I have been ridiculously busy and somewhat self-destructive to my downtime (read: blogwriting). So, a couple of quick updates about what is going on with me. Because I'm narcissistic enough to think you care, and blazie enough to not care if you don't.

*My husband and I finally moved into our rental house. Two months later than expected. Remember my flea post? Yeah.
* Now there are plumbing issues. Meaning, six inches of dirty water in our shower when we run a load of laundry. And leaking under the kitchen sink. Bea-u-tiful.
*My mom's house finally sold, but she has about 3 weeks to tidy up and incredibly detailed life, and I swear to god she might drive me crazy yet if she hasn't succeeded already, and honestly, I'm not the person to ask one way or another.
*Summer hours at my office are over. Boo. And I thought summer was for chilling.
*Our new house has footers! Yippee! (Photos of the process will happen, I promise.)
*My little sister went back to Maryland. I cried all night. Boo.
*I am now juggling a ridiculous workload, with no end in sight. And the raise wasn't as great as I had hoped. Boo. I might just quit my job and start bartending again. I made some seriously sweet cash.
*I want to get out and play music with some peeps, but I am either too busy or too tired. Dammit.
*My cat is taking the biggest shits I have ever seen laid by a cat before. It is INSANE. And my poor husband has to clean the litter box, because I do this really horrendous *heave* if I have to even go near it, not to mention the involuntary gags that happen when he is changing it and I can smell it in the other room. GAH. I swear, it is the worst thing I have ever smelt in my life.
*I threw up randomly last night before our softball game, but didn't really feel sick until right when it happened, and felt fine afterward. (I pitched a whole game. A ridiculously bad game, but whatever.) A friend of mine said the P-word, and now I'm pissed. (For those of you not in my brain, the P-word is "pregnant". Gah.)
*Did I mention that my mom might just make me crazy? And we're not living with her anymore. Maybe I should change my name and move to a different country. Eh, but that would just give her a reason to REALLY get pissed.
*Did I mention my mom just turned 50 (last week) and we threw a HA-YUGE party for her? It was great fun, and she looked hot. I hope I look half as good as her at 50. My husband is a lucky man.
*Did I mention my mom taught me how to give a BJ when I was 14? Yep.
*We got a new car, since my husband's truck was totalled (not his fault). It's cute and gets great gas mileage. I'll take a sexy picture of him on the car and post it.
*Da Bears lost their season opener. Gah.
*I got more tattoo work done, but I need to take pics, so those will be up soon too, I suppose. If I can get my ass to care. Blah.

Anyhoo, entertain me now, monkeys.

Super Luchadores

A friend of mine (considered either a genius or a nutbag, depending on whom you ask; I'm of the first mindset) created a wrestling show a couple years ago. It still lives on, with various episodes and updates. Here is a highlight reel. Enjoy!

And if you want to see more, check out his blog here.


I'm a Dirty Dirty Girl

HA HA HA! I love that pic. No, I'm not talking about that kind of dirty. (I just wanted to shock you.) I'm talking about being dirty, literally, on the inside.

So I've been thinking about doing a colon cleanse lately (I know, I know, it sounds SO retarded-socialite-with-nothing-to-do), but I'm not talking about the shoving a tube up my ass and having my shit sucked out version. I'm talking about the herbal fast and detox version, which, rumor has it, makes you poop like this. (WARNING! DO NOT VIEW WHILE EATING, OR WHILE THINKING OF EATING, OR GETTING READY TO EAT.) Gah. Gah gah gah gah gah! The only thing that horrifies me more than those images is the prospect that something like that could be inside of me. And I want it out!

I am a fairly healthy person; I try to eat as many veggies as possible, I usually go for the salad over the french fries, and I NEVER eat fast food. (Seriously, the last time I did was years ago, and it wasn't pretty.) So I figure I'm in good shape. But I haven't always been (read: college) and I do drink alcohol fairly regularly (read: almost daily), so I've been thinking about it.

When I was in college, I worked at a co-op, and many of my co-workers swore by the Master Cleanse thingy, which basically consists of drinking nothing but a concoction of organic lemon juice, organic maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and water for 10 to 13 days. But, then again, I was in college, and the idea of intaking nothing but gourmet lemonade did not appeal in the least.

So now I'm older (certainly) and wiser (questionable, but I think so) and I want to take care of my body for the long haul. So I'm thinking about this cleansing idea.

Anyone ever tried it before?


Dutch Idol Awesomeness

I don't... I can't...

I just don't know what to say.

Simply the Best.


Babies + Lemons = Awesomeness

But this shit it just hilarious. This is one of the things I look forward to for when Robb and I have kids. Hey! My mom (and probably some member of everyone's family) did it to me. It's why we have kids, right? Well, that and the free slave labor.

Yep, this is my Monday afternoon. I fucking love kids.


Vick the Prick: Re-do or No-do?

If you had asked me, maybe even as recently as three weeks ago, whether I would define myself as idealistic, I probably would have laughed in your face. Partly because I like to laugh in people's faces, but mainly because I am uber-judgemental. Lately, however, I have been repeatedly disappointed by American "role models", and I have to ask myself: Self? Are your expectations too high? Or are you simply a blind idealist?

I suppose if I answered that question right now, it would have to be both. My expectations must be off the charts, because I cannot condone this attitude of goodwill and forgiveness towards a person that mutilates another living being after using it for violent means. And apparently I must be a naive idealist, as I think public figures should create strong moral standards and be examples that we can point to as our leaders and role models.

I am, of course, talking about Michael Vick.

I certainly believe that people constantly evolve throughout their lifetimes, and I definitely believe in 2nd, 3rd, 4th chances. Hell, I've had my share. But there's a big gap between giving repeats to people who atone (ah, I hate that word) for their wrongdoings and people who want those repeats just because they think they should have them.

To be fair, I have heard nothing from Vick about being accepted back into the NFL. But I think he's the only one that hasn't expressed an opinion about it.

Vick has agreed to a plea bargain, guaranteeing prison time. He has agreed to plead guilty to several charges. He was the ringmaster in a disgusting and inhumane practice, the underground world of dogfighting. He mutilated animals: chopped off their heads, drowned them, and killed them in what resembles the anti-humane. (In my brash opinion, there is not a long way to go from mutilating animals to mutilating humans. Most serial killers would agree.) And that was after he forced them to fight, sometimes to the death, and certainly to the pain. He hasn't even gone to trial, and already there are those voices coming to his aid, urging our country to give him his re-do.

Well, I say fuck that.

Until he does his fair share of community work, work with animals, donating to charities, and the rest of that celebrity walk-of-humility (do they have rehab for animal abuse?) then I say he gets no second chance. Action, motherfuckers. Action, action, action.

So screw you R.L. White. Vick has to prove to me that he deserves to earn that multi-million dollar paycheck before he goes back to the NFL. He must make amends. And yes, I think it is fair to hold our public figures to a higher standard. They make the big bucks because they appeal to a huge part of the American public. With great power (money, media pull, corporate sponsorships) comes great responsibility, and if we don't hold our role models to these standards, we are undermining the moral codes that keep our society functioning.

In the words of a famous little man with a funny hat: Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

Some interesting commentary, from both sides, on this Michael Vick issue:
one from an asshat
one from a realist, with the a view of the bigger picture

Cheers! And love your animals.

Ear Candy: Deadboy and the Elephantmen

For your listening pleasure, Dax Riggs, formerly of Acid Bath.

Happy Thursday, betches.



Steven Spielberg: Fuck You

This is insane. I really thought I was the only one. Apparently not.

I have been traumatized by E.T. No, not that horrendous TV show dedicated to giving celebrities their daily blowjobs (although, as an adult, that shit truly is TERRIFYING). No, I'm talking about the Steven Spielberg movie from 1982 with the little brown alien that everyone thinks is so fucking cute. Yeah, that E.T.

I was a mere 2 years old when that movie came out, and one of my parents (probably my mom. bless her heart) took me to the theater to see it. Now, a 2 year old in a theater is bad enough, but if you remember that opening scene, (the one with the scary guys with flashlights and guns and the aliens with their creepy fingers and spaceship and then that little fucking alien running through the forest with the most horrible shriek I have ever heard!!!) then you know that it is pretty intense for a normal person, much less a 2 year old.

Let's just say I didn't stop screaming until my mom got me home. Seriously.

I had never seen the entire movie until this past December 31. Seriously.

Even seeing that creepy-ass face on a cereal box was too much for me, up until about a year ago. Seriously.

I had recurring nightmares about E.T. until I was 25. SERIOUSLY.

E.T. and me: not cool.

So, today I'm procrastinating and reading Pajiba, and I start looking at the comment thread (awesome way to pass the time, dudes) and the first motherfucking comment is this guy saying he was scared of E.T. Wow, I think, I've never heard of anyone else being scared of that. People (especially my FAMILY, assholos) always used to make fun of me (read:torture me) about this particular phobia (despite the fact that my brother used to have nightmares about ranch dressing, ha!) and for the longest time I really thought that I had some repressed childhood memory attached to E.T. that manifested itself in the form of terror.

Apparently, there is an entire generation of us that are scarred by the most lovable alien ever to be created for the silver screen. Spielburg, I'm forwarding my therapy bills to you. And I suggest that everyone else do the same. Motherfucker.

I mean, I'm sorry but THIS:


If I saw something like that poking its face around a door, I'd either a. run away screaming or b. try to fight it and then run away screaming.

Or, at least I would have a year ago.

My husband took me to see this movie, all the way through for the first time, on December 31, 2006. Yep, just 8.5 months ago. It was playing at our local brew 'n view, and we were super bored, so we ate some mushrooms and went to see the movie.

And you know what? E.T. was a good movie. I was really surprised. After a lifetime of unexplainable terror, a crushing sensation in my chest just hearing those two little letters, a jump of fright in my stomach when inadvertently seeing its image, I was able to watch the movie and enjoy it.

But sometimes when the moon is just right, and my imagination decides to take hold of my brain functions, I can still hear the scritchscratch coming from the darkened bathroom and know that He's there, waiting for me.




  • You want to know what is cooler than cool? Walking into the bedroom after a relaxing shower, loosening my softball-knotted muscles (I'm the starting pitcher! HELLS yeah) with some stretching, and finding my husband in bed, nekkid, and in a kinky mood. :)
  • Also, these awesome SHUES that I've wanted forever, and they FINALLY went on sale!
  • And then watching The Last King of Scotland. That is a DAMN good movie.It doesn't get much better than that.
  • And I have another tattoo appointment today! Woo!
  • And we are buying (because someone hit my husband and totalled his truck) a new car.
  • Jucifer on Sunday night.
  • Girls night tonight (after tattoo plezh-ah).
  • Being forgiven!
  • The weekend!!!

Have a great one, everyone. Even you, Vermillion.

Boo out.


Screw Angelina: Jane Austen, Adopt Me!!!!

I often fantasize about living in eras that are not my own. I have a bordering-on-obsession obsession with the Regency period, (obviously, I'm not alone here) having read almost every Austen novel and seen every adapted-for BBC movie. (Pride & Prejudice with Colin "Darcy" Firth? Awesome.) Today, more than most days, I want to be there.

Fuck cell phones, fuck TVs, fuck IM, fuck computers, fuck answering machines and their evil stepsister voicemail. Fuck e-mail, fuck snail mail (I'll take mine on horseback, thank you), fuck checkout lines, fuck coke lines, fuck bylines. FUCK celebrities, fuck media, fuck car "collisions" (since "accident" implies guilt). Fuck higher learning, fuck airports, fuck taxis, fuck work-related functions. Fuck PC, fuck democracy, fuck peace (thanks, MJ). Fuck trannies, fuck bars, fuck pampered dogs. Eh, fuck it.

Believe it or not, I'm not really in a bad mood. I'm just tired of dealing with all the things that get in the way of my thinking. I need a nice, quiet place to sit, read, crochet, maybe even paint a fucking watercolor. (Those of you who know me, know how very far-fetched this is. I'm allowed to be a dichotomy, dammit.) I need to feel like I'm hearing my inner voice that is only mine, not all the white noise and static of the things we are all exposed to every day. I mean, can I really, please, someone, get through one day without seeing a single ad? No, I cannot. And they won't rest until they acquire the adspace on the backs of my fucking eyelids.

I want to wear heavy dresses that drag the dust. I want to challenge the Regency ideal of feminism. I want to worry about my chances for a financially advantageous marriage. I want to ride horses into a hunt. I want to be treated as a delicate flower. I want to sleep with hot stones in my bed on cold nights. I want to laze away my days in boring idleness.

Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a second. Maybe I don't want Jane Austen to adopt me. Maybe I want to be bare-breasted, galloping into battle beside Boudicca, slaughtering Romans and feeling the spatter of warm blood on my body. Yeah, that's better.

Fuck Jane Austen: Boudicca! ADOPT ME!!!


Tour De France Brings Out the Bike Nuts

Dedicated to OnTheVirg.




Just in Case you Didn't Motherfucking Know...

WOW! I wonder how the fuck that is possible. Perhaps I'll contemplate it over a few rounds off my M16 and a couple rails of blow...after a good session of butt sex.

Or perhaps I'll contemplate it on the Tree of Woe.




Barry Bonds: Fuck You

Dear Barry Bonds,

I would like to give you my heartfelt congratulations on beating a record. We all know what a legend Hank Aaron is and always will be; you must feel so accomplished to have beaten his career home run record.

You know, some people might say that you cheated. I am not one of those people. I strongly believe that performance-enhancing drugs are just the ticket to getting your name in the Baseball Hall of Fame; I don't see what the big friggin deal is, really. We live in a country of opportunities, and for all the young black men struggling to create a good life for themselves, you are such an incredible role model. I hope that all the kids playing ball around the country look to you as an icon of what a professional sports player should be: drug user, liar, cheater, and all around general jackass.

Not that you didn't have talent before the good ol' roid days—you did. But why stop there? Why be satisfied with good, when you could be legendary?? I totally get it.

Congratulations Barry. You deserve it.