Baby Loves Katie Burgess

why? first, she came to the football game. second, she makes online photo albums about baby, just like she said.



nobody puts baby in a trash can.



nobody puts baby in a bunny suit.


nobody puts baby on a cake.


nobody puts baby in a trailer.


nobody puts baby in a corner.


nobody puts baby in an aquarium.

and, quite possibly my favorite...

nobody puts baby on some chick's back.


baby loves her some katie.

Nobody Puts Baby in a Trash Can

the musical.

Flirty Cooking

when i broke my ass, i ceased running. and blogging. i am trying to resume both habits because they are good for body and mind and soul, but it is always slow starting back. when i think, i should go run, or gee, i should blog, i inevitably find myself mesmerized by another law and order rerun. or a chocolate cookie.

danielle chose cooking, and katie chose flirting, so i am combining the two topics in order to expedite service and catch up.

i once saw a show on cults that described a witnessing technique used by young women in the group called "flirty fishing." they would go to bars, seduce men, bring them home, do the nasty, then try to convert them in bed. i'm not making this up. they even backed it up with a bible verse.

i suppose a flirty cook might wear only an apron with high heels while she kneeds the biscuit dough. she may also use double enterdres about her cooking like, "i love the feel of these (meat) balls," or "could you come in here and taste my niblets?" it's pretty hot in the kitchen, and i haven't even turned on the oven yet.

now in my head i'm singing "cookin' flirty" to the tune of "ridin' dirty."

I Will Survive

so now i'm back... from outer space!

i came out of my self-imposed blogging hibernation to find things not as they were. the topics are gone. the band broke up. everyone is using facebook.

i could give an update as to my whereabouts and activities, but this would be long and tedious for me and you, gentle reader. all i can say is, if you'll have me, i'd like to return to the fold.

but do i have to join facebook? my next million dollar idea - i'd like to create a web community called "assbook" where one can join and "enemy" people. you can look up that bully from grade school, or the girl who stole your boyfriend in high school (no she di'int!), or the PE coach who called you lead butt o'brien. once you find them, you invite them to be your enemy, and you swap nasty comments.

it's just in the idea phase right now, but i think it's up there with b's Inside Magazine: For People Who Don't Like to Go Outside.

New Topic

bloggies - sorry for my delinquency in picking a new topic.

this week: going to the doctor.

ORCA: A Killer Movie

keegan came home the other day with a new obsession - the movie ORCA. he says it's supposed to be like Jaws, only better. he says they were made around the same time and ORCA was just overlooked. he called every video store in town with no luck. i say what does that tell you? he tells me to shut up.

he says at this point, it's no longer about the movie - it's about the hunt. he must find it. and, he finally does. so i go to this dinky little video store in killearn and rent the VHS. he wants me to watch it with him. i say no way. about eight hundred times. last night, i gave in.

the movie was made in 1977 and bo derek probably wants to forget she was in it. a shark hunter decides to set his sights on a killer whale, thinking it will bring big bucks from an aquarium, and bo derek deftly foreshadows the tragedy to come: "you know whales are monogamous. that means they have one mate their whole lives. we could be breaking up a family."

the harpoon nicks the male target and hits his female mate. she writhes and squeals. then she swims into the boats propeller in an attempt to commit suicide. when they pull her in, she is bleeding, and then a grotesque mass bulges from her privates, and her young fetus falls on the deck. the male has lost his love and his unborn child, so now, you guessed it - he's pissed.

the female dies, and the male (i call him willy) stalks the fisherman, wreaking havoc on the small fishing village where he lives. he bites off bo derek's leg. he sets the town on fire. the villagers become angry with the fisherman, urging him to go out to sea and "fight" (this is what the whale wants). and, in a cleverly placed dramatic plot point, we learn that years earlier a drunk driver killed the fisherman's pregnant wife. he feels the whale's pain. they are one.

in a moby dick like chase, he follows the whale into icy seas, the whole crew dies, and he falls in the water and the whale waves his great fluke and tosses the man onto an iceberg, crushing his skull. vengeance is willy's.

so, ORCA - Jaws meets Moby Dick meets Free Willy. it's a horror/suspense/drama. but i've never laughed so hard in all my life.

www.toothpastefordinner.com/

Scaaaars!

danielle chose scars as this weeks topic; for some reason, when i say it in my head, i close one eye, make a hook with my finger, and say it like a pirate - scaaars!

the other night i watched the end of jaws on tv. as the the three men on the orca sat around the table drinking, they were comparing scars. and, it was not the size or shape of the scar that made it superior to other scars, it was the story of how it came to be. and perhaps that's why scars are cool - they each have a story. not always a cool story, mind you, but a story nonetheless.

scars are reminders of what we've endured and that we indeed heal; i think that's why i really like them. i don't have many - one on my left leg from a steam burn (i call it the hawaiian island), and about five up and down my left leg from surgery i had about five years ago. the largest one is on my ankle, and the area is still numb to the touch. but every time i look at those scars, i remember how they got there, how much they once hurt, and how amazing it is that they are all that's left.

and if we didn't heal and have scars, we would be walking around with unsightly oozing wounds like massive head-wound harry (see picture, if you don't remember him). which brings me to emotional scars, wounds, and healing, not so obvious, not so automatic. where our tissue succeeds, our minds and hearts often fail - i wonder if these wounds and scars could be actually seen like our fleshly ones, if we would all be grotesque, stinking, oozing messes. and we would say, "hey, where'd you get that one?" and unlike the cool stories swapped in jaws, the answers, the stories, might make us very sad.

I Want to be Wilma (not Flintstone)

will (who needs to come see us) picked TV remix.

my sister and i used to make bracelets out of kleenex colored with magic markers and pretend we were electra-woman and dina-girl. i should note, that in our tv role playing, this was the one instance where she actually let me be a girl character. but i don't want to get into it.

i think i want to be erin gray. erin gray had the two best roles on television - wilma on buck rogers, and kate on silver spoons.

buck rogers was my all-time favorite, and i should note that i did have a BIG crush on buck. so, to be his leading lady, complete with laser pistol and shimmery white spandex body suit... well, let's just say i've had daydreams.

and of course, who wouldn't want to live in ricky stratton's house complete with arcade video games and alfonso ribiero? i wasn't keen on ricky schroeder per se (and he's hideous all grown up, but i did cry when i watched the champ) but the dad was cute, and of course, so was jason bateman. what i would have paid to have been erin gray, riding on the miniature train that ran through the living room.

imdb tells me that erin gray has gone downhill since these roles i coveted; some baywatch, some port charles... and it's really no surprise. there was really no place to go but down.

Summer of Love

yay, v! she picked summer flings.

the summer i fell in love with rick tuttle, i was ten and he was 46. it wasn't that kind of love.

the tuttles had been our next door neighbors for as long as we lived in our house, but i can't say i ever saw them much. they had kids much older than me who, by the summer of love, had all moved out. they had a dog named j.j. that i saw a lot and loved like my own until he ran away. mrs. tuttle was always kind. mr. tuttle had multiple sclerosis and was paralyzed from the neck down. he spent his days in a lawn chair in his living room.

i don't remember exactly what brought me to their house that summer day, but mrs. tuttle invited me in where she was playing computer games with mr. tuttle. they had an apple IIe (ha!) and so did we, so i was familiar with it. she asked me if i would like to play, so i sat down while she escaped to do other things, and for two hours, i became mr. tuttle's hands, pushing the keys he told me to push. we played chess and cribbage, but his favorite game was wizardry. for the rest of the summer (and the next three years) i went to the tuttle's house and played computer games with rick.

he could barely speak; it took a lot of effort. when he laughed, he would open his mouth wide and no sound would come out - he would only make noise when he sucked air in. he had a catheter, and his urine bag hung off of his lounge chair. i could occasionally hear pee trickle into it. when he got thirsty, he would say "drink" and i would grab his glass of watered down cranberry juice and hold the straw to his lips while he gulped. his hands were fixed in tight fists across his thighs, and occasionally, he would shake involuntarily. he told me jokes. he taught me how to play chess and cribbage. he had graph paper in a special folder - when we played wizardry, we mapped out all nine levels so we would know where the doors, pits, and teleporters were. it took a long time. when i had to go home, i would kiss his forehead, and he would thank me. i hated going home.

looking back, i imagine i was a great help to mrs. tuttle, giving her free time to do other things. but they were a great help to me. there is something so pure about love from a man who is completely incapacitated and vulnerable, who exists to just, well, exist. i know i brought him joy and brightened his day, but he loved me in a way i needed at that age - his house was my escape, and his friendship was the safest i'd ever known.

the tuttles moved to clearwater beach when i was thirteen. i occasionally went to to see them, but not very often; by then, a book had come out with all the maps to the levels of wizardry. when i was sixteen, rick tuttle died. i hadn't seen him in a while, but at his funeral, i sat in the very back and cried more than his family. i understand he was probably a burden to them. but he was never that to me. i went to his casket and kissed his forehead one last time.

why do the good ones always get away?

and that, my friends, is as melancholy and nostalgic as i get. i'm now going to go have a good cry and put my broke ass on ice.

Teacher Top Ten

sorry for the late post on b's excellent topic, teachers; i blame the delay on my broke ass.

TOP TEN teacher memories that may have messed me up just a little:

10. androgynous high school volleyball coach known just as "yengel" (like "prince" "madonna" or "yeti") called me "lead-butt o'brien" during suicide drills.

9. mr. gray, high school IPS teacher, pulled me aside and threatened to sue me for slander because he read "button your shirt, mr. gray is a pervert" written in pencil on my black lab desk. my friend kim wrote it, and when he went to show me, he couldn't find it. and, i think he meant libel.

8. senora fernandez cried in front of my honors spanish II class when she learned that eric beyer stole the midterm exam and we all had a party and memorized the answers. "how you do this to me?" if i wasn't sad for cheating, she broke my heart.

7. mrs. neumeier shamed me in seventh grade for jokingly kissing a boy. she grabbed my wrist hard and said, "i can't believe you did that!" i wanted to die for days. i recently saw mrs. neumeier in clearwater at a picnic. she said to my friend cate and me, "i have always LOVED you girls. i just LOVE you." she got up to wipe her eyes, and i looked at cate. "wasn't she really mean to us?" she laughed. and nodded.

6. in sixth grade, my science teacher mrs. golding intercepted a note i was trying to pass to my friend jannette. unfortunately, all the note said was "Mrs. Golding is UGLY!"

5. a favorite pastime of young parochial school children filing down the hall is to hold up one hand and make the peace sign in the little windows in the doors of classrooms. in first grade, my teacher mrs. donahue got tired of this one day and slammed her hand through the window. the glass shattered and her hand was all bloody. who puts these people in charge of small children?

4. as a senior i took anatomy with mr. gasper. he relentlessly picked on me. once we were discussing the hardware in the penis. he asked the class how the penis knows to release semen or urine, then he called on me (i did NOT raise my hand). i said, "um, there's a flap." he said, "oh, no, susie baby, the girls are the ones with the flaps!" i turned very red. and, there IS a flap. jackhole.

3. last night i had class with dr. blankety-blank. i don't know if it was my broke ass or his incredibly long, boring lecture, but i tried to slit my wrist with the edge of a page of tennyson's poetry.

2. mr. calise taught me eighth grade english. he made me love writing. in my yearbook (several pages after my ugly mug) he wrote, "you are a very talented writer. i'll be looking for you to win the pulitzer prize... you can do it!" is that why i'm here? oh, good gracious, i hope not. but, i did love mr. calise.

1. in freshman religion class, sister deborah told us if we were struggling with sexual desire, it is best to masturbate rather than sin outwardly with another. now that i think about it, she was always such a happy nun...

Robot Chicken-Star Wars parody

in honor of keegan - this is his fave.

He Loved Me Not

leave it to the poet to select unrequited love. thanks, sandra!

my eighth grade year, i fled the shelter of parochial schooling and attended palm harbor middle school. not only did the students not wear uniforms, but they made out in hallways, cussed a lot, and had food fights in the cafeteria. please know i did not stand in judgment of such shenanigans - it just shocked the pee out of me.

as if being forced into such strange surroundings wasn't enough, i was UGLY. now, you say, oh you were probably cute... but trust me. i didn't got no alibi - i was ugly. i had braces and a poorly growing out asymmetrical haircut. i think i dressed like a dork. i have a yearbook - i can prove it.

still, i was not without love interests. i set my heart on jimmy schimpf. in my twelve year old world, i LOVED him. and, he knew it. in graphics class, i carved a keychain that said "i love jimmy." in shop class, i made a wooden clock in the shape of a football helmet, and meticulously painted the washington redskins logo on it. i gave it to my dad. that is a side note, but this post is on unrequited love, right?

jimmy was my friend, but he never gave me a second glance for anything more. i thought of him, looked for him everywhere i went, daydreamed about the day he would ask me to be his girlfriend, and of course, kissing him, though such realities were foreign to me. at the end of the year dance, he asked me to dance. but don't get excited like i didn't- he was just a nice guy who knew i'd lasted all year with my heart on him. it was sort of like end of the year charity.

there is nothing quite like admiring someone and not being admired back; it tends to confirm low self-esteem and negative beliefs. it is rejection of the heart - i say, "here it is!" and he says, "um. no thanks." hope is the only thing... i kept hoping all year that jimmy would like me when he never would. i think there is some safety in that... liking the boy who you know will never like you. i'm not sure what i would have done if jimmy had returned my favor - i probably would have run and hid.

the next year, my hair grew out, i got highlights and my braces removed. i ran into jimmy at the football jamboree at his high school, and he did a double take and stopped to talk to me with great interest. he said maybe he'd call me. but it was too late. i'd moved on to matt sipera.

he didn't love me either.


see, i told you i was ugly.



oh, but look! so was jimmy.

marriedtothesea.com

Chicken Sweat Very Often!

kara chose jobs.

the events you are about to read about are absolutely true. they really happened. nothing has been embellished or exaggerated. i am a little embarrassed about this.

my father's partner in cardiology was john k. dr. k had a wife named carmen and a son named sean. oh, my dear, dear sean k. i began babysitting him when i was about twelve and he was nine. i think his parents were paying me to be his companion more than his caretaker, but i didn't mind - $7 an hour plus dinner was unheard of in 1986. when i consider the various jobs i have had over the years, this one is my favorite. i will highlight select adventures.

• he had a llasa apso named "cuddles" but he called her "sonia!" he had this squeaky, exaggerated voice when he did this that i so wish i could explain. like, "soooohnya!" once while on her back, he squealed, "sonia! i see your vaginia!" we once got out his camcorder and he put sonia in a chair. i sat next to her wearing a skeleton mask. he filmed us - my name was "skeletor's bride" and i was there to interview cuddles. when i asked her questions, sean would speak her answers from behind the camcorder. this exercise was complete with commercials. i sat on a stool with a guitar and sang the tune for doxidan (when nature needs a helping hand). sean was obsessed with a local weather guy named dick fletcher (danielle may know this guy!) and he gave weather reports. he would start, "hello, my name is diiick fletchah!" it was wild. he basically forced me into all of it, and although i secretly enjoyed it, i was MORTIFIED when he insisted on playing it for his parents when they got home. but, they did ask me back. what i wouldn't give for that tape now...

• he wrote a self-illustrated book called "Alfredo's Alphabet Pritz!" sean had recently discovered that "pritz" was the german (i think) word for fart. alfredo was the main character who went through the alphabet encountering different pritz situations. A was alfredo. B was "Blondie Butt - she pritzes with her lips open!" C - "Catfish Caper - you can see the image of a bucking horse in his pritz!" H was just a scribbled mess with the heading: "Henry! Not Now!" i'm telling you, this kid was priceless.

• i watched him a lot one summer during the day - we would walk to ponderosa and zayre, pushing a cart around, mocking their commercials... "notebook paper, notebook paper..."

• he got me hooked on mary poppins. we watched it OVER AND OVER. and sang all the lines.

• he had a little casio keyboard. one feature was that you could record up to four vocal sounds and replay them on four buttons. you could then do your own remix with the keyboard and the sounds/words. his four words: "chicken" "sweat" "very" "often" - remixed, it was like this: "ch-ch-ch-chicken, ch-ch-ch-chicken, sweat-sweat-sweat-sweat-sweat-sw-sw-sweat-sweat, very- very - v-v-very, oooooooften (he would slow this word down so it was low and drawn out).
  

this post in no way does justice to the most bizarre adventures i had with sean k. he was the greasiest, most obnoxious, yet wonderfully weird and creative person i've ever met. and his parents were straight-laced as they come. they paid me well - but i would have done it for free.

i googled sean k, thinking he is either a multi-millionaire creative wonder genius or in jail - turns out he is a life coach. go figure.

Curse You, Chin-Up

... the kind you do in p.e. - not that sweet song that charlotte sings to wilbur.

i am fairly athletic and remember very much enjoying p.e. - it was like recess but with more structure. and orange cones. and red uniforms. but once a year, for one week, i did not enjoy p.e. - it was time for "physical fitness."

first, the class was divided into groups according to age; the red group with the older kids, the white group with the younger kids, and the green group with one kid - me. i was a full year younger than my classmates in school, and my standards for physical fitness testing were lower than theirs. this created sighs and dirty looks when they had to run 1.2 miles and i only had to run one. shut up, i thought, you will have boobs and a driver's license before me.

coaches stood over us with charts and clipboards, counting our sit-ups and timing our miles. i never did a single chin-up during physical fitness, but i grabbed the metal bar and pulled, turning red-faced and sputtering, my palms becoming red and chaffed. the clipboard carrying tyrant would utter futile encouragements while i hung there like a pathetic monkey with no hope of even doing a nose-up. i would drop to the ground humiliated, take my big fat zero, and move on to the metal pole climb where, once again, my lack of arm strength would bring me misery. i suppose there were benchmarks - certain things you should be able to do at a certain age. but i am now almost 33 and i still can't climb a pole or do chin-ups.

i reflect on this now, and wonder: wtf was up with physical fitness? what did it really matter how many chin-ups i could do? i've never given this information on any application of importance. it is not listed on my transcript next to my SAT scores. and, didn't they already know that fat sandy thurman would not be able to complete her mile in under 20 minutes? did they really need to test and humiliate her?

it would have been much more interesting if they would have measured, say, how many hot dogs we could eat in a single sitting on hot lunch day. or, more obscure talents like, jimmy mcknight can't do a single sit up, but he deftly picks up small objects with his toes. or, better yet, get sister therese marie's butt out of the principal's office and see how many chin-ups she can do. in her habit, of course.

My Dearest Blog Friends,

i'm up. after serious contemplation, i have arrived at this topic: P.E.

Coke Nail

sweet mya has suggested fingernails.

i have researched the phenomenon of the long pinky nail with no credible results - just a lot of forums and message boards with subject lines like, "what's up with the long pinky nail? LOL!"

apparently, it is more common among asian men. sometimes, it is a sign of wealth. more often, it seems to be used for very practical purposes - picking the nose, cleaning the ears, and snorting coke on the go. this last use was most commonly suggested among the blogs i read - it is referred to as the "coke nail."

but why stop at cocaine? what if we all grew our pinky nails really long and started using them as official measuring units? would you like some coffee? sugar? how many coke nails? it would save clean up while baking cookies if we only needed to add two coke nails of vanilla extract instead of messing with the little metal spoons.

once this custom is firmly embedded into our culture, the coke nail will invade our vernacular, and "coke nail" will replace words like "smidge" and "dash." upon breakups, one lover will say to the other, "don't you love me anymore? not even a coke nail?"

if this post is really bad, i apologize. i have been up since four; i didn't sleep a coke nail.

Who's Up?

i've lost track... i think it's mya, but she's out of town. are we on hiatus? do we want to poll to see who still wants to do it?

while we're deciding, i have posted this picture. you must come up with a caption. leave in a comment if you want to play.

All I Want Is a Pair of Madras Bermuda Shorts

is that too much to ask?

for some reason, i have chosen plaid bermuda shorts as my distraction from submitting final grades and various other pressures currently in my life. last week i looked in gap and old navy with no luck. today, after finishing my morning's work, i rewarded myself with a trip to the mall.

but wait, was it the tennessee strip on saturday night? no. it was the governor's square mall. i have never before braved the intimidating doors of hollister and abercrombie and fitch, but i had to because they have plaid bermuda shorts. they also have dim lighting, blaring music, and teenagey fashion models with low IQs manning the various clothing stops. i felt really OLD.

i found a pair of shorts on sale at hollister and finally found the dressing room for "bettys" in the maze of palm trees and trendy furniture. the guy opened the door and said what sounded like, "how many?" but i couldn't make it out over the techno rave, so i said, "WHAT?" and he said, "HOW MANY?" and i said, "TWO!" and then i said, "hey, sonny, what color are these shorts anyway? IT'S SO FREAKIN' DARK IN HERE!"

the shorts fit, to which i snub my nose at the teenagey fashion models, but they were tapered in the thigh, to which i say, if i wanted to accentuate my thighs, i would get short shorts. isn't that the point of bermuda shorts, to cover up the thigh in a loose, beachy manner?

needless to say, i found my dream pair at american eagle (and they had the lights on) but they cost $45. my new obsession - waiting for them to go on sale.

It's Not Easy Getting B's

the last three days have been absolutely exhausting, physically, emotionally, mentally... typing even a sentence of my vic lit paper was like wringing out my brain, and it had very little to give. never have i struggled so much writing a paper, and in the end, it was half a page short and seven hours late. and for what? probably a B.

i said this in the beginning of the semester, i don't care if i get a B or two, and here it is, the end of the semester, and i'm probably looking at two. and i do care. just a little. not because i'm a grade freak. well, okay, i'm a little bit of a grade freak. but it's okay. i'm getting over it.

but if i had not done such extensive research, i would not know that victorians found a cure for the artificial anus, were obsessed with the uterus, and invented intricate belts to serve as anti-masturbation devices for both men and women. you can learn a lot scanning microfilm in dirac.

Am I Horrible?

i have no time or energy to blog on the topic at the current moment, but i'll provide a preview. i am certain i should not think this will ferrell video is funny. but i do.

the landlord

this graph is from my site meter. note the spike in the last few days.

have i been discovered? does the world finally appreciate my funny? did oprah link me up on her evil website?

none of the above. apparently, there are LOTS of google image searches for ugly babies. all the more reason to start the show.

Ugly Baby No More!

this week's theme, chosen by danielle: reality makeover shows.

hmmm. i don't really watch any. i've seen extreme home makeover and pimp my ride a few times. while waiting for channel 61 to appear on the tv guide channel to see if law and order is coming on, i occasionally get sucked into look alike. my parents are hooked on dr. 90210, which, although i've never seen it, i find slightly disturbing.

i'd like to propose my own idea for a reality makeover show. i'd call it ugly baby no more! parents of really ugly babies would be counseled in the first segment to admit that, indeed, their baby is ugly. they must confess that the obnoxious lacy hair bows, baseball caps, pastel smocks, and over-sized pacifiers were fruitless attempts to mask the obvious - baby is ugly. then, a computer artist would take a picture of ugly baby and digitally age it to confirm that indeed, baby will only get uglier as he/she grows older, causing him/her and parents more distress. once the evidence is irrefutable, the surgeon enters with a magic marker.

of course the surgery is dangerous - it is a baby. but parents must weigh this against the possibility that baby will be made fun of, never get married, and possibly end up on a more humiliating program like the swan. the camera will be delicate as it shows baby getting liposuction, nose job, hair plugs, and lip implants. then, while baby is recovering, parents are taken to gymboree to pick out a new wardrobe for soon-to-be-cute baby. puke stained onesies and faded glory overalls are thrown into an incinerator with glee and tears.

in the end, baby goes home bandaged, confused, and scarred for life, but he/she will be much better looking. i imagine a follow-up show. it could be big.

i am at all saints. i just overheard this conversation between two young men:

"knock, knock."

"who's there?"

"not dale earnhardt. (pause) you know, cause he's dead."

"uh-huh."

"did you you know dale earnhardt has a son?"

"yeah."

"what's better than being in the daytona 500?"

"what?"

"having a father."

"man. that's pretty mean."

The Ant Bully

our most excellent friend, will, chose this week's topic: bullying.

i am aware there is a movie called the ant bully, but i've not seen it, and this is not what my title refers to. friends, i am a bully magnet. from birth, i have been bullied by my sisters and then their friends. in school, mean people (like carolyn shinsky) could verbally assault me (by saying doctors are all greedy jerks and their daughters are rich spoiled brats) and not only would i not retaliate, i would make efforts to win the bully's favor. in high school, i was often the "best friend" of the moody, pushy girl who would turn on me in a moment's notice, accusing me of not calling her back, not saving her a seat at lunch, or whatever. i have learned to live with pain in my stomach over the stress and walking on eggshells so as to not provoke the wrath of bullies.

but what does a lonely, stepped-on young girl do with all her rage? i took it out on ants.

frequently while growing up, i would step in an anthill and have to run and jump in the pool (yes, i had a pool - i was a spoiled doctor's daughter) to get the swarming fire ants off of my feet. our backyard was like a minefield of dirt mounds filled with the biting pests. in the evenings before dinner, i often armed myself with a bag of doritos, a metal stake, and a can of raid and entered my backyard on a mission to seek and destroy the pure evil that awaited me - fire ants.

i used the stake to disrupt the mound. i then threw a few doritos on top of the mess, and the ants would gather and cling to them, sucking in all the processed cheese powder they could. i waited. i watched them carrying eggs, scurrying around, wondering what had happened to their peace and quiet, pleased at the free gift of junk food. once the ants were out in full force, and the doritos were covered with little red bodies, i sprayed. not lightly - i sprayed until little pools of poison collected on the doritos and ants were curled up and floating. i sprayed every ant i could see, holding the button down until my finger turned white, and it hurt, and the mound was wet, the fumes invading my nose with deep pleasure. i think i clenched my teeth.

the problem was, i never killed the queen. in a day or so, the mound would resurface a few feet away, and my process would repeat. but i suppose my anger never went away, only worsened, and my attempted solution failed because i never really got at the root of the problem. i could still kill ants today, with no less momentary satisfaction.

perhaps i could imagine all my bullies as ants, biting at my feet, leaving sore, itchy blisters. i could offer them a dorito, then spray them in the face with raid. but then again, they would probably just resurface a day or two later.

The Student Who Must Not Be Named

grading papers stinks. there's no two ways about it. however, occasionally there are viewpoints expressed that serve to amuse me to no end. for instance, the boy who wrote a paper promoting the legalization of prostitution ending with the question, "after all, everyone likes sex, so what's not to like about prostitutes?"

this semester, i have shared about a student who expressed the opinion that transgender surgeries will wipe out the human race. for her research paper, this same student chose to write about abortion. other than the fact that abortion is an overwritten, cliched topic, i don't mind opposing opinions as long as they are well thought out. it is not a hot button for me. but this one... let me share.

first, she discusses abortion in the case of rape. she knows "lots" of people who have been raped and kept their babies and are doing fine. thus, she says, women who are raped and have abortions are "selfish and lazy."

next, date rape. according to her, women should be more careful about who they go out with and not be alone with a guy if they aren't sure about him. okay, fair enough, but certainly not all-encompassing. furthermore, she says, they were probably scantily clad, and were thus "asking for it." no joke. she said, "asking for it." and then, what are women doing walking alone? and if they must walk alone, have they never heard of mace?? yes ladies, if you are assaulted and raped, it is your fault for not carrying mace or getting to it fast enough.

i was gentle in conference. i told her if her purpose was to convince people on the fence, she might want to tone down the angry, judgmental rhetoric.

i then told her to go stroll down a dark alley.

so i emailed the democrat yesterday and they called me around 4pm. my name is in the paper today - i now wish i'd said something more exciting or controversial.

note how they say the driver isn't named because he's a juvenile. no mention of how they named him yesterday. or how they got it wrong. dorks.

TDO has it all wrong...

on the front page of the democrat online is this article about a high speed chase and teenager pulled from a flaming car. this is not exactly accurate. how do i know? i saw it happen.

i was loitering outside my home last night and heard a strange noise - maybe a car accelerating. i walked towards the noise, then heard tires squealing, a loud male scream, heard a loud crash, then saw a car plow into the concrete electrical pole in my neighbor's backyard. next - an explosion.

i ran inside, got my phone and dialed 911 - i did not realize that tallahassee drive dead-ended behind my street so i told them i thought it might be clare drive. my neighbors came outside and we saw a crumpled up patrol car (it hit the pole) next to a crumpled up black mustang with a bald young man inside. the engine of the patrol car was on fire, not the mustang. the fire was put out by us with fire extinguishers before the fire dept. even got there.

i watched them pull the boy from his car - he was bloody and limp. my neighbor got his camcorder. the officer in the article indeed tended to the driver, but did not pull him out of the car - ems did, securing him on a board, a bloody oxygen mask over his face.

very weird. why was i outside when it actually happened? maybe i'll write about it someday.

Drool on the Pillow

v (not to be confused with b, or the old television program about reptilian aliens, or the movie with bald natalie portman, or this) has joined our blog ring and chosen this week's topic: guilty pleasures.

the first thing that comes to my mind is, of course, miller's cheese fries. but i don't actually feel guilty after i eat them. just happy. sometimes a little sick. i suppose the same goes for any food indulgence. i perhaps get a pang of "i shouldn't have eaten that" but rarely is this a guilty feeling. unless i stole the food from someone else, but i don't steal food. just rocks and lamps. sometimes pepper grinders.

i do however feel somewhat guilty after a nap. oh, i know, that isn't the forbidden fruit you were hoping for, but i love naps like linus loves his blanket, like edmund loves his turkish delight, like mr. krabbs loves money. sometimes i think i could sleep all day. for this, i feel guilty.

there are so many things to be done, so many responsibilities pulling me every which way, when i give myself an hour or two to indulge in a nap, i rise disoriented, frustrated that i have wasted time, and my list begins to weigh on my chest. things are dirty. children have homework. i have homework. things should be sent off for publication. today, i needed to go to the library but i instead raced home to grab an hour on my couch before i had to resume responsibilities. where is the alison winter book i desperately need? at the library. do i feel rested? not really.

in my defense, i don't sleep well at night. but lots of people don't sleep well at night. do they sprawl out on their office floor at the college of engineering while on the clock? keep a red squishy pillow on their office desk? drool all over b's couch? i can remember naptime in kindergarten when i was forced to lie down for half an hour on a cot but i never could sleep. how foolish i was to not appreciate the golden opportunities of my youth.

that was exhausting. i think i'm going to go lie down.

MAKE IT STOP!

since the week's theme has not expired yet, i have something new to add.

currently, i am sitting at my desk trying to read for my class at 12:30. danielle is conferencing, mya is writing, katie is loitering. a car alarm outside (a repetitive honk) has been going off for about twenty minutes now. sometimes it stops, and we sigh in relief, then it starts back up again. WTF?

we did make up a dance to the noise. we call it "honking the horn."

sarah has noticed that the po-po are on the scene. we are looking out the window, watching them helplessly inspect the car. one has left a note on the windshield on a torn out piece of notebook paper. it has now taken three police officers to realize that it is indeed a car alarm.

the owner has now gotten in his gray sedan - an uncrippled frat boy with a buzz cut. the po-po may have determined that he is indeed not handicapped. the po-po are now conferencing at their suv while the non-handicapped driver waits in his now silent car. the shorts-wearing po-po is on the cell phone.

they gave him back his license and confiscated his handicapped parking pass. this is so much more exciting than the moonstone.

Ghost Riders

b's topic this week: things that piss me off.

this could be a series.

so who are the ghost riders and why do they frustrate me so? the ghost riders lurk in the halls of the williams building, particularly on the first and second floors. i have a feeling that they have returned in a ghostly afterlife after some kind of untimely death in an elevator shaft, or possibly after dying in a fire while trapped in an elevator. their mission: to piss me off.

i should first say that i am primed to be pissed off when i encounter the ghost riders and their shenanigans. typically, i am out of breath and in a hurry, having just walked 1-2 miles from my car with my 84 pound backpack on my shoulders. there are no lights above the ground floor elevator, so i have to lean my ear close, listening for movement, anticipating the arrival of the slothful transportation device. finally, when the doors open, i step inside and press "3" to get to my office where i will finally be able to dump my burdensome crap and pee.

the elevator takes off like a clunky old car, slowly climbing the shaft, and i say, "please don't ding, just keep going," but the ghost riders know this. they like to torment me. it is the only pleasure they have. the elevator stops on the first floor. the doors seem to take forever to open. no one is there. i frantically press the door close button, to no avail. i wait for the ghost rider to board and get his kicks. second floor. same thing.

so what seems like two hours later, the two ghost riders and i disembark on the third floor, and stumble into the bathroom where they forget to flush. yes, that's them too.

Everything's Yellow

if pollen were pixie dust, i could fly instead of having red eyes and a throbbing headache. my van could fly too.

why, flowers, trees, nature, in the peak of your beauty, do i suffer so?

Now I'm Depressed

i'm very sad today. but emma did finally get to dress up like molly brown and give her presentation.

so, who's up next? i'm ready for a new topic. and, do we have a new blogger/bloggers??

i knew it was only a matter of time. it was going to happen sooner or later. this week, it did - per sandra, the theme is SEX.

This Little Piggy

i understand why toes are called piggies. but why the market? why roast beef?

looney tunes characters were fond of this rhyme, like when sylvester the cat is hanging onto a clothesline by one foot, and tweety plays this little piggy until, "oops! ran out of piggies!" but the thing never changes. toes two and four always get screwed.

continuing in my celebration of feet, i would like to liberate toes (piggies) from their boredom and create a new mad libs version of "this little piggy" for all to enjoy.

this little piggy went to (place);
this little piggy (past tense verb) all night;
this little piggy drank (alcoholic beverage);
and this little piggy saw (excellent band) in concert;
and this little piggy went "(expletive, plural noun)" all the way to (exotic place)!


play along in a comment, if you like. your piggies will thank you.

Feet, Part 1

one way to celebrate this too often scoffed at body part.

Just Kick Me While I'm Down

when i put emma to bed, she feebly asked me to cross out today on her kitty calender. this is what i saw. she marked it as soon as she got the assignment.

will she get over it? she already has.

will i? never.

Sometimes Life Just Sucks

two weeks ago, emma came home from school with an assignment. she had to pick an american historical figure and write a report. she picked "the unsinkable molly brown."

for the past week, she has been diligently preparing, taking copius notes, bugging me to help her on msword, and she has a polished 3 page paper, the result of her hard work and enthusiasm for the project. in addition to the paper, the students get to dress up as their historical figure and read their report to the class. that day is today.

last night, emma printed her report and beaming, read it aloud to me to practice. she found a plastic sheath to put it in so it would not get damaged. we found a great floor length black velvet and red chiffon dress in her closet (not sure where it came from), a string of pearls, and digging around in the garage, a black hat with a flower in it, just like molly brown wore in the pictures of her. i gave her a shakespeare book to carry. molly brown loved literature.

this morning at 6am, as i was sleeping on the couch, i heard footsteps on the stairs. emma came down crying, went into the bathroom, and puked her guts out.

why does this happen? certainly there are worse disappointments, but to an eight year old, this is big. all morning she has cried, angrily confronting me, she feels fine, why can't she go to school, she wants to see everyone else's costume. i want to look away, to run away, to not deal with her heartache. if i do, i cry. i have no words for her. it's school policy. it's not fair to the other kids. she'll get to make it up. maybe the teacher will take a picture. i'm so, so sorry.

really, it just f-ing sucks. i think the best thing for me to say is nothing. when she sees me cry, she gets it.

Here We Go

greetings, blog friends. first, please welcome will to the blog ring. we love will!

this week: FEET.

blog amongst yourselves.

Woe Is Me

i just wanted to say that I HATE GRADING PAPERS.

but i am learning things. for instance, transgender operations are bad because they will ultimately result in the extinction of the human race. oh, and did you hear? america is one huge melting pot of different races and cultures. and, get this: when guys sleep around they are "cool" but when girls do it, they are "sluts." can you believe that double standard?

okay. i feel better now. 26 down, 10 to go.

all quiet on the western front.

The Adjective Form of Therapy

therapeutic. right? as in, "that therapy session was not very therapeutic."

parting with the noun and embracing the modifier puts a whole new spin on things. writing is therapeutic. so is drinking beer. and eating cheese fries. and watching movies. naps.

this therapy i like. as it turns out, the very things i am in therapy to change are indeed "therapeutic." i think i have just unlocked the key to the universe.

party on, wayne.

John Tesh Explains It All

mya picks "therapy."

john tesh told me something today about therapy.

he was talking about binge eaters who get their stomachs stapled. once they have the procedure, they lose the weight and suddenly realize that being thin is not the answer they were looking for so they "switch addictions." the fat girl in wilson phillips had this problem. she got skinny and became an alcoholic. jt says that this happens because the deeper issues that were causing the binge eating in the first place were never addressed. therapy, he says, is the answer, not gastric bypass. thanks, john.

i wonder if this two minute snippet actually helped anyone, sent someone to the yellow pages to find that perfect counselor who takes his or her insurance. i wonder if the hour i spend in the counselor's office, and have spent off and on since the age of 14, really helps me. sometimes i think counselors, john tesh, and oprah (the antichrist) are extending a hand to help us up with a foot planted firmly on our backs. making us feel worse, making us feel like we need them, which in turn, pays their bills. dredging up the past is good, if it serves a purpose, but often i feel like i just sit there and analyze the week's events in light of my "story" and still run around in hopeless circles like a hamster on a wheel. is this just life? and, if it is, do i need to pay someone to listen to me talk about it? and this aspect of therapy seems counterproductive to boosting my self-esteem; you are only listening to me because I'M PAYING YOU. shit. i really am a loser.

of course, i don't mean that. i believe that the money i have spent on counseling is like donating to charity; i am very good at spitting out the same wisdom i am given to other people, and i say it with authority like i know what i'm talking about. and sometimes, i say it over miller's cheese fries.

which, coincidentally, i am addicted to.

the end. so sad.

Say, Joey, Have You Ever Seen A Grown Man Naked?

this week's theme: "nudity" a la katie.

the word "nudity" makes me think of movies. rated R movies. movies that are rated R because they have "nudity" or "partial nudity."

what is "partial nudity?" a butt cheek. maybe one boob. what is full on "nudity?" harvey keitel in the piano. i have heard of women who complain about all the naked chicks on the sets of movies and protest: what about eye candy for the ladies?

i ask, who are these women?

the movie the piano was up for an academy award. what do i remember about it? holly hunter got her finger chopped off and i saw harvey keitel's wiener. that's pretty much it. i have heard that men are visual creatures, enjoying the sight of the female anatomy, but i am no man. i had no desire to see harvey keitel's saggy business. it just appeared on screen out of nowhere, like a train wreck. i stared in horror. and, really... harvey keitel?

i'd much rather see harrison ford or liam neeson in a tuxedo.

Punk'd, AWP

so how do two fiction MFA's from FSU entertain themselves at the VIP party on the top of the hilton? easy. we approach writers from various universities, claim to have been in their workshops, watch them squirm as they try to remember and then say "oh, yes, of course!" to top it off, we ask for a picture. katie was quite enthusiastic in this game, and i was proud to be her friend.

it got better when mark winegardner got in the action, first accusing us of being mean, then pointing people out for us to scam. note him giggling in the background of katie's picture with dan chaon.

good fun? we thought so. good for our writing careers? probably not so much.

but we did meet some neat people on the up and up, like tom franklin and todd pierce.

and, yeah, what's up with my freakish red eye?


read katie's version.

Is Krispy Kreme a Gay Hangout?

will's nanny thinks so. this is us eating mexican before the VIP party; when we got to the door at nikolai's lounge, we were told that katie's invite was only good for her and one guest. i was the lucky cat chosen to accompany her and we made some trouble i don't have have time to blog about now. later, with pictures! off to little five points.

it's been a full three days. i've been to some interesting panels: writing faith for the faithless, research and the novel. party nation led the awp disco on thursday night, a nice spectacle (see man dancing). b has forced me to talk to people i wouldn't normally talk to (see the green lady in the pic who was staring us down... i said what's up with the green lady staring? and b said, i don't know, let's go talk to her!) turns out she's from alaska and bob butler's book changed her life.

lee smith gave a great keynote address... touching, inspiring. i snuck into her after party but was disappointed because i didn't get to meet her and all the food was gone. tonight we are going to the VIP party with ann beattie... katie dirtied up an invite so we'll be legit. but first, we are going to cruise the receptions in search of free food (after all we are starving artists) but we unanimously decided that we cannot take any more cheese cubes. we draw the line there.

all in all, good fun.

AWP continued...

AWP!

we're here! the drive was fun. we decided that we would rather be able to fly than read minds or have the ability to turn invisible at will. katie made an official AWP soundtrack which provided us with listening pleasure. jessica told an interesting story about a flat tire that i can't repeat. b took a nap (see picture).

on my way to the hilton to mingle and try to get a book deal...

why do i love katie? because she picks topics like "nudity." i'll have to think about this one.

My Life as a Cell Phone

i want to customize my life like a cell phone plan.

here are the features i'd opt for:

• rollover minutes. all my wasted time, 5 minutes here, 2 hours there, would be compressed and carry over to the following day or month. i complain i have no time, but i seem to spend a lot of time doing nothing, then rush at the last minute to get something done. if i had rollover minutes, which were measured by lack of productivity, this would not be a problem.

• poor coverage. rather than wanting lots of bars, having too few would be convenient. then when i am talking to someone and wish to end the conversation, or i am called on in class and haven't done the reading, i can simply "drop" them. i'd just fall over or something. sorry, no coverage.

• free roaming. easy enough; the freedom to go where i want, when i want, with no penalty.

• the power to cause brain tumors. i don't really want to cause brain tumors. but it would be cool if there was a rumor that i did so people would be afraid of me.

• a plug-in charger. i'm not sure where it would plug in to, but it would be nice to get recharged in such a surefire way, not having to toss and turn and wonder how tired i will be the next day. this could also save the red pillow on my desk from acquiring excess drool.

• caller-id. but with people. i could see them coming and duck into the bathroom. if i wanted. (of course, if you're in my "in circle" i'd never use this option against you.)
  

• my own personalized ringtone. like, when i walk in a room, my own theme music plays. not sure if i'd stick with knight rider. maybe diff'rent strokes. or alltel's theme- come and get your love! (not that kind of love, silly)
  

these are the things i think about. now you know why my vic lit presentation today sucked arse.

Beware the Internet-Savvy 4 Year Old

trevor is quite skilled with a mouse. he deftly navigates web pages like thomas the tank engine, handy manny, and raven pinball. he pounds on the keyboard until he figures out which keys make things happen. thus, lazy, tired parent thinks to herself, how sweet, he's entertained and learning computer and critical thinking skills (pats herself on the back here).

however, this is not a good thing. a few weeks ago, he was playing a nice innocent fishy game on ebaumsworld, a game keegan plays, and keegan and i were watching television. keegan looks over and says, "what the?" he gets up and walks over. "uh, mom? trevor's watching video of sadaam hussein's execution."

the next morning, i walked by the unmanned computer, and there was video playing of two girls kissing. stricter monitoring started.

but this morning, he requested to play table tennis. i could hear the blip sound of the ball going back and forth as i did homework in the corner. all is well. until i start to hear explosions and blood-curdling screams. closer inspection revealed my son playing "staggy the boy-scout slayer II" - and, i must say, he's not bad with a sword. his black-clad, machete-wielding character made his way through the campground severing the heads off the unwitting boyscouts, occasionally slicing them in two. blood squirts, campers scream. trevor says, "c'mon, c'mon!"

maybe he will be a marine someday, or a computer programmer or game designer. maybe the boy scouts are actually evil, and he is fighting for justice. perhaps sadaam hussein's execution was a good life lesson. or maybe kids are one step ahead of us all the time.

now i hear gunshots. i think i will unplug the computer for good, evil box of death.

amish living sounds good about now.

Let Them Eat Crap.

this is what the world says to members of the FSU english department.

every time i'm in pancheros i swear i'll never go again, but my memory gets fuzzy after about a month or two. so today i find myself crazy hungry at about 10:30, and becky and i go to get a snack... what are our choices? the sweet shop, southgate, boca, and pancheros. mmmm. oh, i forgot the wiener stand, which only takes cash.

i decide i will order at boca, continuing my boycott of pancheros because they charge for sour cream and will only sell you a bottled water (no free cup). bastards. anyway, i am looking in the cold case at the lovely chicken bacon ranch salads that have no time or date written on them, but instead a "v' or a "u." i ask the young man behind the counter, "what do the letters mean?" and he looks at me with glazed eyes and says, "uh, b is fresher than a." helpful.

i say, "but these have u and v on them." he then tells me that he's sick and can't think straight. as he moves to make a latte, i inspect the salads more closely. he then calls over, an afterthought, "the later letter is fresher." ah. this means "v." becky, who is only getting coffee, says, "looks like you should go with 'v'." i say, "looks like i should go with pancheros."

i ask the guy, "were any of them made today?" his reply? "I dunno."

i say, "well i think that's something you should know if you want my patronage." (or "matronage" as they like to point out at all saints). i say that like i was all up in his business, which would have been cool, but i really just said it under my breath to becky and an amused girl with strange piercings in line next to us. and then i figure, if they were made today, they were made by this guy who a) doesn't remember; and b) is ill.

needless to say, i chose the lesser of two evils, and paid over 8 bucks for a burrito and a coke, and that was with NO sour cream. it was mediocre at best, probably worse than that, but i was so hungry. and a little mad.

so, why do the business and science geeks get all the good food? the food court, einstein bagels, quiznos, and more? could i walk there? sure. should i have to? no way. I recently shared undercooked chicken fingers with mya at the sweet shop, so my choices are dwindling.

i guess i need to start bringing my lunch. or pursue a nursing degree.

okay, so i thought my big goal was to get a novel published, maybe run a marathon, but i think i'd much rather aim at this.

Pustulio!

thanks to b, this week we have zits.

i should begin by saying that i hate the word zit and am not much fonder of pimple. i guess i would prefer a euphemism like blemish, but it doesn't sound right saying, i have this huge, ugly blemish on my forehead.

in a particularly disgusting episode of invader zim called "rise of the zitboy", zim develops a large zit on his face (after rubbing it with bacon grease... it's a long story). he is at first worried that this will impede his mission (to take over the earth) by making him socially unacceptable, but then makes peace with the pimple believing it has power. he draws a face on it, gives it a fake clothed body, and names it "pustulio."

perhaps invader zim is on to something. maybe if i made friends with my pimples, gave them names, personalities, and special powers, i would be able to exercise restraint from picking and popping and otherwise making things 18 times worse.

so i see you at the grocery store.

you say, "hi."

i say "hi." and then i say, "say hello to frederica the great here on my forehead. she was a chipmunk in a former life, is very good at math, and likes sunsets."

now you have a personal connection to my blemish and it does not gross you out. and i have a friend i can talk to, who can help me figure out the tip at restaurants. not only have i avoided using the word zit, but how could i ever pop or even complain about frederica the great?