From the Gates of Hell

Throwing A Bone

2008-02-08T11:32:00.000-05:00

I've been flying low low low under the radar. Mostly I have been busy drinking too much, losing track of my panties, and falling down on dicks that any self-respecting girl of a certain age and station in life should steer clear of when drunk and falling down on things. Stumbling home reeking of liquor, cigarettes, and sin. It is shameful, I tell you. I am a disgrace. Fun, though.

It would seem that this weekend, I'll be doing a little celebrating in advance of the 38th anniversary of the day I first drew breath. I'm starting tonight by going to the opening reception for the book, "Love Song: Erotic Photographs" by Arnold Skolnick. He's a pretty superfantastic artist with a remarkable resume and is the dude who designed the dove and guitar poster for the Woodstock wing-ding back in the 60's. My big sister occasionally models for him (she's beautiful and a good model because she's a yoga teacher. Thus, by definition, a poser). More importantly, Arnold is a real swell guy. You should look him up and see some of his art. Lovely stuff, friends. Lovely stuff.

This may be a hit and run post. I may find time in my busy schedule of defiling and debauching myself to post more often. Either way, know that I am thinking about all you sweeties all the time. XXX

Hell in a Handbasket

2008-01-12T08:35:00.000-05:00

Hokay . . . So!

Even though my blogging credibility will lose ground in the eyes of Old Knudsen, I’m daring to post a video that has made me laugh my fool ass off for years now. You may have seen it, but if not, you are in for a treat.

They tell me that the political climate is heating up and that someday soon, there will be an election for the new Chief Whore of the Free World. People are in a lather about who is the best whore in each party and whatnot. Republicans are in a tizzy about a Democrat getting into office and taking all their money away and enabling poor people and foreigners to live with some dignity. Democrats fear that Republicans will maintain the ever coveted Chief Whore of the Free World Office and they will turn all free thinkers into Bible-thumping, war-mongering, automatons that are hopped up on booze and prescription drugs, and that everyone who needs a helping hand will become more so downtrodden than they already are. Either way, chaos will ensue. The sun will cease to rise. And worst of all, we'll have a recession. There, I said it.

Politics. I pay attention, but I don't really give a damn how things pan out. I realize that position is not very politically correct of me. However, whatever the whore parade does, I still know how to make rice and beans. I can darn my socks and mend a hole in a pair of jeans and unravel a sweater from the thrift store to knit myself a new one. I have a car, but I also have a bicycle and I know how to use it and repair it. As was pointed out to me recently, I am resilient and resourceful. And frankly, I am a little bit Buddhist about politics.

Last night I was speaking with a friend who has never been "rich" but has always been comfortable. Her family didn't have to scrimp to get by. She doesn't remember going to the market with a single mother and $5 to feed two kids for a month. If that was her situation, she would be a turtle on her back.

I told her that if the bottom fell out of the economy, I would sit back and laugh my ass off as people fell apart in panic and desperation as they lost their cars, houses and . . . horror of it all . . . their god damned, flat-screen, high-definition televisions. Is it such a surprise that Americans are fat? She wondered what I would do if I lost my job in such a hypothetical. I reminded her that before I had my current job, I always had some job or another. They weren't always professional. They didn't always hold the esteem that my profession does. And they certainly didn't bring me the scratch that I earn now. Even so, there is always a way to turn a dime if you are willing to do what it takes.

She could not imagine that anyone who has worked hard to get ahead could go back to the holding hands of modest means once they've discovered the vibrating joys of gluttonous affluence. Perhaps she has never really held hands. She bought her house just a couple of months before the real estate market took a header. I urged her to hold off for a spell while the sub-prime adjustable rate mortgages adjusted and people started to panic. Her property has lost about $15,000 in the past six months. Fear and desperation always smells of opportunity to people like me who are patient and good at being poverty stricken.

I’ve Been Remiss

2008-01-07T23:01:00.000-05:00

And I’m still sorry.

December turned out to be a busy-ass month. If it’s any consolation, I thought of nothing but you, my faithful blog pals. OK, I lied a little with that last bit, but I often thought of all y’all and occasionally, I had moments of inspiration that went like this, “oh . . . hilarious . . . I should post about that.” And then I’d proceed to completely forget about it.

Anyhow, over the month of December, I completed a F. U. C. K. I. N. G. H. U. M. U. N. G. O. U. S. closure report and became sick as a dog.

Actually, I don’t often get sick so when I do, I don’t fuck around. This was one of the worst of the mothers of all head colds anyone could imagine. I was solidly in bed for about a week. When I finally mustered the gumption to haul my arse out of bed and go to work, last Thursday, I took a look at my environment and found this sad situation:

On the floor around my bed, there was a sea of soiled snot rags. Actually, a box and a half worth of them. In case you were wondering, they take up a lot more space out of the box than in it. On one side of my bed there was (here’s where the wheels came off the bus with the red wine pickled writing) ~~ampty bottle of Niquil on the floor, On the bedside table there was a discussion about who has or who has no sense aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa~~ (whoops, I may have fallen asleep a little mid-blather) an empty bottle of Nyquil on the floor and on the bedside table there was a half full bottle of Nyquil. I spent an hour finding all the tissues strew about the house and did the dishes from can after can of pre-fab (read: not-so-fab) chicken soup. My strength is coming back now and I’m beginning to regain my feistiness. Couldn’t be more pleased at that prospect.

In other news, I found a condominium that I may actually make an offer for. Maybe not. I’m scared witless about it. Most people I know have a significant other jumping with them which spreads out the risk. And most of the people I know who go it alone, at least have parents who can offer an assist if things become overwhelming. In this case, it's just me. That makes me extremely cautious and hesitant with large purchases. I want my mommy (seems to be my fall back position when I’m sick or scared).

That's all for now. I have more up my sleeves, so stay tuned!

Happy 2008

2008-01-06T18:32:00.000-05:00

Confession: I'm a bad blogger.

Someone should spank me . . . no, really, please . . . I'm in to that kind of thing. It's OK, though because my therapist doesn't think I'm much the worse for it so it's game on with a paddle.

I've been neglecting my blog and my blog pals for a month and I am truly sorry. Things have been busy: work, family, illness, not necessarily in that order. The other night I got fitfully crocked and hammered out some writing that I wanted to post, but I haven't had the guts to open it up and take a look at what sort of crazy talk I was spewing into the computer in the middle of the night, while soaked in red wine. I'll take a look and fix some typos and try to get it up soon so the blog goon squad carrying torches and pitch forks doesn't hunt me down to hurt me bad in a not so fun way.

Happy New Year, y'all!

Ali Blah Blah is Right on the Money!

2007-12-11T07:21:00.000-05:00

After I got home from work last night and got all my comments on yesterday's blog, I went on a hunt for my high school diary. Ali Blah Blah suggested that I had actually written about the first time I rutted with my first love boyfriend of The Volvo Wagon fame as I suggested in yesterday's post. She imagined that my diary entry went something like this:

'dear diary, today we rutted for the first time, I was so excited, he wore blue.....'.

I must tell y'all, I found it and this is what it said:

Dear Diary,

I had so wanted to wait until the time was right and it would be special to pop Boyfriend's cherry. As that sort of thing goes, I really wish that it was more special and memorable when I had my first day in the saddle, but it wasn't special, more a task to get out of the way. Anyway, he had band practice tonight and his buddy, you know, 'Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III' (ok, there were several of this animal in my youth) was having a party at his dad's place in Montecito. I wish it was at his beach house, because that would have made it more special, but it was just the house in the Village. Damn. So we were playing quarters with really bad beer. Milwaukee's Best. Again. And boyfriend asked me to go downstairs with him to use the bathroom. Honestly, I thought, he is so not a girl like that. What the hell has gotten into him. So I go downstairs, and we start fooling around in a dark room with laundry strewn across the bed. What does Boyfriend do, I ask you? What does he do? He starts taking off all our clothes. I resist at first because I could see where this was going and I have to tell you, the laundry strewn basement bedroom of Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III is so not "special". But we were already past the point of no return so I went with it. I was so excited. I thought I was done with "inexperienced" boys, but that's what I get for falling for a younger . . . ahem . . . man. Thank God he was fully grown in the important parts. Yeah, it matters when you are young and don't have any compensatory moves. Amazing that boys don't always come out of their first sexual experiences totally damaged! So off he went pumping like a bunny until he started panting out "Here I go, here I go, here I go." I took that as a sign that he was about to fill me with sweet adolescent man boy juice. It was. And he did. And I had all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. I said to him, 'Here I go? Here I go? Here I go? Seriously.' He was sheepish and said that he didn't know what he was supposed to say or do but wanted to give me fair warning. Aww. Sweet. Being the kind nurturing type, I went upstairs and told everyone what had just happened and what he said. We laughed and laughed and laughed. Because I'm cruel, I think I'll be the girlfriend to him that gives a lot of blow jobs to make up for it. I wonder if he will appreciate that . . . So, Dear Diary, that is how I spent my St. Patrick's Day of 1988.

That was my first love, and the last time I kept track of my boyfriends. The sex got better and he started calling me Bunny. It's pretty funny to think about if you ever met me, because I am sooooo not a Bunny type of girl.

Thanks for the sweet blog anniversary wishes, y'all!

Let Her Eat Cake

2007-12-10T08:07:00.000-05:00

Anniversaries do not matter that much to me. As I grow older, their value diminishes and consistently becomes more and more insignificant. Across the history of my life, I haven't kept track of the dates of significant events and life milestones.

I have celebrated one anniversary with a boyfriend, and that was because I was 19 years old and it was just a 'thing that you do' when you have a boyfriend. Once was enough. Since then I could not tell you exactly how long I've dated any of my ex boyfriends. I certainly couldn't tell you when we met or had our first date, kiss, or rut.

I've not bred. That is probably why I don't look at children as 7 month old, 23 month old or any month old. To me, they are pretty much, newborn until they are a year old. Then they turn two after another year has screamed by. I think that is about as much tracking as is necessary. Anything beyond that is tedious and obsessive, but appears to be the standard in parenting.

So last year, during NaBloPoMo I was inspired to start a blog. I was totally unprepared for anyone to ever look at it much less come back and leave comments. Imagine my surprise when a few of you good people added a link to my blog on your blogs. High compliment, yet I always figured that it was just a matter of time before you realized that I was a fraud and you deleted my link. Any time now, I'm sure I'll lose you all.

The point is, as I was burning through writing a post every day during the month of November, I thought, NaBloPoMo is almost over, pretty soon I will have been writing this blog for a year. So I carried on writing away and finally November came to an end and this lady had a moment to step back and breathe a little. I also took the time to look through my archives and see exactly when I began writing this here blog. Guess what: Consistent with the value I put on anniversaries, my one year mark came and went. I had cake in celebration last night.

Actually I was hung over from my company Christmas party, so I dove into comfort food to try and regain balance and clarity in my system. Sugar is good for that, right? It didn't fix anything really, but having cake for no good reason seemed appropriate.

Social Hell

2007-12-05T22:02:00.000-05:00

I am not good at the professional mixers/networking cocktail parties. At all. My profession and station in life, however, requires that I attend these types of events regardless of the social anxiety they inflict upon me.

So.

Tonight I had to attend one of these events put on by the Environmental Business Council in downtown Boston. I was excited about going to a party in Town, but I also knew that it would involve a lot of smiling and nodding, talking to strangers as though I was actually interested in what they were blathering on about and swapping business cards. Gah!

When I arrived, my social anxiety kicked into full swing. I immediately sought out the bathroom so that I could escape the din of eager networkers rambling on about the services their companies provide and what new and exciting technologies they are applying in innovative ways too do fuck all to environmental problems. The secondary din was provided compliments of the lawyers. Theirs was a buzz of their own special jargon, discussing rifts and acquisitions and who is litigating who. Blek! By the way, several people at different times through the course of the evening encouraged me to go to law school because I was such a natural.

Oh please!

After escaping the throng of people that could not be traversed without touching someone (that is, shoving them to get past), I found a quiet balcony where I sent the following text message to some of my best mental health anchors. You know in case I went around the bend was hauled away by the white coat army, they can say the warning signs were there.

Social anxiety GAH!
I'm at a business holiday mixer with all the Bostonian environmental movers and shakers and I just want to puke and leave.

Here are the responses I received:

From my favorite hot shot Los Angeles publicist - Down a martini and show off some cleavage
Sound advice for many an uncomfortable situation.

From Sassy Sundry - I think I'm going to need to read about that!
Darlin', your wish is my command.

From Miss M of the 2007 Great Texas Adventure fame - Look for single dudes, or some other gal with a drink who is also bored. God, I hope there are drinks!
There were, but I held out and went for some straight scotch toward the end of the party. I didn't want to get myself juiced enough to get into trouble with the boss man.

I weathered it. It was ok. I sucked up to a client that I'd done a project for when I first moved to the east coast. I met a boy with a very firm grip and has hands that are comparable in size and girth to Andre the Giant's. I have a bonifide crush on him and think that I shall engage in filthy fantasies about him shortly.

G'night, y'all.

STICK A FORK IN ME . . .

2007-11-30T18:49:00.000-05:00

I'M DONE!

Although many of my posts left something to be desired, and I had the near miss back on November 2nd when Blogger was working against me and I had to post on Ning instead of this here page, I managed to pull through.

Drinking now.

Good Day

2007-11-29T19:09:00.000-05:00

Some days, things just come together nicely.

Upon arriving at the office, my boss came in to see me. After the disaster which was my annual review (and nervous breakdown), I wasn't expecting anything fantastic from him. However, he informed me that he was able to give me a raise and it will be retroactive to my anniversary date (in July, at which time this year was when I started hemorrhaging cash . . . bad).

Then I was invited to three parties. All quite suddenly my anti-social ass has a social agenda. One of these parties is a Truly Horrible Holiday Sweater party. Since I am all about style and class, I don't own such a sweater.

On my way home from work, I went by my local thrift store to find such a beast and I found a horrible holiday sweater, but not a TRULY horrible holiday sweater. I won't be winning any awards for that. The good news is that I found four really gorgeous wool sweaters and two brand new cast iron pots (a small dutch oven and a large wok shaped pan) without a shadow of rust. Yippee!! I love new cookware!

I have not yet decided whether I will unravel to recycle the yarn or keep the sweaters as they are. Oh and each for $5.50 a throw. I feel rich. (even though I failed at getting an appropriately hideous sweater for the party)

On top of all that good fortune, two fellows in my office were having their birthdays. There was cake! Uh-huh! Cake! I even got accused of talking dirty while eating cake (which I was). So I asked, "Doesn't everyone talk dirty when eating cake? Isn't it the most natural thing you can do?" Yes, they also accused me of being a wacky Californian (which I am).

The Shrink

2007-11-28T21:54:00.000-05:00

Confession: I have daddy issues.

Most of my adult life has been spent self-righteously gloating at my friends who are saddled with daddy issues. Apparently, that was a premature gloating because since I started ~~masochistic hell~~ therapy last week, it has become abundantly clear that daddy planted some seeds in my psyche that . . . Just. Won't. Freaking. Die . . . Yet.

So therapy is fun. All the creative stories I've told myself over the years, just don't hold up in the court of a perfect stranger sitting across from me, taking notes and throwing out the occasional, "Uh-huh, and how did that make you feel?" as he nods empathetically. OK, he doesn't really say that, but he does take notes. Is it wrong that I get paranoid about some potentially undiscovered neurosis or another every time he starts fervently scribbling notes as I pour some little tidbit of my soul out to him? Apparently my predilection for S&M is consistent with my intimacy, trust and commitment issues. Heh! Didn't see that one coming!

This will be an interesting adventure. Perhaps I'll come out the other side of this a nicer person. If so, what a shame to waste all this rich surliness.

DUMBO

2007-11-27T07:01:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had the experience where you write something truly inspired and brilliant? And for some reason, some ridiculous reason that would baffle the mind, you type it directly into the Blogger post page. And then, when you go to post said brilliant piece of prose, Blogger asks for your login and password. So you think, I’m going to hit the back button and save that brilliant piece of word smithery to another document so as not to lose it. And when you go to the previous page, it is gone. GONE! Gone forever, Clementine. Has that ever happened to you? Me neither.

That was the start of this day. I tried to re-construct it, but it was all in vain. The magic was gone.

Since I don’t have anything more interesting, and apropos of nothing other than I just like it, I’ll give you this picture of the Manhattan Bridge as seen from a park in DUMBO.

For those of you who don’t know, DUMBO is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It is a formerly industrial, presently mid-gentrification, artsy neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. One of my good friends and fellow Thanksgiving revelers is the manager of a bar/restaurant/nightclub there.

On my first trip to DUMBO, we took this picture one middle of the night after attempting to drink all the wine in the cellar. The other highlight of the evening was convincing a group of not so smart Triple A League baseball players that my sister was a man, now living as a woman. If you ever saw my sister, there is really not a question in a thousand years what her gender is. She is stacked with cartoon Wonder Woman curves.

My sister was talking to them and I was talking to the bartender. One of them got my attention I heard my sister say, “No, I am not a man. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask Fresh Hell, she’s my sister and she would know.”

So the not so smart baseball boy asked, “Hey, she is a man, isn’t she?”

Not knowing the full context of their conversation, beyond my sister indicating that I was indeed her sister and that she is unencumbered by a Y-chromosome, I looked him square in the eye and said, “Of course she’s a man.” And by some act of bacchanalian Voodoo, I managed to keep a straight face as my sister’s distorted in disbelief. Eventually I fessed up and told them the truth, but at that point they were convinced otherwise.

She is a tall lady (5’10”) with very large hands, but seriously, she is all woman.

Anyhow, it was amusing and I like bridges, so there you have it.

Something about steel girders.

Ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm . . .

2007-11-26T06:39:00.000-05:00

Yesterday my sister dragged me to the Sunday morning yoga class that she teaches. While I was bending and contorting in the yoga sort of way for the first time since well before I had surgery on my knee, it occurred to me that I am not as strong as I was just a few months ago, the compensation for a lame knee has hit the whole of my body and left it off kilter, and my flexibility leaves a lot to be desired. This morning, there are very few bits of me that are not experiencing soreness as a result.

My teeth and scalp for example . . . they are not sore.

Yoga is a dear friend. Sure there is pain involved, but it soothes my mind, sculpts biceps that are fun to look at, promotes strength and flexibility that leaves the fellas awestruck, and facilitates an exciting sex life. Now . . . all I have to do is get the fella to strike with awe and I'll be all set. Well, that and spend some time getting my yoga game face back on so I will have the wherewithal to pitch out some awe inspiring contortions.

For all of you fellas, who have not yet taken a yoga class, there are benefits worth consideration that many a man overlooks.

It isn't just for girls.
Just because you do yoga, doesn't mean you have to become a snively vegetarian and there is no need to start wearing hippy clothing and odious freaking patchouli oil.
Every guy I know who does yoga regularly has a superior body in shape and tone to those who do no yoga. In fact, the guys I know who do yoga exclusively for fitness, foregoing weights and aerobic activities, have better bodies than most other athletes I have known.
The whole relaxation bit is tremendous; all of life's woes do evaporate for a spell.
It makes for the sleep of an angel.
And one must not overlook the class itself, which is largely populated by flexible women in tight clothing.

The "yoga crowd" gets the . . . peace, love, unity, happiness, 'balance' . . . wtf? Balance? That is where the boat sets sail without them. They tend to overlook giving equal energy to war, hatred, discordance, sadness, anger, and so forth. The results of which are a bunch of self-indulgent assholes that spend all their time focused on their own personal inner peace, love, unity, happiness. Only the pretty thoughts and feelings shall enter their "beings". However, all you have to do is glare and spit at them and they slink away just like street proselytizers do.

It Has Been Suggested . . .

2007-11-25T21:39:00.000-05:00

Dear Dive has suggested that the time has come for me to say, "Okay, Dive. You were right about NaBloPoMo."

First and foremost: Thanks, Dive! I was at a loss for what to say today that would have the appearance of a post, but patently is not.

To an extent, he is right about NaBloPoMo, and to an extent, not so much. I have barely tapped the tall tales I wanted to share with you good people, but for lack of time in this God forsaken month (Second only in that category to next freaking month!), I have scarcely had a moment to pull a few thoughts together. This month I went out of town twice (6 days, and 4 days) to attend a wedding and for the gluttons feast holiday, and written a closure report on a project that spanned 7 years of remedial work, and entered therapy to address my moody blues . . . again. Zowie, this has been a humbdinger of a month. NaBloPoMo couldn't have come at a more inconvenient time. The good news is that I do have quite an arsenal of words to share. The bad news is that it is taking me forever to find a moment to sit down and crank those words out. Hold steady, friends. My time to shine is yet to come.

Submittal From The Genius Parade

2007-11-24T20:59:00.000-05:00

I have nothing intelligent to say.

I've been looking at the screen while watching DVDs of NCIS in the background. Usually inspiration will rear its head while watching interesting shows, but I've got absolutely nothing for all y'all today. I was going to collect some alone time and get my head into shape for constructing something worth reading. However, the prospect of parting ways from my sister this afternoon was too much to bear so she came back to my place with me and we are having quality girlie time together. Just the two of us. It is fantastic.

Moral of the lack of story is: I'm sorry to waste your time. Come back soon and eventually I'll have something interesting to say.

xooxoox

Jackass!

2007-11-23T19:17:00.000-05:00

I just got finished watching Jackass Two. It is amazing how funny a bunch of guys with no shame and high pain thresholds can be. I laughed hysterically and occasionally was so revolted that I had to look away.

I highly recommend it.

Now, about leftover pie . . .

Blood Sugar Overload

2007-11-22T21:56:00.000-05:00

My belly is full of starch and pie. The thing about Thanksgiving that I like the least is the forced binge factor. I love to eat. A lot. But this is just ridiculous. I fear that my belly is too full to drink any more wine. I’m strong, therefore, I’ll endure.
Ali Blah Blah tagged me on a meme. Thank God! I mean, in the past I’ve lambasted them, but I am relieved that I don’t have to come up with something straight out of my food addled brain. Yay!

The goal of this meme, consistent with the theme of the day, is to divulge seven things that I’m thankful for. And so . . .

1) Quite thankful that that I did not run over the deer that ambled out onto the highway this morning as I was clipping along at 80 miles an hour. It actually stopped smack dab in the middle of my lane, and looked dumbly at me. I slammed on the brakes and it slowly continued on. After passing it and leaving it unharmed, in my rear view mirror three of his buddies also walked across the highway with the same dumb look in their eyes.

2) I’m thankful for bleached blond boys. The friends I’m sharing the holiday with have a son who has a freshly bleached mop. He is 12 years old, very clever and gives me hope for the future.

3) There is a small feline friend of mine who climbs all over me in my sleep and though she’s two years old, she still has not learned how to meow like a real cat. She just squeaks like a kitten . . . still. I’m thankful for that.

4) On my 29th birthday, my mother presented me with a strand of Mikimoto pearls. I cried like I’d won the lottery. I’m thankful to have those.

5) My brother was in the Army, was taught to speak Arabic, was deployed to Iraq in the Special Forces, and came home safely. Thankful doesn’t quite cover it.

6) I’m thankful for strapping young men. Occasionally, when I see these creatures on the street, I will just thank them. I won’t tell them what I’m thanking them for, I’ll just say, “Thank you.”

7) November is nearly over, for which I am truly thankful. The barrel is being scraped. I still have plenty to post about, but I have been so damned busy this month that I haven’t had a chance to actually put much of it to words. The good news is I may have some upcoming posts that aren’t quite this lame. The bad news is I do not know how long this so damned busy situation will go on. NaBloPoMo burnout . . . uh-huh.

If you want to share with the blogworld what you are thankful for, consider yourself tagged. I yearn for wine and sleep. Perhaps not in that order.

Going Green

2007-11-21T19:52:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm recycling.

In the background Frank Black is singing:

Where is my mind,
Where is my mind,
Where is my mind,
Way out in the water,
See it swimmin.

So. Very. Tired.

Last year on I posted the following photo that was taken during my Thanksgiving festivities.

I am not a fan of the holidays.

I'm driving across the state in a few minutes, so this is all you get for now. xo

SNOW!!!

2007-11-20T10:06:00.000-05:00

Upon pulling into my office's parking lot this morning, snow started flurrying down upon my car. Looking out the window now, it is actually snowing, there is accumulation, and everything. I have but one thing to say about this:

FINALLY!!!!

The weather Gods have smiled down upon New England and the odious lingering breath of summer is abated.

It will make for an interesting drive out to Northampton, for the Tegan and Sara concert tonight, but I'm up for it. Small effort in the name of rock and roll. Coming back will be the big test, but I love driving in the snow.

Make It Sting Just A Little More

2007-11-19T18:34:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I totally poached the following quiz from Leigh's blog, but I couldn't resist . . . especially when I got the results and scored as a total slave to BDSM. Heh! I'm kinky as they come, and apparently as I come as well.

Ahem . . .

2007-11-19T18:32:00.001-05:00

How are you in bed
created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as A Slave To BDSM

Admit it, you like being tied up and being told you've been very naughty. You like teasing your partner and making them squirm, and not letting them be able to do anything about it. Some people think what you do is sick and disgusting, but you know it's all in good fun.

A Slave To BDSM

90%

Sex God

70%

A Romantic

53%

Virgin

28%

Chocolate To Make You Cry Out In The Night

2007-11-18T22:10:00.000-05:00

There are three types of people in the world:

People who burn for chocolate, any chocolate
People who couldn’t be bothered with chocolate . . . at all
People who can only choke it down if it’s fine, divine chocolate fit only for royalty and humans of inhumanly superior virtue.

I fall into the latter category and tend toward the middle category.

As chocolate goes, I can take it or leave it, and usually leave it. Rarely, if ever do I crave it. When choosing a flavor of cake, I usually go straight for pie, fruit pie, NEVER CUSTARD OR PUDDING.

Ahh rhubarb, how do I love thee, let me count the ways . . .

I like my sweets to be a step above chocolate in their perfection.

So.

I have found the exception to the rule. Actually, my totally clever and beautiful sister found the exception to the rule. There is a chocolatier in Vermont who makes a chocolate bar that is so freaking good; I do not want to know a world without it. These awesome folks run Laughing Moon Chocolates. I don’t know anything of their products beyond their Chipotle & Cinnamon Dark Chocolate bar. Do yourself a favor and order one, no matter what the cost to ship it to the far corners of this blue planet. When it arrives, open a lovely Merlot, have a bit of both, and wait to be overtaken by a bliss that words are too ham-fisted to describe. Seriously, it rivals dirty, filthy, sex that leaves you gasping and moaning out loud in public with the memory of it the next day.

You are welcome.

P.P.S.

2007-11-17T23:49:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to get cought up with comments. That will be one of my Sunday adventures. With any luck, I'll be able to post something of greater substance than the past few days.

Here's hoping.

P.S.

2007-11-17T19:15:00.000-05:00

I nearly forgot to post today . . . Oh, the horror!

Gratuitous Confession

2007-11-17T19:10:00.000-05:00

Confession: I loves me some country music. NEVER pop country! However, I can't get enough of some fine ol' honkey tonkin' goodness. There, I've said it. Don't judge me!

Will This Week Ever End???

2007-11-16T10:22:00.000-05:00

Confession: I need a drink. Is half past ten in the morning too early?

GAH!!

2007-11-15T20:58:00.000-05:00

Instead of regaling y'all with tall tales of my misadventures I'll show you this:

Method 1 Excedances for VOCs - one or more of:

1,1-dichloroethane, 1,2,4-trichlorobenzene, 1,2-dichlorobenzene, 1,3-dichlorobenzene, 1,4-dichlorobenzene, 2-butanone (MEK), acetone, benzene, bromomethane, chlorobenzene, ethyl benzene, naphthalene[1], toluene, trans-1,2-dichloroetene, trichloroethene, xylene, [1,1,1,2-tetrachloroethane, 1,1,2,2-tetrachloroethane, 1,1,2-trichloroethene, 1,1-dichloroethene, 1,2-dichloroethane, 1,2-dichloropropane, bromodichloromethane, bromoform, carbon tetrachloride, chloroform, cis-1,2-dichloroethene, dibromochloromethane, dichloromethane, ethylene dibromide, hexachlorobutadiene, methyl isobutyl ketone (MIBK), styrene, tetrachloroethene, vinyl chloride]*

* ½ detection limit exceeds standard

[1] 1,2,4 trichlorobenzene, 1,2,3 trichlorobenzene, naphthalene, and several other SVOCs are all standard analytes under the EPA VOC Method 8260b. Although both EPA Method 8260b and EPA Method 8270c report valid results for these chemicals, they are discussed as VOCs in this report to avoid redundancy.

When I'm not in the business of regaling, the above is what I write. I bet you all want to dust off your resumes and get a job doing what I do for ~~slowly killing my soul~~ a living.

Slipping Into Madness. . .

2007-11-14T20:37:00.000-05:00

This has been one of those days when I just want to quit. Freaking everything. I'm already fantasizing about the beautiful sleep I'll be getting on my Simmons Beautyrest Enchantment Plush Pillow Top. It is my new bed, it is my new buoy.

A bunch of stuff I set up at the office to get done so that everything would be on track upon my return were supremely fucked up by:

a) my analytical lab

b) FedEx

c) one of my drilling subcontractors

d) a property owner of a site I manage

e) the demanding God damned nature of my boss (Umm, Fresh, that project I gave you the middle of last week is not progressing as quickly as I'd like it to . . . Umm, I was out of town since then, Fucker!) . Lovely to have that off my chest.

As promised, a collection from the Great Tejas Adventure of November 2007.

Speaking of chest, remember how Miss M mentioned that hers was HUGE? Here's proof:

Sista is busty!

And as I'm sure you were all waiting to see . . . I'm coming out to you, my loves. I sang at the top of my lungs, and this is what it looked like:

I couldn't tell if the red-eye reducer made me more scary looking than the red eyes were to begin with.

And singing from the bottom of my lungs:

The next day wasn't nearly as pretty. I'm sure you're surprised.

This guy was crocked too, and a totally fantastic dancer with an exceptional sense of style.

He also was on the barfing merry-go-round come morning. It was funny to watch. Especially since I wasn't the morning after barfing girl.

I'll finish with a little of what we gazed at on the drive home:

Yeah, Texas gives good sky.

Never Leave Home

2007-11-13T16:53:00.000-05:00

Because you may come back to chaos and floods.

Upon return to my humble abode:

1) The key to the front entry way to my apartment building no longer works.

2) My front door is locked, but the lock on my front door to which I have a key no longer exists. (The back door lock still works . . . phwew!)

3) The apartment above mine had a catastrophic leak and water came cascading down from the light fixture in my bedroom directly on to my bed and soaking through to the downstairs apartment. My bed is gone.

Shortly, my landlord will be coming over to take me to pick out a brand new bed. I should be furious, but I can not seem to stop laughing about it.

Will get Texas pictures up soon.

Morning Pork

2007-11-12T09:57:00.000-05:00

I'd like to introduce you to my post nuptial hangover . . .

Hey Y'all.

I got to nurse a drunk scientist who had interminable hiccups. Miss M saw that she executed the pre-emptive strike . . . thus, emptying her stomach. She's all about paying it forward.

There was an open bar that had a seemingly endless river of bourbon, the headwaters of which I was trying to discover. (unwise errand, thanks for asking)

The DJ played inexcusible things like "You Shook Me" by AC/DC. I told him I'd dance if he got his shit together and played "I Want You to Want Me" by Cheap trick. It took him a while, but he got it together and I did some dancing while singing at the top of my lungs: feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'. Oh didn't I didn't I didn't I see you cryin'! There are pictures. The redneck yayhoo busted out some Prince as well which as always makes it impossible to do anything but dance.

Miss M here - It's going to be a loooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng post-IHOP drive this morning. Lucky for us an the rest of the world, we're not amateur drinkers anymore. Things could be a lot worse. Where'd we leave the car again? Fresh Hell encouraged me to wear my little black dress. Good thinking since I was all foxy in that get up. However, my sha-na-na-knockers were pretty much out there for the world (read conservative suburban Dallas types) to see. I am forever immortalized as 'that loose canon with the big knockers' in a variety of candid AC/DC-dancing photos. I hate her.

I'm so gonna have a side of bacon.

Tyler, Texas

2007-11-11T16:57:00.000-05:00

This is the sad product of me forgetting to bring along my camera to Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon. Camera phones are just not any good for taking indoor/night pictures. The fleeting 30 second video clip I recorded on the camera phone was not much better.

We spent far too long on the road today. Instead of heading over to the saloon for Chickenshit Bingo tonight, we will be jumping in the shower to wash the road scum off us and put our sauciest outfits for the wedding. Yes, we shall be showering together. It will put a subtle air of naughtiness on us for the ceremony. Won't that be festive?

Miss M here - Said blog authtress is full of it. I am far too much of a woman for her and furthermore she is not my type AT ALL. Aside from scrubbibg too hard with the wash cloth , er, rag, she's become an east coast erudite, which is tragic and nauseating. Talking all about the North End and all *blek*. Sure, I'll probably get way too drunk and go ahead and stick my tongue down her throat later, but that will be merely a testemonial to the bottomless glass and the booze that fills it - y'all!

SUPERCHICKEN!

2007-11-10T17:37:00.000-05:00

Last night we made it out for a night on the town in Austin. The martinis were lovely, followed up with a decadent Indian dinner, ending up at Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon. Home of Chicken Shit Bingo on Sundays, alas, we cannot go as the mutherfreakingwedding situation (and for those who don't know what that means, there is a chicken in a cage with a bingo card at the bottom and you bet on which number the chicken is going to shit on . . . Fantastic!). Ginny's is a true and real honkey tonk saloon. The Dance hall Cowboys were playing and all their songs started with those three violin cords. You know the ones . . . They go dun dun duuuuun (insert fiddle here). As the music starts you imagine a dance floor filled with cowboy hats and blue jeans. The dancers start moving around in the boot scootin' honkey tonk shufflin' sort of way. We drank Budweiser and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of cans as a better prepared older crowd ordered sodas and ice to add liquor from flasks they had handy by with them.

Today, we're slower. We started the day with coffee . . . then a beer . . . then we ate at a superfantastic joint where the Mexicans eat . . . then we shopped for TX kitsch and smokin' hot boots at Justin's Westernwear. Goddammit, smokin' hot boots are spendy.

Swell day, eighty degrees and all. We had happy hour by the lake and some good eats at at Casa de Miss M.

Tomorrow . . . driving, etc. (and by etc. we mean a muthershratchinwedding . . .) Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu . . .

"Breasts Like Martinis"

2007-11-09T16:32:00.000-05:00

I ran across this poem at Slate several weeks ago and I thought it was just swell. If you'd like to hear the author (who is an awfully swell gal) read it, click here.

Me, when I write poetry it is nothing short of crappy and self-indulgent, and I am disinclined to submit you to it. That is, unless I find the poems I wrote as a final project for my 9th grade writing class.

I was in a pickle because I hadn't done anything for the final project and we were to either write an extensive essay on lord knows what, or submit a collection of 11 poems we had written over the term. I brewed myself I pot of coffee, sat down at the typewriter, and stayed up all night long and wrote a collection that I could turn in. I received an 'A' and laughed like a maniac. These poems are too embarrassing not to share. Alas, I know not where they are. My suspicions are that they now reside in a box somewhere in my mother's garage in California. If I find them, though, y'all will be the first to know.

There will be martinis tonight!

Breasts Like Martinis
by Jill McDonough

The bartender at Caesar's tells jokes we've heard a hundred times.
A shoelace walks into a bar, for example. I whisper
Sarah Evers told me that joke in sixth grade and Josey says
My brother Steve, 1982. A whore, a midget, a Chinaman,
nothing we haven't heard. Then a customer asks
Why are breasts like martinis? and they both start laughing.
They know this one, everybody knows this one, except
us. They don't even bother with the punch line. The bartender just says
Yeah, but I always said there should be a third one, on the back,
for dancing, dancing with the woman-shaped air behind the bar, his hand
on the breast on her back. So we figure three is too many,
one's not enough. Okay; we can do better than that. I like my breasts
like I like my martinis, we say: Small and bruised or big and dry. Perfect.
Overflowing. Reeking of juniper, spilling all over the bar.
When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can't. He'll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.

Slap My Ass and Call Me Sally

2007-11-08T15:51:00.000-05:00

To say that I am not a morning person grossly underestimates how challenging the first light of day is for me. I am a good sleeper. Once I lay my wary head to rest, I slip into a deep and far away slumber that is rarely disturbed by little things like alarms, loud noises, shaking . . . you get the point. A well placed appendage will usually rouse me, but if you do manage to wake me, and don't have the appendage at the ready, my condolences to you, as I can be downright unpleasant.

I had the crazy early flight this morning. More than one person had doubts that I would be able to haul my arse out of bed to make it in time. I worked very late last night and had to clean up the digs (because I hate coming home from a trip to Casa de Chaos), do laundry and pack. Knowing that if I went to sleep, there would be no waking me, I took the trusty approach of staying up all night. My apartment hasn't been so clean in a very long time.

I am fortunate that I am one of those folks who can sleep on planes. Yet still, I'm about four hours short of rested.

After arriving and collecting my bag, I went to the auto rental desk to pick up my "mid size Taurus or similar" vehicle. The lovely Henrietta, who was helping me said, "Would a Mustang be OK?"

As I came to realize that I was being upgraded to a "sporty" car, I said, "Somehow, I'll muddle through with it."

Off I skipped to claim my shiny blue pony.

Generally speaking, Ford vehicles and I are in a fight. Dear Esmeralda has been an expensive lady to keep happy. Though when she's happy, she's swell enough. But as mentioned before, I will not be purchasing another Ford for myself.

The Mustang has a nice rumble under the hood. And it takes a mere tickling from the toe to her long skinny pedal on the right for her rumble to jump to a roar. Probably not the best thing for me to have in my sleep deficit state. Fun though.

From the Inbox

2007-11-07T20:13:00.000-05:00

It's 8:20 and I'm still at the office. My flight to Texas leaves at 5:50 AM and I still have not done laundry nor packed. I don't foresee much sleep before I'm airborne. The friend who I'm visiting is not optimistic about me making the flight. Right now, I'm not too optimistic about it either.

So. Instead of writing something, I am once again tossing up something somewhat interesting and amusing that landed in my inbox. Whether any of it is true, I'm sure Snopes.com could tell you.

Enjoy.

If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. (Hardly seems worth it.)

If you farted consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. (Now that's more like it!)

The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps out to the body to squirt blood 30 feet. (O.M.G.!)

A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes. (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)

A cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death.
(Creepy.) (I'm still not over the pig.)

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories a hour (Don't try this at home, maybe at work)

The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates sex by ripping the male's head off. (Honey, I'm home. What the...?!)

The flea can jump 350 times its body length. It's like a human jumping the length of a football field. (30 minutes...lucky pig! Can you imagine?)

The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds. (What could be so tasty on the bottom of a pond?)

Some lions mate over 50 times a day. (I still want to be a pig in my next life...quality over quantity)

Butterflies taste with their feet. (Something I always wanted to know.)

The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue. (Hmmmmmm.....)

Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people. (If you're ambidextrous, do you split the difference?)

Elephants are the only animals that cannot jump. (Okay, so that would be a good thing)

A cat's urine glows under a black light. (I wonder who was paid to figure that out?)

An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. (I know some people like that.)

Starfish have no brains (I know some people like that too.)

Polar bears are left-handed. (If they switch, they'll live a lot longer)

Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure.
(What about that pig??)

If You Remember the 60’s . . .

2007-11-06T22:06:00.000-05:00

Confession: I don’t get the 60’s. Of course there is music from the 60’s that works for me, and there is the mighty automotive theme of yesterday’s post, but as a decade, I’ve never really gained the pop-culture appreciation that most people of my era have. I realize that I’ll be raising hackles on many people, but I don’t see it as a magical time. And truth be told, I wasn’t there. I was born in February of 1970, so my only real experience with the 60’s was conception and gestation. So clearly, I’m talking out of my bootie on this one.

I think feminism has done as much bad as good. Not that feminism was created in the 60’s, but great strides were made during that time.

Yes, I appreciate being able to wear trousers without sidelong glances or presumption that I’m a lesbian. Yes, it’s great that women can go without the constraints of a brassiere. [As a side note: I’m very pro-brassiere. I’m 37 years old and still have high and firm titties. It works for me. I know plenty of women who don’t enjoy such a fate and even rue casting aside their bras as their udders sail to lower and lower latitudes of their anatomy. Having said that, I haven’t borne children either, so my bosoms have mostly been used as modes of seduction and toys for boys. I’m a giver.] Yes, a lady can work in a man’s field. I do. It has ups and downs.

The downside of feminism is that it has bred a climate of political correctness, especially in fields that have any crossover with academia, which disallows fun and off-color joking. Shameful. People seem to be constantly censoring themselves out of saying the fun and amusing things that would make them much more interesting. One of the saddest results of this feminist movement is men who have had the backbone bullied out of them.

The whole free love, hippie peacenik thing: it tends to overlook balance in favor of happy, pretty, peace. Peace is flat without some complimentary aggression. Balance, friends, it soothes my soul.

To give fair credit, lots of good came from the 60’s. Music, writing, sex, tolerance, and surely a bunch of political stuff that I know virtually nothing about because I’m admittedly horrible about paying attention to history. And that makes up the theme of this post: in the end, I may not know what I’m talking about, and I wasn’t there.

The Gentle Purr of a Barracuda

2007-11-05T19:04:00.000-05:00

Confession: I once dated a boy on the merit of the sound of his voice. He was decent enough looking, tall, and an interesting guy, but his voice is what really sold me. He is also one of the boys who I deflowered. Yet another younger man situation. He was a tender 19 to my worldly 23 years of age. He also drove a black 1966 Barracuda, which I didn’t know when I fell for his voice. To say that the sound of a Barracuda engine rumbling is exciting is putting it gently.

Doesn’t it just make your heart skip a beat?

The late 1960’s is an era of muscle cars and hotrods that really speak to me. That is the bulk of my affections for the 60’s. Which will bring me to a confession for tomorrow (see how I am milking two posts out of this!).

Tejas

2007-11-04T22:39:00.000-05:00

Once again, I am going to a wedding. Thankfully, not mine. This time around, I will be travelling to a little country north of the Mexican border commonly known to people in the know as Tejas. A State the rest of the world knows as Texas. A very good friend of mine, who is probably the smartest person I know (she got her Ph.D. in atmospheric sciences because she though it would be fun to figure stuff out using non-linear math, for the love of Einstein!) , is getting married to a native son of Texas. The good news is that she is of the "unconventional bride" mindset. She is also absolutely wacky-doodle about Star Wars so I am hoping that some non-traditional thematic undertones will present themselves at the reception.

This is the first wedding in years that I have not been dreading. There will be lots of brainiacs and geeks in attendance, and her family is a total kick in the seat so I anticipate that it will be thoroughly entertaining.

The other slice of good news about this whole affair is that I will be flying into Austin, Texas where I will have some quality time with my best friend, Miss M. Can I tell y'all that this lady feeds my soul? She does. She's also the subject of this post. To say that we are intimate friends, puts it gently. We shall laugh, we shall cry, we shall drink red wine by the cowboy hat full, and we shall likely smoke cigarettes like bad girls. Self-destructive, sure, but that is what being reunited with good friends is all about.

The bad news is that I must post to this here blog every day. That, dear friends, will be challenging. Don't get me wrong, I am up to it. Just don't expect any miraculous feats of authorship to cross your screen. Though tall tales from Tejas may be entertaining and littered with alliteration.

Artsy Fartsy Saturday

2007-11-03T19:11:00.000-04:00

There are artists studios housed in old industrial warehouses along the Charles River in Waltham, Massachusetts, the town I now call home. Every year during the first weekend in November, the studios are opened to the public so that one may venture in and see the work as it is created and have a voyeuristic view into the loft life of a bunch of artists. This being the first week of November, the Waltham Mills Artist Association shindig is on.

While a goodly portion of New England is sniveling and whining because it's raining, I'm thrilled and have taken it as a glorious opportunity to get out of the house and enjoy this place for one of the driving reasons I moved here from sunny California. The icing on the cake about the weather is that the studios were not too crowded. I’m not a fan of crowds, especially when perusing art.

I like art to be pretty, or disturbing in a provocative way, but not a contrived way. Having the artists on hand to pick their brains as pieces are encountered is particularly cool. Unless upon walking into their studio, you realize that their art is horrid and you want to get out without having to talk to them. Some sad little worlds are not even worth trying to understand. I make a lousy patron of the arts.

While popping from studio to studio all afternoon, I came across several artists whose work appealed greatly to me. There is a photographer (Sam Laundon) who does interesting work with digitally coloring photographs. I came across an oil artist (Emilia Carbone) whose paintings are a divine mix of pretty and sordid. She does great things with light and is clearly very influenced by Edward Hopper. Oddly, I like Edward Hopper, but he does not really send me over the moon. Kind of like the Beatles and Bruce Springsteen: I like them, but I greatly prefer to listen to bands that are influenced by them than to have to listen to them any more.

What effected me more than anything was this piece by Michael B. Wilson:

I think there is something that is going on between the beautiful delicate nature of the rose and the beautiful robust nature of the train. Both with a distinctly appealing aesthetic, both with the potential for great power, yet each with distinctly different morphologies. I liked it so much that I offered to hand knit a sweater for it because I seriously can not afford the painting. He didn’t fall for it. A girl can try, though.

There were several other artists who had incredible work and I didn’t even make it to all the studios. Looking at art is exhausting. I think I have to go back tomorrow for another dose.

I don’t understand how people go on big museum tours and hit one after another cramming all sorts of art down their throats at breakneck speed. I’ve always liked digestion time. I was fortunate to have grown up in Santa Barbara because there is a huge art scene there. From the Santa Barbara Museum of Art (which is phenomenal for the size of the town) to the grass roots artisans, there was always a gallery to go to, and usually for free. As a kid, I would kill time just getting lost in an installation at the museum or one of the many galleries at the public library. Without even realizing it, I developed an awareness of and appreciation for art.

Let’s hope that I’m done being deep for the month.

Fucking Hell

2007-11-03T13:45:00.001-04:00

After unsuccessfully trying to sign in to Bolgger . . . All. Day. Long. Yesterday. I went with the back up plan of posting on my NaBloPoMo Ning page so I could maintain compliance with posting every day of November. Even got a comment there (Thanks Aliblahblah!) so I'm still in the running to complete the daily blogging shenanigans. Phew! Anyhow, the following is what was posted yesterday.

As A Backup Plan

2007-11-03T13:38:00.000-04:00

Fucking Blogger!

Since Blogger is not letting me post . . . so far . . . I'm going to post here because I am nothing if not a follow through girl.

And pardon the crappy factor of this post. I'm desperate and busy and the wheels are already coming off the bus with the blog every day effort. Dammitt!!

My day started with having to be at an EPA laboratory at 8 AM. Now, you see, I am not by any stretch of the imagination a morning person. In fact, I'm a lucky if I can make it to the office by 10 AM person. So, having a 45 minute drive before touring an EPA facility first thing in the morning was less than superfantastic.

Neither here nor there . . . The reason I was touring this building is because it features "green design and construction". I'm environmentally conscious. I'm even an environmental consultant by profession. However, I'm not much of a drum banger for the cause. It's not that I don't care, it's more that it bores me. Sure, everything is wrecked environmentally and things need to be done to make it better, but to me, the subject matter is about as tedious as watching news reports about another Goddamned car bombing in the Middle East. And to me, that spells out extremely tedious. And honestly, sea level rising resulting in Florida becoming largely submerged does not break my heart. At all. (Many apologies to the lovely people of the Sunshine State)

So, the building I toured this morning was the EPA's New England Regional Laboratory Green Building. Which, I'll have you know, is very cool. It's recieved a boatload of awards for being so freaking green and it touts a net 30% savings on energy expenditure all around as a result of how damned green it is. Some of it's features include: energy efficiency, water efficiency, solar power, green power, landscape design (xeriscaping), waste handling, and utilization of environmentally preferable materials. Check out the brochure. You know you want to, you don't really have anything better to do with your time.

The long and short of it is that although energy efficiency and green construction isn't the most scintillating subject to muse over, but my apathetic ass was able to see that there is much that can be done that makes a positive impact on the environment and the wallet without too much effort on my end. Much of it seems to be as simple as thinking things through before you take a trip to the hardware or garden shop. Blah blah blah.

I've not seen An Inconvenient Truth. I hear it's great, but I'd rather watch something that is fun and interesting. I usually get into arguments with people who are patently 'green'. I see their point and I get it, often moreso than they do. I just can not resist the role of Devil's advocate. Plus, imagine Florida being a thing of the past . . .

Still . . . the whole of it bores me, but it's worth thinking through. Thus endith my contradiction stew. I've come 'round and banged the drum. Don't expect to hear any more from me on the environment.

Show Me Yer Neck

2007-11-01T06:21:00.000-04:00

Confession: I love the feel of a kiss on the neck. It takes my breath away. For that matter, I love having a hand around my neck. I like pretty much anything on my neck with the exception of turtlenecks. Which I don’t like at all. I especially like pearls on my neck. Diamonds are cute too, but they have lost their appeal at the ham hands of the bling bling crowd.

And about turtle necks . . .

People who live in cold climates really seem to like them, but they look so horrible and feel so stifling, I don’t understand how anyone can bear it. They are kind of like shorts in that very few people look good in them, yet so many insist upon wearing them. It seems that warmth can be effectively achieved with a scarf and layers. And guess what: with layers, when you go indoors, you can remove them according to conditions and let the skin on your neck and chest breathe.

Imagine.

For those who think that turtlenecks are real swell, you can have them. All of them. Just try to avoid wearing them in public, because they are even difficult to look at. Not as bad as seeing someone walking down the street with their zipper down, of course, but close.

Guess who woke up surly.

November: The Taskmaster

2007-10-27T14:06:00.000-04:00

It's rainy and cool outside. Things are looking up.

I drank too much red wine with my sister last night and I'm paying the price today. I'll soon be making an exodus to a grease factory to have potatoes and unhealthy meats in an attempt to sooth my aching head and make the dizzy feeling go away.

In other news, I've signed up for NaBloPoMo. The idea is that you post a blog entry every day for the month of November. It's madness I tell you. At my best I usually post a few times a month. This is effectively putting my feet in the fire. You'll be hearing an awful lot from me next month, and I fear that a lot of it will be pure unmitigated crap. Especially since I have two trips planned for several days each over the course of the month.

Hmmmm . . .

Perhaps this wasn't such a hot idea.

What drove me to dive into this exercise was reading random blogs from last year's National Blog Posting Month. It inspired me to start my own blog. At the time, I told myself that I'd participate this year once I'd gotten a feel for writing a blog. Well, It's a pain in the ass and I'm no good at it, but since I told myself I'd do it, I'm doing it. I do so hate to disappoint myself.

Plus, it's an opportunity to spread my germs to a blog population that tends to be clean and sanitized. Lovely people writing about lovely things. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but I do like to be a stain on the linens.

Can a Sista Get a Mutha F'n Break!?

2007-10-18T11:17:00.000-04:00

The "check engine" light came on in my car. So I go to my trusty neighborhood mechanic and say, "WTF?"

He plugs in his diagnostic dew-hickey and says, "uh, oh".

"It's the transmission, isn't it?" says I.

"Indeed it is." says he.

"Of course it is." says I.

fuckity fuck fuck fuck!!!

I laugh maniacally.

He sends Esmeralda, the dirty bitch, to the transmission specialist who rebuilt it a year and a half ago for further investigation.

tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock (Hey, I got some knitting done!)

Esmeralda rolls back in. I brace for the news and start imagining how I can get in a bad enough accident to total the car, without messing myself up too badly, so that I'll have a pocket full of insurance cash to embark on my next automotive adventure. (as an aside, I'm totally freaking through with automatic transmissions . . . and Fords . . . It's OVER!!)

They checked it out. Some "overdrive band" came off which triggered the "check engine" light. They replaced the band, took it on a test drive (and oked it), and cleared the warning light. All that for the low low cost of $ 0.00! I could have kissed them all, but contrary to what you might think, I'm particular about where I put my mouth.

Sometimes, a sista can get a mutha f'n break.

P.S. Esmeralda and I kissed and made up.

What Do Naked Ladies Smell Like?

2007-10-17T21:05:00.000-04:00

A few posts back, I mentioned that I went to Rhode Island to see a friend belly dance for charity. She’s been belly dancing for years and she teaches budding shimmiers how to work the action in their chassis. My sister was going to come with me, but her kid was set on having a sleepover with her best friend, so there I was with a couple of tickets and only myself. It was a golden opportunity to wrangle a boy into going with me.

Fun was had by all. We ate decadent Indian food, saw a bunch of pretty ladies undulate remarkably, and listened to some impressive live music.

While driving home, the boy asked me if it’s good that the audience throws money at the dancers. In my experience, when a troupe of belly dancers comes into a restaurant to thrill the crowd, it’s expected that they are tipped. Just like strippers are, but belly dancers don’t bare all, they just make you think your eyes are traveling down a sordid path. In the conversation where we compared belly dancers and strippers, the boy asked if belly dancers smell like strippers. The boy said that there is a perfume that all strippers seem to wear. I assured him that most belly dancers probably don’t wear it, but you never know.

Anyhow, I didn’t share this story with the boy, but with you good people, I’ll share what I learned doing time one lazy Saturday afternoon spent in “The Valley” [read: the San Fernando Valley, a suburb north of Los Angeles and pornography capital of the world] at the Candy Cat and the Candy Cat Too.

My only real reference to how strippers smell is from a day spent drinking and gambling at the pool table at both cathouses. I didn’t tip the ladies for their efforts, but I did share the lady’s room with them where they would primp and prepare to take the pole, er, stage. They all had powder and perfume to apply between performances, however, I didn’t notice a particular odor that they all shared, nor did I stick my nose up close and personal like with any of them.

The big lesson I took away from the experience was that a titty bar is an excellent venue to gamble with men. Men have a tendency to be inherently mesmerized by naked or nearly naked women gyrating before them. Distracted even. An unskilled pool player such as myself can win several games of pool with substantial stakes on the table against a fella who prides himself on his ability to get the balls in the hole when said games are being played at a table in direct line of site to the pole on which some acrobatically skilled ladies are giving it all they’ve got. Oh yeah, I guess I also learned to never lock the keys in the car when you are in a seedy neighborhood. A time will always come when you are ready to get the hell out, and waiting for the tow truck to come and break into your car is unbearable.

My only other experience with strippers is when I lived with Stan, Natalie, Jimmy the Plumber, and Damian the Asiaphile. Natalie was the only stripper in the bunch, but I never smelled much on her, except for pot, which she smelled of often. But that is a tale for another day, my friends, a tale for another day.

The Hitching

2007-10-09T00:16:00.000-04:00

So very sorry to keep you all waiting with baited breath to hear my tall tales of nuptials and delicate social commitment. I would have gotten this underway sooner, but I traveled back to the Boston area on Sunday and I had a hot date with the fella I’m having a ‘not a relationship’ with on Sunday night so I didn’t have much of a chance to collect my thoughts.

Because I know several of you will ask, he’s a brutal sadist to my inherent masochist. He may be the end of me, not likely, but I’m fully expecting an emotional ass-kicking coming soon. I’ve come to realize that I’ve started having the odious emotions for him that are usually at the center of my undoing. When considering that what we have together is a ‘not a relationship’, and he doesn’t want anything more than a ‘not a relationship’, I’ll soon be cashing in my chips, swallowing a bitter dose of hurt and sadness, and moving on. It’s a pity as I really like him. But once that turns to love, it’ll be a pit far darker than a pity.

Weddings weddings weddings. I wish I could say I think they are swell, but I’m not that girl. All day Saturday prior to the momentous event, I was filled with loathing and dread. The sister and I showered, shaved our legs, had panic about what jewelry to wear, and got our shit together enough to be comfortably presentable. Some may argue that we pulled off smashing.

Once our ducks were in a row, we realized that we were starving and probably shouldn’t embark on an hour and forty minute drive with nothing in our bellies, so we snarfed down huge bowls of brown rice and greens. Yay for that. I would have been a surly cunt with a low blood sugar crash on top of a mandatory event that I was none to enthusiastic about.

Nevertheless, I must admit, there were parts I was looking forward to: seeing my niece in a pretty dress, seeing the bride’s gown (I’m ever a ‘girl’ about a pretty dress, and it was indeed gorgeous, and without a stitch of lace.J), seeing a bunch of people, some of whom I last saw at the groom’s first wedding to my sister. So it wasn’t a waste of time and energy at all.

The wedding was at a farm in the Berkshires in southwestern Massachusetts. It was quite lovely. The day was beautiful, though a little warmer than I like days to be. Autumn in New England is quite lovely, even when on the warm side. On the way out to the farm I asked my sister what the name of the farm was, from the back of the car, all I heard was “Dead Meat Farm”. That wasn’t the name of it, but it made us laugh like a bunch of coo-coo birdies. The actual ceremony was held at a meadow clearing on a hillside a small trek away from the barn where the reception was held. The barn is a restored Normandy style barn that is used for events and the farm offers spa and hotel services as well. It’s all very fancy pants, yet down-home rustic. Curious.

I’ll never understand why wedding ceremonies take so much time. It seems like all that needs to be said is

“You in? All in? For ever and with all your heart?”
“Yup.”

“And you, same questions.”
“Yup.”

“Swap some rings, have a kiss, and get on with it, then.”

Sentimentality really bogs down a simple message. The more flowers and accents, the less sincere it seems. We must bear in mind that I’m a cynic.

It wasn’t my wedding, and they clearly didn’t have a Fresh Hell designed ceremony. The ceremony was long. There was the hullabaloo about the rings and how they were made and then they were sent around to all the attendees to put there special whammy, blessing, prayer, boogers, or whatever they wanted on them before they were exchanged. Several speakers spoke, read poems, passages from books and whatnot. Some vows were spoken, the rings got swapped.

Then they did something really cool. My niece, who was a flower girl and I daresay quite a good’un, was called up to the bride and groom. The bride squatted down and asked my niece to have her as her step-mother, and as a part of the family, and upon accepting, gave my niece a ring with her birthstone. As for joining pre-existing families to a new family unit, it was done with grace. Then the kiss happened and the long processional of the wedding party and all the guests to the barn for cocktails and hors devours whilst the bridal party had sunset pictures snapped. Against everyone’s clever advice, I practiced temperance for most of the evening. Sorry to disappoint, but as Savannah wisely noted in the comments of the previous post, best to keep your tongue in check some days, and this was one of them.

Most of the time, I wanted to disappear, and at one point I did find a quiet patio where no one was daring to venture and I had some peace in the cool evening air. I found myself wishing I had a book to read so that I could really recede into the background. This sort of social engagement often makes me uncomfortable. I never know what to say to people. Small talk is not my forte. Fortunately, I came across some familiar faces, and I had the opportunity to catch up with some friends from about 10 years back who I’d seen very little of in that decade. A little harmless flirting happened as well. Not so bad.

About half way through my time at this shindig, I started feeling comfortable and was able to relax and actually enjoy myself. Perhaps I suffer from some variety of social anxiety disorder. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to just dismiss it all to some peculiar disorder?

When they called everyone in to collect the cards with their table assignments so we could sit down for dinner, I played along and found my card. I was seated with my sister, niece, niece’s best friend and her little sister, and the mother of my niece’s best friend. It was in essence the “kid’s table”. It was also on the third floor of an old open barn. Each floor is a half loft overlooking the floor below and guests were seated on the second and third floors. I’m convinced they put all the sexy people in the rafters, which is exactly why we were seated there. The only problem with the third floor was that it was hotter than Vulcan’s jockstrap.

After a while my sister came to me and pointed to our table assignment cards and said, “I don’t think this is an accident.” On each of our cards was the table assignment . . . Table 13. Totally intentional, and funny as hell.

We left at 10. One of our charges, a one and a half year old, started losing her mind so it was time for us to be on our way. Festivities carried on until 4:30 a.m. for some. I heard rumors of breaking into the kitchen and copious consumption of foodstuffs and vodka. Fantastic stuff! I was sleeping sweetly while the boys were being boys. As I understand it, the next day was a little rough for some of the revelers. Better them than me.

So that was the wedding. It wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated and my sister was strong and beautiful throughout. She probably didn’t even need me, but I’m glad she wanted me by her side.

Marital Bliss

2007-10-02T08:12:00.000-04:00

I’m looking down the barrel of one of my least favorite social obligations. Yep, there is a wedding in my future, and I want nothing to do with it. The long and short of it is that I can imagine being married, but I can’t imagine being the star of one of those ridiculous dog and pony shows. Perhaps there is a bitter orphan spinster thing going on here.

Why not just send regrets and enjoy the weekend instead, you ask? Well, because my sister needs support and asked me to be her date. The blessed event is her ex-husband’s second wedding. They have a kid together, and they are a family, and raising said kid together, divorce and all. When they divorced it was a This really isn’t working so lets not teach our kid how to have a fucked up relationship with her mate. sort of thing, and not a I HATE YOU AND I HOPE YOU BURN YOU MISERABLE PIECE OF SHIT!! dissolution to the marriage. We all get along very well and it’s important to my niece that my sister is there and the sister wants me there to support her. As much as they are all amicable and well adjusted in their relationships, it can be a challenge to watch the person who promised to be with you all your days, turn and promise to be with someone else for all of their days. So I’m going to a fucking wedding this weekend. Because there is no length that I wouldn’t travel for my sister.

Last weekend, while my sister was teaching a yoga class, I met her ex-husband and his bride to pick up my niece for some quality time planting land mines in the tender young mind of the lass. That’s what spinster aunties do, it’s our job to present ideas that the parents might find uncomfortable or inconvenient. I also taught her to chant “More sugar, no nap!” when she was a toddler.

When I was picking up the niece, I told the happy couple that I don’t give wedding gifts (and certainly not on a second wedding!) and asked them what their favorite charitable organization is so that I could make a donation in their names as a wedding gift. They own a home, they both have new cars, they are having a big-ass wedding, their cup runneth over, certainly they would consider giving back on some level, no?

Nope.

They suggested that they are a good charity, and further suggesting that their charity would be a new couch for their house. Then I got the speech about how they’ve never really had extra money to give.

!!!

This from people who are some of the most politically liberal folks I know. Way to walk the walk! These people go on vacations. They have all the hippy-yuppy newest gadgets. A new and improved Mac computer hasn’t been released without one of them embracing an upgrade of their systems. And they’ve never had the means to give? Horseshit, I say. When I was in college and so sadly broke that occasionally I couldn’t find a quarter to buy a Little Debbie Fudge Brownie to get me through the day, I found ways to lend a hand on some level. And I’m a died in the wool misanthrope.

At first I was going to find a charity for single mothers and make a sizable donation in their names, but I’m taking the high road. I’ll let them research the vast array of charities at just give and choose one that they feel good about since it’s their special day. Perhaps the exercise will plant a landmine in their not-so-malleable minds that will turn a philanthropic switch within them. I doubt it, but a girl can hope.

Wacky for Beef

2007-09-25T09:17:00.001-04:00

One of my co-workers plays bagpipes in a pipe band. Over the weekend, there was a huge highland festival in New Hampshire. That peach of a piper thought of me when he saw this guy, and took a picture for me.

He managed to throw the hammer over the fence.

Big. Strong. Heroic. Hubba hubba.

My coworkers have a pretty good idea of what I like to look at in men. It must be said, though, that I rarely if ever have been with a guy like this. That's not to say that I wouldn't. End of disclaimer.

Long ago I planned to attend that highland festival, but I have a friend who was dancing at a fundraiser for women's charities in Rhode Island, so I did that instead. I brought me a hot date because it's fun to watch boys with a 'hall pass' to check out bobbies and booties, especially when they are shakalaka-shakin'! More to come on that.

I'm inspired. My knee is feeling better and I'm spoilin' to shake my groove thang.

From My Inbox

2007-09-21T12:38:00.000-04:00

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then -- just to loosen up.

Inevitably, though, one thought led to another, and soon I was more than just a social thinker. I began to think alone -- "to relax," I told myself -- but I knew it wasn't true. Thinking became more and more important to me, and finally I was thinking all the time.

That was when things began to sour at home. One evening I turned off the TV and asked my wife about the meaning of life. She spent that night at her mother's.

I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don't mix, but I couldn't help myself. I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could read Thoreau, Muir, Confucius and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "What is it exactly we are doing here?"

One day the boss called me in. He said, "Listen, I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking has become a real problem. If you don't stop thinking on the job, you'll have to find another job."

This gave me a lot to think about. I came home early after my conversation with the boss. "Honey," I confessed, "I've been thinking..."

"I know you've been thinking," she said, "and I want a divorce!"

"But Honey, surely it's not that serious."

"It is serious," she said, lower lip aquiver. "You think as much as college professors and college professors don't make any money, so if you keep on thinking, we won't have any money!"

"That's a faulty syllogism," I said impatiently.

She exploded in tears of rage and frustration, but I was in no mood to deal with the emotional drama. "I'm going to the library," I snarled as I stomped out the door.

I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche. I roared into the parking lot with NPR on the radio and ran up to the big glass doors. They didn't open. The library was closed.

To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night. Leaning on the unfeeling glass, whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye, "Friend, is heavy thinking ruining your life?" it asked.

You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinkers Anonymous poster.

This is why I am what I am today: a recovering thinker.

I never miss a TA meeting. At each meeting we watch a non-educational video; last week it was "Porky's." Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting. I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped thinking. I think the road to recovery is nearly complete for me.

Today I took the final step...I joined the Republican Party.

Heh... It made me laugh.

Prescriptive Nuisances

2007-09-13T19:22:00.000-04:00

I will never understand people who think Oxycodone is fun. You can have it... all of it. I'm anxiously awaiting coming down from this pain management nightmare. I'd rather have the pain, thankyouverymuch.

In other news: Surgery went well. In addition to my torn medial meniscus, the good doctor discovered torn cartilage and arthritis (whatever that means... probably that I'm old) while he was poking around inside my knee.

Nodding off now.

Drinking Hijinks on a School Night

2007-09-12T09:02:00.000-04:00

I'm on the steering committee for a ladys organization. Last night we had a meeting at a hotel in the town where I live. After the business was completed, we adjourned to the lounge for a drink (which turned into several... never underestimate the thirst of dignified professional ladies). Oh, how the hijinks ensued. We were hit upon by really cute dumb guys (Billy and Curt), we lied about our names (I was Esmeralda... my usual bar name, also the name of my gas-guzzling SUV), and we had celebrity sightings... though I had no recognition of any of them.

At Gillette Stadium tonight, a clash of titans will ensue. There will be a Futbol match between Mexico (VIVA LA RAZA!!!) and Brazil (DOUCHE BAGS!!!). Admittedly, I don't follow the sport outside of the World Cup, but I've got to pitch good energy toward the team representing the country that produced my ancestors and also produces the best culinary mastery on the planet. Anyhow, the Brazil team is staying at the hotel where we were drinking too much wine and telling lies to unsuspecting Lotharios. They arrived while we were sitting in the lounge and a sea of people in green and yellow shirts surged around them as they came through the door. I was told that one of the best players in the world was right there. I looked at him and he looked like the kind of guy who sits to poop, stands to pee, and pukes when too much booze gets past his gullet. I wasn't impressed. Then I was introduced to some guy whose name escapes me (probably because I wasn't impressed by him either) and was told that he is the former general manager of the Boston Red Sox... whatever that means. It was a fair amount of excitement to be around people who are recognized and respected for whatever skills they have... or don't have.

After all the excitement, I managed to get to sleep and woke in the middle of the night having a nightmare about nearly missing my appointment for surgery, and forgetting that I'm not to eat anything for 12 hours prior to surgery, and forgetting to take out my belly button ring prior to surgery. As I started connecting thoughts, for a fleeting moment, I thought the surgery was today. Phwew!! I've got a whole extra day to get my ducks in a row and make sure that in this case, dreams don't come true.

DRUNK

2007-09-11T23:06:00.000-04:00

In a mere 36 hours... I'll be having knee surgery. I predict mighty prescriptives and amusing grammar errors...

All Right, All Right, Already! Part 2

2007-08-27T21:38:00.000-04:00

I'm back.

I've been back for a couple of weeks but my muses haven't been at my side, so getting back into the swing of writing has been slow going.

Visiting the homeland... it appears to be a challenge on many levels. There is no denying the beauty of the place and it's amazing how much has changed since I left. Likewise, it's amazing how much stays exactly the same. I've just wrestled one of my more unsettling demons to the ground so I'll make this short and show you pictures from Fiesta. Mostly, I just gave my camera to my 7 year old niece and had her do the heavy lifting for the photo-documentation of the trip. The kid has a good eye.

Here are some of the performers.

They have boys in the game as well…

This boy may look a little fruity, but he isn’t going to have any trouble getting laid. He might have half of the football team trying to kick his ass because he’s a dancer boy, but every single girl he pursues will gladly cast aside her chonies* and have a piece of him.

And, most importantly, the Grand Master of the Parade. Ok not really, but if I was running the zoo, he would be. The parade really looks more like this:

One of my favorite parts of Fiesta is the mariachi culture.

Ok, a leather mariachi suit… a) How very heavy Mexi-metal!, b) I so want a leather mariachi suit of my own… and I’m not the type to wear leather.

A point of pride... my little sister...

At one time there was a private catholic school for boys in this building.

The pedo Franciscan monks fiddled with the boys and those damaged boys sued the ever loving Christ out of the church. They all walked away with copious piles of cash, but are still fucked in the head. The building is pretty, though. And there is a lovely eucalyptus tree in the foreground. Eucalyptus trees are the sexiest trees… sigh….

A big forest fire has been burning since July 4th in the Los Padres Forest which backs up to Santa Barbara. It was smokey and ashy most of the time I was there. I went to Los Angeles to get fresh air and shenanigans with a new friend and an old friend. My life is littered with ironic twists.

*chones are the Chicano equivalent of skivvies, knickers, or panties. choners=boxer shorts, chonies= underpants usually female variety, chones=underpants gender unspecific.

All Right, All Right, Already!

2007-08-27T07:19:00.000-04:00

I hear y'all barking and I'll have a real post for you by the end of the day. I was working on a post yesterday, but I got boy-distracted. Then I looked at a house for sale and I'm now officially nauseated because I'm very seriously considering making an offer. Finally, there is the small issue of a good friend dropping in for a nightcap last night and keeping me up until 1:30 AM... on a school night no less... T-I-R-E-D... And I have to go and make a many thousand dollar decision.

Here is a preview... More coming at the end of the day.

Dog Days of Summer

2007-07-31T07:13:00.000-04:00

The dog days have arrived. All around me the love affair with heat seems to be growing stale. The air is thick with sticky, oppressive heat. I'll be glad when it starts to snow again. In the meantime, I'm initiating an escape.

I'm off to California for a couple of weeks. Dry heat will clear my head, it always does. While I'm there, I will watch my 9 year old step-sister dance flamenco at Santa Barbara's Annual Old Spanish Days Fiesta. This five day festival is all about the world I grew up in.

This is the sista getting her flamenco on a couple of years ago.

I'll visit with much family, eat disgusting amounts of Mexican food, go to the rodeo, finally get some decent clam chowder, and with any luck, meet my new niece who is due to arrive on August 10th. Yesterday my aunt who lives in Indiana called to tell me she's planning to hijack part of my vacation. She and my cousin are coming out and demanding a slice of my vacation time. I was planning on spending as much time as possible with family who actually live there, and any surplus time was dedicated to being on vacation... doing things that bring me peace... things that don't involve family obligation. Usually when I go "home" or on vacation I want to be alone and not have any more obligations than I do in day to day life. That ship is steaming up and heading out of the harbor. New rule for next year: no vacations with or to anywhere that involves family. Look out, Dive. You may have another wayward sojourner on your door-step.

Men in Drag

2007-07-18T08:01:00.000-04:00

I'm off this weekend for points west to embrace Glasgowlands. I work with a fella who is in a pipe band and I like to support him when I can. And anyway, I have a thing for kilted fellas performing feats of athletic heroics... Especially giant ones lobbing heavy crap across a field.

In truth, I'm attending this event for the most part to objectify men. Does that make me sleazy?

Imagine grunting and the sound of flesh colliding...

I'm a tomboy. I've managed to pull it off whilst wearing skirts and boots. I'm that girl. These big fellas don their kilts and carry on in athletics, work, and day to day activities. It's interesting to see how the harder sex handles keeping their modesty intact without being a wallflower.

I'd say not quite as gracefully as a tomboy in a skirt and boots.

I don't care if men talk to my bosoms (I've never really understood why women get bothered with this... Boobies are mesmerizing. Cover 'em up if you don't like the attention.) as long as they don't mind that I objectify strapping young fellas. At times, I love being middle aged. You get away with so much.

BIG and Strapping Drillers

2007-07-13T17:31:00.000-04:00

As a follow up on my work activities today… This is what the office looked like:

Note the BIG and robust men handling steel rod. Saying that makes me feel a little like a 13 year old. :)

Drillers are a special sort. They travel a lot and are able to find a strip club anywhere they go. It’s like a sixth sense for them. Seriously, stop by any drill rig and ask any one of them and they’ll be able to tell you exactly where to go. If there is more than one in any given town, they’ll tell you which is better and which has the best priced beers.

I once went drilling with a crew from Ohio at a landfill site in Los Angeles. I know, I know… the life I lead is beyond glamorous. I mention they were from Ohio, because although there are a lot of lovely people from Ohio, a certain breed of wing-nut hails from there as well.

It was around the time that the movie “Jackass” was in theaters. These yay-hoos brought a stun gun with them to play “Who is the Most Testosterone-Laden He-Man?” at the hotel in the evenings. They would increase the voltage and shock each other to see who could take the most.

Stupid? Infantile? You bet!

It got worse. One morning at the landfill, a driller’s helper on the crew was having a slow go of it. Out of curiosity, I asked if he was hung over or if he had a late night at the titty bar. They all started giggling like adolescents. They then confessed to me that this particular guy pushed the testosterone game to its source and had shocked himself in the testes.

Cringe fellas. There is no way that this could have been a comfortable endeavor.

Drillers… They are “Special”.

Weekend Mishmash

2007-07-13T06:22:00.000-04:00

Today I'll be standing behind a drill rig all day long. It could be worse, and it certainly beats sitting behind a computer on a lovely day like today. My big hope for the morning is that I'll have big strapping young drillers to fantasize about while they move heavy equipment for me.

I'm taking Sassy's approach tonight and going out on my own. At the Boston Harbor Hotel they show black and white movies outside on Friday nights. Tonight's feature is To Kill A Mockingbird. I'm looking forward to it. It was one of the few school assignments that I really embraced.

Last week I had another appointment with the surgeon. I'm scheduled for surgery on my knee in a little over a month. In the pre-op paperwork there is a direction to have a responsible driver who would be able to drive me home afterward. Fuck. My life is small, I live 3,000 miles from most of my friends and family, so these days and I don't really have one. It's unsettling to think about. When push comes to shove, I can get my sister to come out from western Massachusetts to drive me home and laugh at me trying to get up the stairs to my apartment on crutches. The reality of it all is a little spinster-depressing though. Perhaps between now and then I'll meet Mr. Right to nurse me back to health. A girl can dream.

Confession: I Loathe Memes

2007-07-09T07:50:00.000-04:00

Eddie Waring is a troublemaker of the first order. I’m not sure what would qualify a second order troublemaker, but he’s got the first one all wrapped up. The big lug tickled me with a meme and having heretofore resisted that blogging trap, I’m inclined to follow through since he’s the first person to ever look at my blog. Nostalgic sentimentality has bit me in the ass more times than I care to think about.

The meme at hand: 8 autobiographical tid-bits. Without further ado...

1. My mother left my father when he came home to get his gun to have it out with his girlfriend’s husband. My mother was very upset because of the gun thing but also because he told her he wasn’t in love with her anymore but was in love with Melva. Who was black. The inter-racial thing didn’t sit well with mom. Which leaves me scratching my head since dad was Mexican and she was as pasty white as they come… oh yeah, and she had a couple of mixed race babies. People are funny. Especially the ones related to me.

2. At 21 years of age, I was at a crossroads; I could go to university or join some friends for a trip to Europe… indefinitely. I employed my best decision making skills at the time. I drank a bottle of Wild Turkey and flipped a coin. I went to Europe.

3. When I was in high school I stole the American and California flags from the Probation Department Office flagpole while walking home late one night after having many wine coolers (hey, it was the 80’s and I was too young to know better). I walked through my high school to get home and snuck into the swimming pool to skinny dip on my way. The flags were used as towels to dry my pubescent body.

4. I don’t take naps. I used to run away from daycare after kindergarten because they wanted me to take a nap. I was all… Tcha! I’m like, five-years-old… I don’t take naps anymore! I feel much the same way now.

5. At 11 years old I read The Sun Also Rises. Around the same time, I didn’t do some chore or another which prompted my father to levy a punishment against me. I was made to write a college level critique of the characters in The Sun Also Rises… typed, double spaced. a) I didn’t know how to type, b) it was before computers were commonplace, so I had to do it the old fashioned way, and c) he made me re-write it and re-type it until it was flawless and college level. This was when I learned about the concept of impotence.

6. I was cut off then thrown out of a dive bar at 7 AM on New Years Day once.

7. Whenever I enter a church, especially an old one, I’m compelled to pet the kitty, and I usually do. In case you may wonder why I reside at the Gates of Hell… I’m just getting acclimated.

8. I was “the other woman” once, and when “the woman” found out I smoothed things out by sleeping with her as well. And with the both of them at once. Thus, the lesson learned that I am indeed partial to men in the rack.

I’m calling Ellie, Old Knudsen, Dive, Sassy, and Andraste to the carpet, and I fully expect all of them to play along. Ok, I’m not stupid; I don’t really expect many of them to.

Mmmmm... Beer Fairy

2007-07-06T20:57:00.000-04:00

Today was a ripping day at the office. At least, it ended up that way. Work has been kicking my ass cruelly over the past few weeks. There is no end in sight to boot. Everyone in the office has been mustering the gumption to endure a massive glut of work that has to be completed... like... yesterday dammitt! None of us really have much of a tether left to hold us together and most of us are looking for better, stronger glue at this point. As an example of how this is playing out, one of my colleagues collapsed at the office the other day. He's 29, strong, healthy, and a bit strapping. He was taken to the hospital: EKG, MRI, CAT, blood pressure shooting through the roof. The problem: too much stress, not enough sleep and nourishing food, and too much coffee (as if that's possible!). Grim.

Today, during the last couple of hours at the office, my boss made rounds to the staff's offices. When he stopped by mine, he handed over my mid-year bonus. Big smiles all around. I don't deserve it and we both know it but I'm going to spend that bitch like a mother fucker! Good times are here, my friends. By the time he was through touring the halls, the mood was high and productivity was on an upswing.

Friday... extra cash... what more could anyone want? It seemed that the end of the day couldn't be improved.

And then...

I looked at the door, and once again my boss was touring the halls. This time not with a stack of envelopes in his hand. Nay. This time he was doling out beer to all takers. Now, I'm many types of a fool on many days, but I'm never the fool who refuses the Beer Fairy when he pauses at my door.

This is what the end of my workday looked like.

Insert moony-eyed sigh here.

Have a great weekend y'all! I'll be stuck at the Charlie Foxtrot commonly known in these parts as, "The Cape".

Back in the Saddle

2007-06-24T20:24:00.000-04:00

Thanks to everyone who read the previous post and gave such warm and supportive feedback. At rare moments I have something relevant and inspired to say and it's wonderful to have people appreciate it.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I'm back from vacation and relocating my bearings. I had a fantastic time visiting with old friends and some new ones and breathing in desert air as well as coastal air. Now, I live pretty darned close to the coast as it is... east coast, that is. Which is by no means and stretch of the imagination a coastal desert. Which much of the California coast is. However, the California coast is inundated with Californians and the lowest forms of scum from every other part of the country, but that's a story for another day.

Yosemite.

Somehow the picture from the brochure is so much better than my photo-styling. Ansel Adams I am not.

Yosemite is one of California's gems and worst nightmares all rolled up in one glorious slice of the Sierra Nevada. Just being in the Sierras is enough to make me giddy with glee. However, being there with the ridiculous abundance of tourists that clog the valley is enough to make me want to pull my hair out by the roots. Yay for wine! We camped in a tent-cabin in a tent city where the neighbors were two swaths of canvas and three feet away. I was awakened by our next door neighbor kids who were bickering and yammering endlessly so I projected a particularly voluminous fart in their general direction producing a barrage of kiddie giggles. In spite of the little darlings waking me up, having kiddie laughter first thing in the morning was a lovely mood stabilizer. Have I ever mentioned that I'm not entirely Rainbow Bright in the morning? More like Satan Incarnate... usually. At least until a liter of coffee liberates me from the cruel reality that is the waking world. Then I'm A-OK.

Anyhow, after seeing an orthopedic surgeon and the MRI and whatnot from the previous week, hiking half-dome wasn't really an option for me. Actually, doing anything on my feet wasn't really advisable. (I could, however, hold my own from the flat of my back, yet alas, no takers...) So I did then next best thing and found a quiet slice of the valley with some conveniently located trees in which to string up my handy-dandy travel hammock and read and read and swayed with the breeze as the Merced River babbled along beside me.

Note the grubby in the toes... Pedicure was the first order of business upon return.

I think I may have dozed off a bit from time to time. For the record: It did not suck one bit.

Whilst in California, one of my dearest friends from Santa Barbara came up for a night to drink liquor and tell lies about the glory days. A supreme treat since it's been well over a year since I've seen him. In the meantime, the friend I was staying with was in the process of buying an absurdly overpriced condominium. The real estate market in California is absolutely ridiculous. I'm happy for her because it's what she wants, but really thankful that I live on the east coast. She's buying in Santa Cruz. We went out for drinks in Capitola one night (which is a little beach town) and she pointed out a bunch of beach villas that have at most about 600 square feet in the floor plans and go for about 1 million bucks. Guess what, people buy them. Stupid.

I was supposed to go back to work on Friday but I blew it off. Tomorrow, I'm back in the saddle... No excuses. I'm not entirely looking forward to it. Somehow I'll endure it though.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Update for Dive: The toes are even cuter when they're clean!

Father's Day Weekend

2007-06-14T22:53:00.000-04:00

Hallmark Holidays… I don’t love ‘em. I never have. They leave me with an unsettled feeling of distress around these trite and precious holidays that has carried on throughout my life. As a child, it started with Valentines Day. Valentine’s Day makes children feel insecure about which of their friends likes them enough to send a valentine, or more devastatingly, which ones dislike them enough to send the ‘message of omission’ from their valentine distribution list. In adulthood, Hallmark fosters insecurities in fully grown adults who aren’t actively in a relationship on Valentine’s Day. Send a valentine to your parents or someone else you love…they suggest. Fuck off! Don’t tell me how and when to love! I realize that I’m a scrooge about these holidays, but what can I do? They vex me.

So in the holiday chute this weekend is Father’s Day. I’ve got it easy. My father has been dead for almost as many years of my life that he was alive. Miss him… you betcha. He was fucked up and totally flawed, but a really good dad. I’m not, and never have been the sort who turns a dead loved one into Saint Dad, Saint Mom, or Saint Anyone.

That said, my dad was the kind of father who taught me to change the oil in a car while we listened to Dodgers games on the radio. He taught me to drive and speed-shift a standard transmission and made sure that I didn’t get behind the wheel of an automatic until I was well into my twenties. He cared enough about the people my sister and I would grow up to be to not allow a television in the house. He made sure that we knew how to conduct ourselves at the card table and could cut a ball in at the pool table and considered these social skills that everyone should have. He didn’t give a shit about golf and neither do I. Our house was brimming with musical and literary resources that ensured that no matter what crazy adolescent whim had grabbed our attention, we could speak intelligently among respectable folks. He didn’t baby us and made sure that no one around us did. When he took us out for family portraits, nothing got done until we understood the concept of depth of field and the basic functioning of a camera. We sat down to dinner every night and stayed put until the salad was eaten, anything else served with it could be a leftover, but we all stayed until the salad was done.

He also drank too much, until he stopped, smoked cigarettes and ‘the dope’ every day of his life. Well, he stopped with the cigarettes when he got really sick. He also loved the ladies and they generally found him irresistible. Dad had some game with the ladies and being in a relationship in no way got in the way of that. It was the undoing of all of his relationships with good women. He was tall, handsome and strong and had some of the best legs that I’ve ever seen on anyone. He was a robust figure of a man and any of my dates were rightly intimidated as hell of him.

It’s hard to imagine that something as small and insignificant as a pea-sized tumor could kill such a force of life. But that’s exactly what it did.

There were 11 months, two brain surgeries, full body muscular atrophy, vocal cord paralysis, a feeding tube and a television entering the house from the time he was diagnosed to the day he failed to wake and everyone cried for a really long time. The last thing he asked me to do for him was to cut his finger and toenails because his coordination no longer allowed him to. Which I did and it was then as I knelt before him trimming his toenails that my heart knew it was over. My head wasn’t quite as wise. I still harbored the “positive thinking” mentality that drives the “denial” stage. It’s hard to face the death of your first hero with open acceptance.

As death goes, it was a successful death. Dying people know when the jig is up. And if you’re lucky they’ll tell you in subtle ways as they make sure their “house is clean” before they go. The day after he died he had an appointment with a lawyer to finalize his will. He had written one out longhand and signed it with a witness, which helped matters, but by the eyes of the law, his death was treated more or less, intestate. It was a TREMENDOUS pain in the ass. Especially since dad’s way of sticking it to the man was to not file income tax returns for 10 years. Let me tell you. In the end, the IRS gets their money. Don’t think for a second that they are forgiving or sympathetic to personal tragedy. They couldn’t give a shit.

But as I was saying… a successful death. The day he died, my sister, step mother and I were all able to look at each other and say, “no regrets” and mean it. We were there for him, and with him as he became ill and deteriorated and finally died. Everyone who mattered had the opportunity to make peace and set up the pieces so that it was safe for him to leave us. Which he did with grace. It was an honor to participate.

So Father’s Day…

I don’t smoke. I gave it up at 26 after being a smoker for 12 years. It was easy. Yes, I feel lucky because I know how hard people struggle with this. I view smoking in men as a deal breaker. To me, it is a weakness and the hallmark of a sucker in this day and age when we know that its repercussions are. Yet still, occasionally I get close to the personal space of a man who smokes, and sometimes, it smells divine. Not the dank stale smell of cheap cigarettes, but a more subtle olfactory hint of a bad habit. Sometimes the bad habits have a lot of charm and when we least expect it, they are a reminder to be flexible. If you do smoke, don’t kid yourself, it’ll fuck you up. But do what you must.

Whether you have a family or not, just write up the damned will. It’ll save your loved ones a load of distress in the bitter end. And if you don’t have loved ones, get the hell away from your computer RIGHT NOW and go love someone. And as ‘spam email’ as it sounds, settle conflicts in your relationships. Live clean with the people you love and make sure they know you love them.

I’ve probably not mentioned here before that I am a hospice volunteer. I am able to give back in an area that most people find unbearable but I am at ease with. I’m lucky. Although I prefer not to lose the people I love and it breaks my heart to pieces, I’m really good at it. And when you are good at something difficult, it just makes sense to help others with it.

For Father’s Day, the above is my message to all y’all.

Vacation… It’s a Rollercoaster

2007-06-11T17:35:00.000-04:00

At the end of this week, I’m off to the Golden State to visit a girlfriend who will make me drink buckets of booze and try to get me into all manner of alcohol-induced trouble. While I’m there, we are also going to spend a couple of days camping at Yosemite. Yay!

'Pretty' doesn't quite do it justice.

I have a serious and passionate affection for the Sierra Nevada. Real live mountains. They are very much unlike these tree-blanketed, northeast foothills parading around as mountains. I’m looking forward to breathing thin, high elevation air among gigantic steep-sloped, exposed rock-faced mountains. *sigh* Mountains might be what I miss most about the west.

The trip promises to be a good time, but as y’all may recall, I had an incident with my knee last month wherein the so-called mountains of Vermont took a retaliatory swing at me after I drilled several wells in them. I’ve just returned from a visit to the orthopedic surgeon. He thinks that I have a torn ACL and has ordered an MRI. Ripping! This puts a damper on my big ideas of hiking in Yosemite. Fuck! It looks like I may be the girl who sits in a hammock at the edge of the river reading smut while German and Japanese tourists waste their trip taking pictures of what they should be taking in. Why do people spend so much time taking pictures of nature instead of getting up close and personal with it? It’s absurd, I tell you.

In other news, I have a huge crush on a fella. The whole situation has left me completely off balance. I have no idea what he thinks of me. He seems to like kissing me and he appreciates my sarcastic nature. Beyond that, I’ve no clue how interested he may be in me. I’ve never had a sense for assessing what a guy thinks of me and age isn’t changing that one bit. The day after I come back from California, he’s traveling to another country for a month. Perhaps I should just calm the hell down and deal with my crush in July when he returns. Of course, that is totally contrary to the obsessive nature of a crush, so fat chance!

I hope you like pain!

2007-06-06T12:13:00.001-04:00

Confession: Seeing people make asses of themselves resulting in them getting hurt is one of the funniest things to me. I can watch this over and over agin.

Does that make me a bad person?

Your New Best Friend, The Black Widow

2007-06-02T11:22:00.000-04:00

It seems that being bitten by a black widow isn’t all bad. That is, there’s an upside to it. Sure, it is commonly fatal to children and the elderly, but in healthy adults, men in particular, it can prove to be a good thing.

In Chile, they call men who are particularly virile “spider-bitten”. Some clever scientists decided to pursue the facts behind the folklore. What they found was that a certain variety of black widow native to southern Chilean wheat fields may lead to superhuman virility. In strong young farmers the bite leads to “erections that can last for days and involve involuntary ejaculations.”

Hello lover!

Antonio de la Jarra reports for Reuters:

“Scientists have discovered a potentially marketable contraceptive in the venom of Chile's black widow spider, whose bite is fatal to many but can also cause prolonged, painful and involuntary erections in men.

“The venom of the Latrodectus mactans, a variety of black widow found only in the south of Chile, has spermicidal properties not found in black widows in other regions of the world, Chilean Dr Fernando Romero said.”

Hmmm…. What an incredible opportunity… a non-stop boner and no one gets knocked up... If only they can harness these properties…

Which is exactly what they are up to!

They are in the process of creating and patenting spermicidal gels, condom lubricants and whatnot that utilize the contraceptive and erectile dysfunction abating properties of the spider venom and they are going to be rich rich rich!

In the meantime, I’ve got a hot date tonight and I’m off to the rare and exotic pet store to pick up a certain black widow.

Dirty Nun

2007-05-29T18:40:00.001-04:00

Apparently scandalous catholic clergy behavior is not exclusively pedophilic in nature.

Who says that being a nun means: Don't want nun, ain't never had nun, ain't gonna get nun.

Creepy Stalkers

2007-05-24T07:35:00.001-04:00

I’ve never been stalked. At least, if I have been stalked, it’s been by someone who did so in a fashion that is subtle enough that I didn’t notice it. I’ve also never stalked anyone. I’ve googled people, and I assume that most people do that. As an adolescent, I would do the “drive by” maneuver to at the houses boys who I had crushes on and put myself in their paths but nothing that involved delusions that they might appreciate it or creating a vivid fantasy of my life with them. I may be too apathetic for that sort of thing. I’ve known people who were victims of stalkers and it really isn’t very funny or cute at all.

On a cross country flight, I watched a VH-1 show called Decades Live where they showcased Elvis Costello with Billie Joe Armstrong, Death Cab for Cutie and Fiona Apple honoring Big E and his influence on modern music. I’m a fan of Elvis Costello and have been since the end of the 1970’s. Not enough to stalk, but I think he’s real swell, like his writing style, his music, his geeky glasses, the whole shebang. One of the songs performed in this tribute was a duet with Elvis and Fiona Apple where she sang “I Want You” in a very creepy and alluring way. If I was to be stalked, I’d pick to be stalked by Fiona Apple.

I'm a Leaping Deer... Or Not.

2007-05-14T21:39:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, I got to hike up onto the top of this rock, also known as Deer's Leap Overlook, in the lovely hills of Vermont. I've got a thing for climbing onto rocks and watching the world from on high. A good time was had by all. And "all" consisted of me and my ever-lovin'-Kristie, who is a wing-nut from the word go, but always a good time to run amok in nature with. So, half way down the mountain, I managed to slide off a rock that I thought my foot was squarely planted on. And then there were three distinct echoing pops. And next thing I knew I was on my tuckus writhing and wincing in pain with alternately escaping through my clenched teeth, "Owie owie owie" and "fuckety fuck fuck fuck". Kristie, in a feat of great heroics, managed to get me to my feet and saw me the rest of the way down the mountain and then she kept me drunk for the rest of the weekend as I elevated and iced my sprained knee. None too pleased about how much my body is betraying me. At least I got a nice hike out of the deal before the wheels came off the bus.

Get Nekkid For Art

2007-05-08T06:37:00.000-04:00

Claudio Cruz / AP

On Sunday, thousands of Mexicans stripped to thier skin and were part of an art installation conducted by Spencer Tunick. Apparently, there is a movement to cast away the image of Mexicans being prudish. Have they not been to Tijuana?

Another Bullet Dodged

2007-05-05T07:21:00.000-04:00

My last post got me thinking about another tall tale of dodging bullets.

Becoming a geologist requires a lot of quality time camping. If you are lucky and you live in an arid region, you get to do this in the desert. Oddly enough, an academic discipline that requires going into nature, ya-hooing around in four wheel drive vehicles, hiking to some of the most beautiful places the mind can imagine, and sitting around a fire, drinking and telling lies can prove to be seductive. I totally fell for it being the easily seduced kind of lass and all.

If you’ve ever had the opportunity to go to Death Valley, you’ll know that it’s an amazing place. It’s admittedly challenging to stay for long in the searing heat of summer, but in the springtime, when the desert blooms… Amazing! There is really nothing like it.

On one of my many trips to the desert Mecca of Death Valley, I was camping with scads of people and a group of us built a fire and were drinking beer around said fire as is the tradition when sleeping under the stars in the desert. As the evening grew long, nature inevitably called. So into the desert I wandered to heed the call. I found a respectable shrub of chaparral and was in the process of squatting before said chaparral when from behind me, I heard the ominous rattling of a rattlesnake. This, for the record, did not scare the piss out of me. It scarred the piss right back from whence it came. So there I was duck walking away from my shrub grappling at my jeans to keep them from causing me to pitch onto my face and praying to anything that is holy that a) the rattlesnake wasn't a Mojave green, b) that it wasn't a baby, and c) that it didn't take that opportunity to pierce my butt.

All of which begs the question: Should my butt have been pierced by a rattlesnake, which of my friends would be drunk enough yet sober enough to suck the venom out of my rump? This can only be answered with another tall tale from the desert.

The previous autumn, I was in the Eastern Sierra Nevada, once again camping with scads of people and... you guessed it... drinking enthusiastically. My best friend, M, has a bad habit of getting drunk and forgetting that booze and pot don't mix. I've told her about this time and time again, but the girl won't listen and learns the lesson badly over and over again. This phenomenon has never really been a problem for me as I've been a pot-free-zone for most of my life. But it has given me the opportunity to point and laugh self-righteously. Anyhow, over the course of the evening, I lost track of dear M for a bit and when she showed up again, she was draped on Felix's shoulder. He promptly passed her off to me stating that he had to whiz (the slippery little bastard). As he walked away, I asked if he let her smoke pot and then damned him after he confirmed it. So poor M was in a state to be reckoned with and I said, "M, darlin', you have to execute the preemptive strike. It’s time to puke."

She slurred out, "I can't do that..."

"Of course you can!" said I.

"No, I can't." said she.

"You just shove your fingers down your throat until all lets fly."

"I can’t do that…" she insisted.

"M, come here. Hold back your hair, open your mouth and bend over."

To my surprise, she did. And my fingers went straight down her gullet and I tickled her tonsils until the heave ho was executed and she barfed her fool brains out. That's friendship. And you're darned skippy that she would suck the venom out of my ass!

For the record, the current first aid care standard for snake bites follows:
1) Call the Poison Control Center or EMS.
2) Do not attempt to suck the venom out of the victim.
3) Keep the affected limb below heart level.
4) Calm and reassure victim.

It’s not very proactive.

Happy Cinco De Mayo, Y'all

2007-05-05T07:15:00.000-04:00

On this day, we take time to remember that a depleted ramshackle army of 4000 Mexicans can whip the ever loving shit out of the proud French army (8000 strong and well equiped, mind you). Viva la Raza, Y'all!

Bullet Dodged...

2007-05-03T20:18:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was being courted by a fella, I'll go ahead and call him Frank. No... Francis... Because he was as lame as you would expect a fully grown man named Francis to be. So we met and were having a lively series of email exchanges leading up to what would be our first date. So in the process of all this, I managed to come down with a fierce head cold that was proving to be an impediment to our first date.

So I sent him this email:

Hey Francis,

Not a lot is new on my end except that I'm sick as a dog. Coughing, sneezing, snot everywhere. It's not so glamorous to be me right now. Feel free to call or email, but I'm afraid I'm not really up for fun and shenanigans.

To which he responded (and I've not edited his text) after several days:

H Fresh Hell
are you better, your last e-mail you didn't seem to horny, I expect you are feeling well now.?
What to talk/
Frank

Ok... so WTF?! Umm... I'm easy... but not that easy. So I told him as much because I'm like that. And I told him that if he wanted to talk or email me that would be fine and no hard feelings if he didn't. After a couple of weeks Francis sends me the following response:

Hi I was looking forward to talking with you again, or meeting for coffee. But I never agreed I would have sex with you, I think you presumed I would want to have sex with you, you really haven't shown me much, so no way was I thinking that. Perhaps if you impressed me, then maybe, I have 2 grad degrees, I know you have this intellectual superiority attitude, but believe me, it is not based in fact.

Ok, two graduate degrees and for the record, he claims to be a writer... of screenplays?!!! And an ability to occasionally complete a sentence renders me an intellectually superior sort? Since when?

I wonder if he seriously thinks that his charms will get him a visit to Happy Canyon. Yup... he's a champion. And here is a picture of the most recent bullet dodged:

Fuck him... He's a loser and a tool.

Deadly Handsome Men

2007-04-19T13:43:00.001-04:00

Here is a sad summary of my past beaus. I'm not proud, but a gal has to eat.

Going to the Ci-Tay

2007-04-17T07:47:00.000-04:00

In a couple of weeks, I'm having a long weekend in The City. I live near Boston, and when going there, it's generally understood that "I'm going to Town" means Boston. Likewise, when you tell anyone here you are going to "The City" they usually assume that you will be heading to New York City. However, if you say you are going to "Beantown" for Boston or "The Big Apple" for New York, natives to those areas will cringe.

As a native daughter of California, when I go back home, I go to "California". Here in New England, most people will greet this news with, "Oh, so you're going back to 'Cali'?" as I swallow back the bile that has surged up my gullet. Like two more syllables would kill you...Fuck! I assume that is the feeling that New Yorkers and Bostonians get when faced with "The Big Apple" and "Beantown", or how San Franciscans feel when their town is referred to as "Frisco" (which for the record, among Californians is "The City" while Los Angeles is far, wide, and no matter how you slice it, "LA"). It seems silly that these things should matter, but they all create a visceral response in natives. Curious. It seems that we all have insignificant things we need to cling to.

I'm also planning a trip to California this summer. I spoke with a friend of mine from "back home" who is a linguist and she says my accent is changing. It's clear that I need to recharge my Californian tongue. Not that there is anything wrong with the Boston accent, but on a lady, it just sounds low-brow and trashy. I am many things, but low-brow and trashy I ain't. So off I will travel to the Golden State where the letter "R" is a reality of language, intensifiers include "killer", "ripping", and "rad" not "wicked" and anyone can be called "dude" with a straight face (which for the record, makes me giggle on the inside). And so you don't misinterpret what I mean by a "California accent", I'm not talking about speaking Vally Girl. I don't speak in "likes" and "oh-my-gawd-Becky's". Anyhow, it will be nice to hear people speaking proper English not this railer colloquial New England spewing, but some fully kind local jargon from the west coast. (I'm bracing for the barrage from the Brits)

And speaking of "killer", the collective media is cumming all over themselves more than they have since September 11, 2001. Payday has arrived thanks to the unstable tendencies of an Oriental gunman in Virgina. The moral of the story, perhaps higher education is not always the best call. For that matter, perhaps leaving the house is ill advised. How long do you reckon we will have to hear interviews with people who are neighbors of someone who's child attended Virginia Tech and is alive and well, but we still have to see their hyperbolic emoting over people they don't actually know? Then there are all the other higher learning institutions across the country on high alert and camera crews ready in wait for the media glee of a chain reaction of catastrophic killings to unfold. Cynical? Perhaps.

Gads! Don't ever let me near a computer before I get coffee down the pipe.

Inspiration... Point, that is.

2007-04-14T00:42:00.001-04:00

Forgive the videographer for the blustering microphone noises. At least he had the good sense to record the beauty of Inspiration Point.

I'm homesick. This is where I grew up and learned to appreciate the natural world. Santa Barbara is a coastal desert. It tends to be warm and dry and the breeze picks up in the evening which doesn't suck. When the sun sets into the ocean, its light gets reflected off buff sandstone outcrops on the foothills and fills the hillsides with a warm glow. For the record, for all the cool things it has, the east coast doesn't have that.

Guitar Porn - Part I

2007-04-01T16:25:00.001-04:00

RODRIGO Y GABRIELA

Ok, so this is for all the guitar fans out there. This is what happens when Mexi-metal heads go "folk".

Guitar Porn - Part II

2007-04-01T16:22:00.001-04:00

I saw these two with my sister last year and they flipped my skirt. After the concert, my sister said that she wanted to live a life for which their music would be the soundtrack. They played Stairway to Heaven and it was the first time since about the 10th time I heard that song when I didn't want to gouge out my ears.

RODRIGO Y GABRIELA... run don't walk, and go buy their album, download thier music, go see them in concert and throw money at them. Who says that guitar solos are trite!

Guitar Porn - Part III

2007-04-01T16:08:00.001-04:00

Want more? Check out:

RODRIGO Y GABRIELA...

Confession: I'm Out of Shape

2007-03-26T07:26:00.000-04:00

On days like today, it's hard to believe that I've run a marathon. Which I have. Freaking slowly, but I've done it. Granted it's been four years since said marathon, but still...

Part of the efforts to beat back the blues has included joining the sad little drones who go to the gym to condition their bodies. On principal, I'm conflicted by this because you shouldn't have to do that if you live well and use your body. Walk instead of using the car where you can. Find opportunities to help someone dig a ditch, go out dancing, washing your own damned car, normal stuff like that. These things don't really happen because we spend our time on our rumps driving computers and hire illegal immigrants to handle the heavy lifting. Real world physical effort makes for better looking and better conditioned bodies than the freakish bulging of a gym rat's body with particular emphasis on their obsession spots. Pectoral muscles that can break open walnuts being paraded around on spindly little sticks of legs. It's disgusting. But until I manage to get off my ever inflating booty and applying myself to doing some heavy lifting in the real world, I'm counting myself in with the drones running in place at the gym.

As a side note in defense of the gym, in my early 20's I worked out there a lot and as I was maxing out on a pec-deck machine, an orgasm slipped out. Right there in the middle of a crowded gym. I was sweaty and flushed from exercise anyhow, so it was easy to play off, but how cool is that!

The point of all this blathering on about working out is that I met with my personal trainer this weekend. He's a strapping young ex-Marine and he worked me over hard, so much so that I'm having a difficult time walking straight. Out of context, being worked over hard by a strapping young ex-Marine leaving me walking funny would be a gleaming badge of honor. But alas, in this case, it's just a mark of my shame. Tonight after work, the ex-Marine will have another go at me and on shaky legs I'll amble to my car and wait for the inevitable pain to take me once again. Sometimes pain is good for you. So I'm told. I'm inflicting pain upon my body in an effort to keep it out of my mind. The irony hasn't escaped me.

The Volvo Wagon

2007-03-22T09:44:00.000-04:00

I'm a huge fan of Kevin Smith. He and his movie making soulmate, Scott Mosier have a podcast called SModcast. In SModcast Episode 6, titled “Inverted Nipples”, they discussed their adolescent conquests in automobiles among other things. The discussion came around to a time when Kevin Smith was in his car going down on a girl with his finger up her butt, which was of course, previously uncharted territory for him. As the gods have a sense of humor about timing and whatnot, sure enough, the police came by and busted them for fooling around in the vehicle. Everyone was uncomfortable and embarrassed. Hey, it was his story and much funnier as he told it. But it brought me back to 19 years ago, when I was at the tender, wistful age of 18 years…

I like this story because a) its totally true, this can’t be made up, and b) I come off as a filthy dirt bag pig in it. I figured I’d have no choice but to share with all y’all.

With that, I give you The Volvo Wagon:

When I was a teenager, most kids couldn’t wait to drive. Perhaps that hasn’t changed in 21 years but I was not one of those kids. I didn’t much care about driving as I knew there wouldn’t be a lot of opportunities to drive, my bicycle was usually a faster mode of transportation in my little town, and suffering the indignities of drivers training with an uptight physical education teacher and a carload of pimply-faced teens… forget it.

The general protocol for teenage driving starts with going to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) at 15 ½ years to get a learner’s permit which you must have to begin the aforementioned indignities of training. Then the first thing to do on your 16th birthday is attend the driving test at the DMV and walk away a legal driver... provided you pass. Fuck it. I learned to drive on my own when I was 18. Once you are 18 in California, you can saunter in, take all the necessary tests and walk out with a ticket to drive. So that’s exactly what I did.

I learned to drive on my mother’s beater 1979 Volvo station wagon that had a standard transmission without power steering or brakes and to start it you had to take a wrench to the manifold and give it a couple of whacks. Yup, tomboy.

At the time I was in L-O-V-E love with my first serious boyfriend. I was taking him home after band practice (he was the drummer in a punk band and that got me Chernobyl hot) one night and we decided to stop at a dark and lonely park in the posh neighborhood he lived in and do what teenagers with teeming hormones do. Since we had the Volvo wagon and there was a mattress in the back we laid down the back seat and had a little love nest. People complain about sex in cars, but the boxy Volvo has a lot of room and being blessed with long legs, the roof provided some traction that worked out well for me. So there we were, buck nekkid and both of us with our heads in the game, in “the zone” if you will, when a barrage of floodlights cascaded upon us. Boyfriend valiantly lay down upon me to cover my nakedness as he draped a piece of clothing across his pasty white rump. The sheriff asked us what we were doing. To which I replied that it should be pretty obvious and made comment that he can’t possibly be so naïve as to need to ask. Then the sheriff told us to get out of the car. Again I had to be the voice of reason and asked to be allowed to put our clothing back on. Princes that they were, they said that would be fine… uncomfortably, looking at them while they have the lights trained on us, finally I asked if they would divert their lights. I had no problem giving all the goods to Boyfriend, but inbred yay-hoo sheriffs… I think not.

Upon pulling ourselves together, we were subjected to the standard questions and produced the standard documentation… which is where things got sticky. I gave them my brand new license and Boyfriend gave them his learner’s permit. You see, Boyfriend was 15 years old. You could have tipped those sheriffs over with a feather. They said they don’t often see an older girl with a younger boy and they threatened to bring me up on statutory rape charges. I made sure that they took note that he was perfectly grown man size and acted like more of a man than most of the “certifiable” adults who were my age. Boyfriend explained that nothing we were doing was against his will and that he was under no circumstances being taken advantage of. I assured them that his momma knew damned well that we were rutting like animals and why the hell did they think we were here and not snugly tucked into one of our beds. No parent wants to hear their kid going at it! Somehow, that convinced them that we were on the up and up and they let us go but not before admonishing me for my perversion and telling me that if I was a boy, I’d be taken in. I think they gave Boyfriend a wink and a thumbs up when I turned away from them. I resisted calling them sexist pigs since I was smart enough to know when to resist poking a bear with a stick. Off we went to the next darker and lonelier spot and finished up the task at hand.

I’ve always had a thing for younger fellas. Or so it would seem from my dating history. Boyfriend was one of several boys who were deflowered in my loving arms. What can I say, I was a sexually adventurous girl. Most of the others were before him and there was one virginal takedown after Boyfriend was history. It seems that I might have had a thing for defiling tender innocence as well. But Boyfriend was the only one who I didn’t cast away right after the sweat dried.

I’M BACK!

Whitttchaaaahhh......

2007-03-07T19:21:00.000-05:00

I received the following email from a hot-pot of sassafras who occasionally teaches me to shake my money-maker:

Subject: whipcrack

whitttchaaaahhh........write more blog dammit.
Your ever-lovin Kristie

I never realized that you could spell out the sound of the crack of a whip, but here it is in black and whiteish. If only that crack was solidly planted on my posterior I might do a better job of jumping to it. Sometimes a girl just needs a solid whup'un to get the ball rolling.

Truth be told, my head space is still precarious. I keep having ideas that I want to write, but the ideas haven't been turning to verbal inertia... yet. I'm ever encouraged since I've not been waking daily wishing for death to take me swiftly. That's a good sign if I ever heard of one. I'll not make promises of when I can get back to regularly regaling you with true tales of glory days peppered with hyperbole and lies (and occasionally ham-fisted alliteration and contradiction). I'll just do what I can as my mind cools the hell out.

SWAK, Babys!

Twisting on the Cape...

2007-02-23T07:26:00.000-05:00

Be Right Back

2007-02-10T14:49:00.000-05:00

I'm currently on vacation at "The Dark Place".

Mama always told me to "shut the hell up if you don't have anything worthwhile to say." And since at The Dark Place, all I hear in my head is this: I hate my life and my career and everything about both. The only good thing I have in my life is my family. And that consists of my sister and niece across the state and various aunts and uncles strewn about the country.

I'm going to take mom's advice and get back to y'all when I have something pleasant or at least entertaining to share.

Respectfully submitted from the gates of hell.

And Speaking of Misspent Youth...

2007-02-05T07:52:00.000-05:00

I spent the whole weekend roped to my computer writing. Sadly, I wasn’t writing anything fun, but a report to submit to an environmental regulatory agency. By the time I put it in the hands of a reviewer, I was whipped down and spent. That meant only one thing… time had come to drink a whole bottle of wine… and straight from the bottle. Don’t need no stinkin’ glasses!

Fuck! What weekend?!

Whilst drinking said bottle of wine, I removed the technical jargon that was floating in my head after two days straight of writing, re-writing and tweaking text by watching the Lords of Dogtown. Which is a movie that is based on the story of Dogtown and Z-Boys, a documentary that Stacy Peralta made a few years ago. Both are fantastic so I recommend putting them on your Netflix queue or go to wherever you get your flicks and check them out.

Now, I grew up in Southern California, mind you, in the northernmost city in Southern California, but Southern California none the less. Santa Barbara is a surf/skate town and my crowd was the skate punk crowd. The aforementioned movies describe a time that was about 10 years before my era, but I looked up to those guys and had s-u-c-h huge crushes on boys of that ilk. They were tough and performed heroic tricks without any consideration of bumps, bruises, road rashes and broken bones. Perhaps stupid, but definitely dreamy. You see, they tended to have these incredible bodies… but I digress.

Anyhow, the point is these movies get the late 70’s in Southern California right, which is a rare bird. Most of what you see is a polished up Hollywood version of what it was like then and I’m sure in some circles it was like the Hollywood version. What is presented in these movies is the gritty underbelly of the disaffected youth that influenced so much of popular culture that spread across the whole country.

And when you are done with all that, rent Thirteen which is a movie that was directed and co-written by the director of the Lords of Dogtown and shudder in your boots if you are a parent to an adolescent girl in Southern California. Thirteen is not an uncommon story.

The Folly of Youth

2007-01-30T21:29:00.000-05:00

Hee Haw... Pickin' and a Grinin'

In my wayward youth, I had this great friend, Lulu. Lulu was a nickname that her father’s rugby-playing buddies gave her when she was a pre-adolescent. There was a corny 1970’s variety sketch show that catered to the Grand Ole Opry crowd called Hee-Haw. Scrap (Lulu’s dad) and his buddies used to tease her and tell her that she looked like Lulu the Fat Lady from Hee Haw and it stuck.

As a point of clarification, Lulu was gorgeous. She had long corn silk blonde hair, deep blue eyes and was stacked like nobody’s business. She had the attitude of a gal being raised by her single, rugby playing father. In short, hanging around with Lulu was always a good time. At 17 years old, it was a dream come true to be able to hang around a bunch of big, sweaty rugby players who let us get away with drinking beer while we had moderately disturbing adolescent fantasies about them.

Often we would spend our weekends in Isla Vista, which is the town that houses the majority of the students and fraternities for the University of California Santa Barbara, drinking beer and mocking frat-boys. It was usually one big street party there on the weekends with crappy keg beer flowing freely. The agreement was always to meet up back at the car if we lost track of each other.

Even at a tender 17 years old, we were both cynical and twisted girls. We were quickly bored by the keg scene and the silly college boys vying for position with the ladies so we made up games to entertain ourselves. The most popular and fun game was “how far”. The challenge was to see which of us could get the furthest with a fella on any given night. (Fathers out there, beware: your daughters would do this, too) It was relatively innocent, because we were floozies, but we did have our limits.

Sure enough, Lulu and I became separated one evening. I started thinking that I was about to win the Hell out of the game. I had come across Rick Galvan and I had no idea where Lulu was, but Rick seemed quite smitten with yours truly so I gave him the time of day.. er.. night. We were fooling around and there was heavy petting aplenty. Things hadn’t been going quite so well for Lulu before I’d lost track of her so I thought I had this one in the bag. Eventually, I pulled the plug on poor Rick (now known as Blue Ball Rick). I could have gone so much further with the fella, but he committed the fatal act which was to push my head toward his nob and it was game over for Blue Ball Rick. I was tired and he had just become tedious. All that was left to do that evening was to wrangle up Lulu and get home before my father flipped out.

Upon arriving back at the car, I saw Lulu in the front seat. Victory was mine since she was alone. Fully prepared to gloat, I hollered her name at which point some random college boy’s head popped up from between her legs that were propped up on the dash board. Apparently, victory was not for me to taste on that night. However, random college boy had a nip at it.

Sunset at the Landfill

2007-01-25T08:42:00.000-05:00

Pretty, no? About 10 feet beneath the snow methane gas and hydrogen sulfide are being generated by the decomposition of rubbish. Lets hear it for impermeable geotextile cap liners allowing landfills to be recycled for golf courses, playgrounds, and sports pitches with a pretty view!

A Breath of Fresh Air

2007-01-23T07:48:00.000-05:00

I've been tethered to my desk at the office for the past two months straight. I just learned that I supremely screwed up some field work, so tomorrow I am being sent to New Hampshire to collect new data. Cold... sure. But I'll have a day of relief from my ass spreading across my chair.

P.S. Got a hot date tonight so perhaps I'll be getting more physical activity in the near future than running around a landfill in the snow tomorrow. Think dirty thoughts for me.

The Empress of the Blues

2007-01-20T10:49:00.001-05:00

When I was growing up we didn't have a television. Dad thought they were lame. We'd spend our Saturday nights playing cards and listening to blues music shows on the radio. So from a tender period in my development, songs about liquor, cigarettes and sin were constant background music in my house. The blues taught me about falling in love and getting your heart kicked around and picking up the pieces in the aftermath. It's a hard world out there. Perhaps my perspective would be prettier if I'd spent the 80's learning life's lessons from Family Ties and Beverly Hills 90210. Perhaps not. But in the end, I can't resist a song that talks about a man fixing up my rusty bedsprings.

Empty Bed Blues

2007-01-20T10:04:00.000-05:00

Bessie Smith sang songs that were gritty and provocative. She could pump out some seriously saucy metaphores. If you like this, you should check out Gimme a Pigfoot.

Empty Bed Blues

by Bessie Smith

I woke up this morning

With awful aching head

My new man had left me

Just a room and an empty bed

Bought me a coffee grinder,

Got the best one I could find

So he could grind my coffee

Cause he had a brand new grind

He's a deep-sea diver,

With a stroke that can't go wrong

He can touch the bottom,

And his wind holds out so long

He knows how to thrill me

And he thrills me night and day

He's got a new way of loving,

Almost takes my breath away

Oh, he's got that sweet something

And I told my girlfriend Lou

But the way she's ravin'

She must have gone and tried it too

When my bed get empty

Make me feel awful mean and blue

My springs are getting rusty

Sleepin' single like I do

Bought him a blanket

Pillow for his head at night

And I bought him a mattress

So he could lay just right

He came home one evening

With his spirit way up high

What he had to give me

Made me ring my hands and cry

He give me a lesson

That I never had before

When he got through teachin' me

From my elbow down was sore

He boiled my first cabbage

And he made it awful hot

When he put in the bacon

It overflowed the pot

When you get good lovin'

Never go and spread the news

I'll build up to cross you

And leave you with them empty bed blues

Holy Hangover Batman!!

2007-01-19T08:32:00.000-05:00

So when I got in at freaking 2 AM, I did the logical thing and took out my contacts and got distracted reading email on my way to bed. About 10 minutes later I said to myself... I've got to take off my contacts and get to bed... and I must really be drunk because I can't seem to get anything in focus across the room! Then I went into the bathroom and started taking out my contacts... again... except you see, there weren't any contacts in my eyes. I realized this when I put a phantom contact into the contact case that was full of solution and I thought... Hey... Wait a minute, I've already done this. Yep, I'm a champion.

Work is going to be a breeze today!

Lust Lost

2007-01-16T21:26:00.000-05:00

I ran into the subject of this post and this post tonight. What can I say? The man is no good. He's nothing but trouble. But he makes my teeth sweat like they've been running a marathon.

Must PMS always be such a rollercoaster?

Life in a Prostitution-Friendly State

2007-01-13T19:33:00.000-05:00

There are several counties in the Great Silver State of Nevada where prostitution is legal. I used to live in one of them. It's hard to be in Nevada without being overcome with whorehouse fascination. On the north-south highway that crosses the state and extends from the Reno area to Las Vegas there are a plethora of denizens of sin.

In Tonopah, a town with an optimistic 3,500 person population and the nearest movie theatre, or even the nearest Kmart for that matter, being a 120 mile drive (past two whorehouses, mind you) away, it's pretty common to make the jaunt to Las Vegas for giggles and groceries.

There are four whorehouses between Tonopah and Las Vegas: The Cottontail Ranch, The Shady Lady, Angel's Ladies, and The Cherry Patch Ranch II. Each has souvenirs and whatnot you can purchase and some of the T-shirts are priceless. (Think of the mudflap girl silhouette wearing a cowboy hat on leaning on a post and the slogan, "Support Your Local Cathouse".) The shirts from The Cottontail Ranch were the nicest, that is, they actually had a pretty design. Unlike the ... ummm ... ladies who worked there. The above link is not a good characterization of the caliber and the aesthetic of the ladies who you meet at a whorehouse in Nevada. It really isn't like you see in the movies at all.

Every Tuesday the girls were shuttled into Tonopah for their weekly pelvic exam at the Nye County Regional Medical Center. Can you imagine how sadly depressing it must be to be the doctor or nurse practitioner who services the sex service industry?

The other girl geologist at the mine where I worked and I decided that the greatest Christmas gift for many of our loved ones would be T-shirts from the Cottontail Ranch. We motored down the highway and sweet talked our way in because they didn't have any guests at the time. They generally don't let civilian ladies cross the threshold.

As cliche as it sounds, red lights mark the entry way that can be seen from 20 miles away. Most of the houses are large temporary buildings, mobile homes or compounds of mobile homes and trailers. The Cotton Tail Ranch is a large double wide mobile home with a bunch of trailers adjacent to it. Inside, there is a bar-room with a juke-box and really hideous wood panelling on the walls that you almost can't see because it is covered over with trucker caps that have been stapled to the walls. Perhaps it's a trucker/whore equivalent of a notch in the bedpost. People are funny.

This is when I got up close and personal with a real live lady of ill repute. One of the girls came into the room wearing a really low-rent white teddy with her booty cheeks hanging out the back of it. She had a matching low-rent bleach job on her hair with 2 inch-long dark roots and haphazardly applied makeup. She said, "Hi." We weren't sure whether we should divert our eyes and try not to make her or us uncomfortable or try to engage her in conversation. It's hard not to imagine what her life is, how she got there and what array of fat, sweaty, disgusting truckers she has had to endure grunting on top of her or whispering foul nothings as she sucked them off. We settled on saying hi back and got the hell out of there before the eventual thoughts about whether we could actually earn a living that way started to flood our minds. But the funny thing is that sort of experience stays fresh in the memory and those thoughts creep up anyway and surprise the hell out of you. For instance, the very next time I was in a compromising position getting all biblical with a fella.

______________________________
An addenda to the story:

The geotech (Ginger) at the mine was married to a son-of-a-whore. That is, his mother was the madam at the Chicken Ranch in Pahrump, Nevada. Ginger said that his mama came to their wedding and got drunk and caused all sorts of havoc with his family. Anyhow, Ginger and Robbie lived in a single wide trailer, but not the whorehouse variety, more the family variety. They had a truck that was so high off the ground, you almost couldn't get into it without help or a ladder. Every year, Ginger won the girls mucking* contest at the mining festival because that girl could shovel some muck like nobody's business!

Upon moving to Tonopah, Ginger asked me, "Ok, who is your racer and which is your team?" I learned that she was asking about my Nascar racer (hers was Jeff Gordon) and my favorite football team. Apparently these are big things in small-town western towns in about a hundred miles from nowhere. I had nothing. I couldn't really give a shit about Nascar or Football. So I told her that I liked any racer that she liked and my team is the Lakers, having been born bleeding Laker purple at Queen of Angles Hospital in Los Angeles. Somehow, Basketball doesn't resonate with that crowd.

*In this context, "muck" is the verb meaning: shovelling muck, ore, waste or rock in general. Can also be a noun in that context. Not to be confused with a commenter's use of muck as in a colloquial for "spunk, jiz, cum, wad or ejaculate".

Random Flotsam and Jetsam

2007-01-13T17:54:00.000-05:00

My big idea today was to get cracking on writing the long ago promised tale of killing my mother. As the fates have it, I did get a bite into it but not as far as I'd like to so you (my only reader) will have to just keep coming on back to see if that black cloud has slid across the screen at Fresh Hell Central.

I had a little revelation about a comment I made about randy married men hitting on me and trying to convince me that their wives are dried up and supremely lacking in sex drive. Usually these guys have wives that are pretty close to me in age. I'll tell you what... About every single woman I know who is in my age group, married or not is endlessly griping about how their fellas don't put out anywhere near enough to keep them satisfied. So I'm thinking that either these men are full of shit and just want some fresh tuna, or all the ladies I know are total freaking nymphomaniacs, myself included. So yeah, I'm throwing the gauntlet out there to all you men in your 30's and 40's. Go dig something out of your wives or lady friends if you aren't a matrimony sort! I dare you! I double dog dare you!! Hell, it's the dead of winter so we should all be getting busy like teenagers!

And for your viewing pleasure, here is a picture I took on a particularly long walk today:

To take this picture, I had to lie down in the dirt. I didn't realize how wet it was until I got up and had that moist clingy feeling on the backside of my trousers. And then the wind picked up which would help to alleviate that moist posterior situation, except that it was about 40 degrees F, so I just got a frigid ass and a groovy twilight picture out of the deal. Note to self: Walk earlier and stay out of the mud.

I decided to take pictures on my walks to record the world around me, entertain y'all, and see if I actually have an eye for pictures. That, and I just got a new camera with a 1Gig memory card. Also, every once in a while, I get inspired to take lotsa pictures. Last night I saw Born into Brothels about the children of sex workers in the red light districts of Calcutta, India. Some documentarian moved in and gave a whole mess of kids cameras and taught them about photography and some of the pictures they took were amazing. So of course, being slightly narcissistic, I've convinced myself that my pictures would be just as good as pre-adolescent Indian children of questionable lineage. Deluded?... You betcha!

Christmas at Fresh Hell Palace

2007-01-11T21:42:00.000-05:00

I loathe Christmas. And most things it stands for. Especially in this modern age. However, I currently reside proximal to my sister and more importantly, to my sweet little innocent 6 year old niece. As a result, Chris Mother-frickin' Kringle had his way with me. Here are the fruits of both our labors. Note that a full half of my male demons are anatomically correct. Yeah... "Blaspheme I know thy name and thy name is FRESH HELL!!!"

Holidays are over. All that crap (except of course for the devils) are sweetly tucked in storage until I'm inspired once again by the holidays... that is... my niece.

Bang Bang BANG!!!

2007-01-09T21:07:00.000-05:00

Truth be told, I'm glad my name isn't Annie, she isn't so well representd here. In the end, I can kind of relate to this little video. The guy part, that is. You see, I'm (sadly) more of a man than most men when it comes to romance and whatnot.

There is a guy who I used to date and everything fizzled out and I didn't hear a peep from him for months. Out of the blue, he starts calling and sending me messages and whatnot. There were no hard feelings on my part because we just dated for a short while and things never got serious. Well... when we started talking again, I wanted to know what happened and why he just dissappeared. Well, guess what the big issue was? He said he was falling for me and he got scared so he tucked tail and ran. Now he wants to beg forgiveness and make it up to me so that he can win me back. How's that for throwing down with an impressive blowjob! Ha! I've still got it.

I've got comittment issues and damned good lips. Basque in my glory, y'all!

Where do I go from here?

2007-01-06T11:33:00.000-05:00

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a geologist. When I was young and doe-eyed and looking for the right fit academically everyone went on with the old cliche that if you do what you love, the money will follow. I'm here to call bullshit on that old myth. At least in the case of geology. Which brings me to my dilemma today: What the fuck should I do about my career?

When I first started college, (at Santa Barbara City College because when I was in high school, there was no glimmer of a chance that I would be hauling my party-girl ass out of bed at 7 am on a Saturday to take the freaking SATs, so 4 year institution from the get-go was O-U-T out!) I had no idea what academic path I would pursue, but I knew it would be something in the sciences.

In high school, biology and marine biology really spoke to me so I expected I'd go down that road on some level. On the good advice of my dear friend Lulu (rip sista) I took an introductory geology class. Within two weeks, my major was declared. I must give credit to the professor (Karl Hallbach) who romanced me into a life of dirt and rocks. He was an inspiring teacher who opened my eyes to a discipline that incorporated everything that the world is made of and the way all aspects of the physical and life sciences work in concert in this fascinating world.

Half way through the semester, we had our first field trip to Death Valley and however much I'd become enamored with geology was exponentially increased. Perhaps it was the desert sunsets and breezes, perhaps it was sitting around a fire drinking liquor and telling lies. It certainly wasn't the nimrod fuck hole playing Tangerine and various freaking Eagles "hits" (yeah, hits like vicious blows to the gut) on guitar and stinky stoned white-girls with dreadlocks singing along. But I was over the desert moon drunk on cheap liquor and geology.

An aside... Have I mentioned my misanthropic tendencies? This might be why life sciences of the biology type was patently out of the question on my academic path. Hence my mantra: If it lives or ever lived, I don't really care that much.

Anyhow, I wasn't one of the folks whose parent's teats were flowing freely. Dad had died already and Mom was not a woman of great means, though very proud and supportive of me. The means to the end of my education fell down upon my own cunning to finance. So I worked and it took for-freaking-ever to finally get my bachelors degree. Which, for the record, came to pass at the tender age of 30. In the meantime, ironically, I had a career for seven years in the mental health profession (see previous paragraph).

After college, I had the incredible opportunity to work in mining, which is the holy grail for any geologist who isn't an eco-Nazi, which I am not at all one small bit. And on top of it all, mining is lucrative, fun and exciting with really bitchen heavy equipment. You can't imagine how cool it is to climb a 12 foot ladder to get into the cab of a 250 ton dump truck. As things tend to go in the mining industry, the mine closed and I was laid off. So in a desperate fit to get a job in Santa Barbara where my mother was living and dying at the time, I took a job in environmental consulting after swearing that I would never get stained green and ruin what was shaping up to be a lovely career in resource exploitation. Dammit dammit dammit!!!

Fast forwarding past a whole litany of stories from the past 5 1/2 years that are fodder for future blog submittals...

I abandoned the west coast a year and a half ago for fear that my soul wouldn't survive one more minute of California life, and transferred to an office here in beautiful Boston.

Now, professionally, I'm not so sure that I am in the right position and I have been questioning my career path for about as long as I've been in environmental consulting. And for the past year, I've felt at a crossroads. You see, as much as I still love geology, environmental consulting has little to nothing to do with pure geology and it's not even a fraction of as interesting as geology is. I'm in the unfortunate position of having to continue to pay for my education, but I've got some big harebrained ideas about what step to take next. There are a few paths that I can pursue and I can't seem to get my head around which is the right one to take.

- I can embrace the profession that I've fallen into and go to graduate school and be all I can be in environmental consulting.
- I can chuck it and go to nursing school and reduce my stress load exponentially and not have that pesky working 7 days a week situation, yet make a pretty similar salary
- I can pursue a super-fantastic business idea I've come up with and risk failing miserably and going ever deeper in debt.
- I can stay the course and tread water at my current station in life.

After this exercise of putting these thoughts out for all the world to see, I'm no closer to resolved than I was when I started writing this. But on the other hand, I'm inspired to write more entries for this fresh hell. Stay tuned kitty cats. I'll let you know what comes to pass.

Receding into Obscurity

2007-01-06T10:59:00.000-05:00

It has been a rigorous and trying week. I've been working my posterior off and not seeming to get any progress made. I'll be heading to the office shortly to carry on with it. Yeah, go ahead, look at the date. It's Saturday. There will be more of the same tomorrow.

So, dear reader, my apologies for not providing more interesting content. I still plan to rivet you with tall tales that will strike you with awe. In the meantime, I'll continue spending unimaginable amounts of hours on my arse driving a freaking computer and writing some truly uninspired words about contaminated soils, groundwater and whatnot. Once that submittal is off my desk, friends, the good times will roll.

Moments of Weakness

2007-01-02T21:05:00.000-05:00

It was a particularly rough day at the office. I spent most of it scrambling to get things done and wishing I was being manhandled in the fun way. Distraction doesn't make for an efficient girl in the corporate world. Anyhow... I'm going to move forward with a little bit of quality time petting my cat... Clyde... fuzzy... gray stripes... whiskers... claws... paws... squeeky mewing... she's a cat you filthy bastards!! Now petting the kitty... that's a horse of another color all together my friends.

Ahhhh New Years

2006-12-31T23:08:00.000-05:00

Work is crazy, overwhelming and all encompassing. So, I've taken the wise route of not reveling in the usual New Years hi-jinks and chosen to stay in with a bowl of popcorn and Sex in the City.

As the evening has pressed on, I decided to go ahead and live a little fancy on such a big (giggling) night. At ten o'clock, I suckled up to the fine juniper teat of some magnificent high-end gin in the pure and simple form of a martini. Still loving the holidays.

Tomorrow is a big day at the office. I'm going to have to lay my wary head to rest soon. With any luck, that will begin before tomorrow happens.

Happy New Year, Y'all!!!

Two Important Points

2006-12-30T12:30:00.000-05:00

I so couldn't give a flying rat's ass about Sadam Freaking Hussain and his execution. Isn't there something newsworthy for the media to be sensationalizing?

More importantly, my most recent guilty pleasure is Justin Timberlake. He may be bringing sexy back, but sexy never left my palace.

Stealing From the Blogs of Others

2006-12-30T00:18:00.000-05:00

I rifled this series of questions from Bitter Betty. A blog I thoroughly enjoy. So with that, enjoy!

1. What did you do in 2006 that you'd never done before?
Well for starters, I got tied up (see picture to the top right) and whipped and flogged and smacked around until my booty and thighs were covered in bruises for weeks. That was new...

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I’m pretty dead-set against the resolution thing. It’s like setting yourself up for failure, and furthermore, if you want to make changes in your life, just go forward with it. Don’t wait until the first of the year for it. Stupid!!

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yup. A couple. That’s the trouble with being a spinster in the late 30’s. Every freaking body is breeding like desperation has set in.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
In a way. The father of one of my best friends died. Which reminded me of what that feels like. Years take that away. And my first Hospice patient died on the same day. Which was a relief because he was badly sick, and needed to die.

5. What countries did you visit?
I passed through Idaho and West Texas, which I can tell you with every fiber of my being was a sojourn into something seriously foreign.

6. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?
I’m going with lotsa sex and a sense of contentment. One breeds the other don’t you think?

7. What dates from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
February 11th. It really is the only day in the year that stood out to me. It was my birthday and I felt more-so small and alone than I had ever before.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
It seems so small but I cut off all my hair and donated it to Locks of Love. I've never been a short hair girl either so that took a little adjusting. I've never had to work so hard on my hair in my life. They say short hair is so damned easy... pftt! Not so much. Change is good.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I had big fancy ideas about tightening up the chassis on this old jalopy but it didn’t work out quite as effectively as I’d hoped. Never the less, I’ve still got it going on, my friends.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No sir-ma’am! I’m healthy like horse! I’ve had a couple bumps and bruises, but nothing I didn’t have coming.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
I bought some Frye boots. Damn. There are boots, and then there are boots, and then there are Frye boots. The kind of boot that sorts out your swagger and gets your hips moving just right. Some things are just poetic that way.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My brother’s. He has been in the process of becoming a man and he went to war for my country. And when it became clear that this country doesn’t really deserve his efforts he conducted himself with more integrity and honor than I ever thought he was capable of. I’m even more proud of him than I was when he joined the army in wartime.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Generally speaking, the male management figures of the company I work for from the East Coast. On the West Coast the management seemed to be a little more enlightened and invested in developing staff.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Can we talk a little bit about debt? If you wonder where my money was going, I’d say it went to where it was previously spent.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Music music and more music. I fell back in love with music and the discovery of new bands that stir my soul. That and the Boston Bruins. They suck, but I love ‘em!

16. What song will always remind you of 2006?
Laura by Flogging Molly. If you haven’t heard it, I’d highly recommend it.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Sadder. I’ve not had quite enough change in this last year.
b) thinner or fatter? A little less fat and fuck you for asking!
c) richer or poorer? Relatively richer and that just means that my total debt load has gone down.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of? A few things:
Yoga, running, knitting, writing, reading, making art and last but not least, shagging like my life depended on it.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Feeling sorry for myself. As if I didn’t know by now that I am in control of how I’m feeling! Sheesh!!

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
That bridge is crossed, my friends. And I’m happy to report, that in spite of my atheistic tendencies, I thoroughly enjoyed it.'

21. Did you fall in love in 2006?
Not even close.

22. How many one-night stands?
One. For the record:
1) Don’t hump neighbors.
2) When neighbors are foreign, bear in mind that if they want to listen to Barry White, the are gunnin’ to hump.
3) Don’t freaking hump your neighbors.

23. What was your favorite TV program?
Can I tell you how insignificant TV programs are to me?!? But if I must put my finger on TV worth watching… I’ve got to say, “Rescue Me” is the best bit of TV I’ve ever seen. Followed closely by "Weeds". And I don't even touch the stuff!

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
In case you were wondering, I’m a member of Generation X. Therefore, I couldn’t be bothered enough to have hate. Because, of course, I’m apathetic as the day is long.

25. What was the best book you read?
This wasn’t a particularly good year for reading books. I read plenty, but nothing really burned up my soul. There were just a few that didn’t suck.

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
It’s a toss up. I discovered Flogging Molly. That I should have known about long before I abandoned the West Coast. Then there was Rodrigo y Gabriela. And if you have a lick of sense, you’d go get their album as fast as humanly possible and basque in the afterglow of their magnificence. The Eagles of Death Metal sear my soul.

Of honorable note is: Nada Surf, Dear Leader, Say Anything, Hank Williams III, Jeff Buckley, and Dinah Washington.

27. What did you want and get?
I wanted to see my best friend, and I got to drive across the country with her... two geologists on a road trip... Aw yeah.

28. What did you want and not get?
The gorgeous cowboy boots that are so extra fantastic and beautiful that I may just have to buy for myself tomorrow as an advanced birthday gift.

29. What was your favorite film of this year?
I saw nothing that was worth mention.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I went to Harvard Square. I had lunch at Bertucci’s. I had hot chocolate and Luxembourg cookies and a piece of chocolate cake from LA Burdick chocolates. And that about wraps it up with the exception of the detail that I was alone for the whole of the day. It was kind of nice to spend the day alone and not have to play nicely with others. I turned 36 years old. That ship is about to sail once again.

31. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Regular freaky sex.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006?
It started off with expressing how curvy my titties are. Then I realized that the fellas in my office were having a hard time keeping their eyes in their heads and it was too sad and pathetic to bear so it evolved to striking awe with the subtle yet stunning beauty of my facial features.

33. What kept you sane?
Tall presumption that I’m sane.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
It’s a toss up between Benecio del Toro and Matthew MacConaughey. They are equally totally fucking D-R-E-A-M-Y!!

35. What political issue stirred you the most?
Ummm… As previously mentioned… Generation X… Apathy is my name.

36. Who did you miss?
Ma, Pa. That’s about it.

37. Who was the best new person you met?
Kristie Speck. She can shake her shimmy like nobody’s business!!! She's my belly dancing teacher and she's a bombshell to be reckoned with!

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006.
I’m ready for everything.

39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
In my mouth there's a hurricane
Just let it out
~Hum by the Sheila Divine

And the story about killing my mother is still upcoming. Be patient and stay tuned.