Leave it to Kbot to find the Survivorman marthon. All I can say is that the idiot on the TV should stay in the SUV and leave danger alone. But that would make crappy tv.
Quick question- is Lord Admiral really comperable to General? I didn't think so. Let's debate, shall we? But then, I would have to care. And really, today I don't. With all due respect. I said, with all due respect. (If you haven't seen Taledega Nights:the Ballad of Ricky Bobby, you'll miss the allusion. Along with many, many other things.)
New Years. Right. Unless you're Chinese, to whom this must seem much like premature ejaculation- because their New Year is later. And they spend a crapload more money going to casinos and betting it all away at the Pai Gow poker tables. Or so I'm told. Not Chinese, don't know firsthand.
About resolutions- and revolutions. Same thing, by degree in my life. But none made. None ever get made. Because I'm suspicious of promises made in accordance to the calendar. Rather than by sheer inclination. I guess the main principles remain steady- don't go batshit with the new year, keep the employment steady, change the litter box before it starts to stink, read a good book every few days, watch good movies and ruminate endlessly about them- just because it's fun, keep in touch with friends and family, and maintain. Not much more to add. Can't promise to lose 20 pounds by easter. Probably take too much effort, and be due more to a moratorium on food than anything else. And I hate not eating. Makes me cranky. And headachy. Which also makes me cranky. Which would lead to me not doing many of the above things. Which would be bad. So screw it. Lose what I want by easter.
The little white cat is screaming at me. I think he wants attention. So I gotta go. If I don't appease the little beasts, they could possibly turn on me- like rabid racoons. Which would make for an abbreviated New Year's celebration. Indeed.
Have a wonderful time, all!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
The ghosts of Christmas past
Funny how every Christmas seems more and more haunted. I understand Dickens. If not love him- he's actually my second least favorite English author. After D H Lawrence (I've read most of his works, and just cannot enjoy any of them- ditto Thomas Hardy- he makes me want to open a vein).
Anyway, we are driving around the state, and almost every place I look I am haunted by something- whether it's a place, a person, a memory, or just a feeling. We go to Bozeman, and I see images of my past there. We go to Missoula, and I see what it was like in the spring, when I was much younger. We go to Helena, and I see what's missing and been replaced on the streets I drive. I see the faces of the dead. I hear their laughter. I feel their absence. It's kind of hard to process- needs time.
Coming home to this place- where it smells of green- even in the winter- is a welcome relief after the onslaught of memory. Too much memory in too short of a time. It starts to hurt. But it also feels so damned good at the same time. Like I could slip down into the current of it and be bourne away on the warm water. But the fear is that that same warm water is nothing more than some kind of Freudian raw sewage.
So back in the green place. Where I can contemplate it all at more of a distance. And worry it less. And love it more. Detached only in theory. Does a place ever get its hooks out of your flesh?
Anyway, we are driving around the state, and almost every place I look I am haunted by something- whether it's a place, a person, a memory, or just a feeling. We go to Bozeman, and I see images of my past there. We go to Missoula, and I see what it was like in the spring, when I was much younger. We go to Helena, and I see what's missing and been replaced on the streets I drive. I see the faces of the dead. I hear their laughter. I feel their absence. It's kind of hard to process- needs time.
Coming home to this place- where it smells of green- even in the winter- is a welcome relief after the onslaught of memory. Too much memory in too short of a time. It starts to hurt. But it also feels so damned good at the same time. Like I could slip down into the current of it and be bourne away on the warm water. But the fear is that that same warm water is nothing more than some kind of Freudian raw sewage.
So back in the green place. Where I can contemplate it all at more of a distance. And worry it less. And love it more. Detached only in theory. Does a place ever get its hooks out of your flesh?
Weighing in
I am troubled by what I see as undue haste to kill Sadam. Basically what I see it as an indicator of more than anything else is the fragility of the government. That they needed to kill him before he was liberated by someone and put back in power. I just am mystified how a court appeal could be resolved in less than a week. And that the US court was even consulted. It just was such a foregone conclusion, despite W's pronouncement of a "fair" trial. There was no such thing in this instance. Never would be. Never could be.
I would argue that it was akin to Nurenburg in that way- we all know how it's going to turn out. Crimes against humanity demand that kind of satisfaction. Fair or not. And I'm certainly not an apologist for the Nazis, or for Sadam. Bastards all, who well deserved their end. I'm just troubled by the haste of the Sadam thing. It seemed very, well, fourth down drop back and punt.
I'll be interested to see if it forms any basis for stability there. Maybe knocking some of the wind out of the sails of his former supporters. Or it could be the lit match that will cause an essssplosion.
There. Now I have added my voice to something that no one needed me to discuss.
I would argue that it was akin to Nurenburg in that way- we all know how it's going to turn out. Crimes against humanity demand that kind of satisfaction. Fair or not. And I'm certainly not an apologist for the Nazis, or for Sadam. Bastards all, who well deserved their end. I'm just troubled by the haste of the Sadam thing. It seemed very, well, fourth down drop back and punt.
I'll be interested to see if it forms any basis for stability there. Maybe knocking some of the wind out of the sails of his former supporters. Or it could be the lit match that will cause an essssplosion.
There. Now I have added my voice to something that no one needed me to discuss.
Friday, December 29, 2006
The walk
The boys planned their adventure for several days prior to setting out. They had their favorite sticks. Bob had his cowboy boots. Butch had his work boots. They had their pocket knives. The day of the adventure, Mom packed sandwiches in wax paper in a bag, with a candy bar, and a bottle of pop.
They started walking east, along the road. They were heading to Granny's house in East Helena. It was a five mile walk. It was early. The sun hadn't melted all of the dew off of the weeds in the ditch by the road. It would be warm, though. That was promised.
As they walked, they explored. If there was a bump that looked like it could hide something dead, they stopped and checked. Dead things could be really interesting if you hit them with rocks. If there was a can, it needed to be kicked. And it was important to see who could kick the farthest.
They walked. Their boots got dusty. The bottom of their pants got dusty. The sun got warmer. East Helena seemed very far away. But so did home.
Cars went by, driving quickly on the highway. They made up a game of counting the red ones. And seeing what license plates were on the cars. And seeing if they could put big rocks in the road to clang off of the hubcaps.
The day got hotter. The sun was high in the sky. There were small clouds filtering by- blown by the everpresent western breeze.
They decided that they should eat their lunches. It was tough carrying the paper bags without crushing the food. And the candy bars probably had melted by now.
The sandwiches were peanut butter and jam. The candy bars were very melty, but still worth peeling off the paper to eat. The pop was warm, but still fizzy. They were ready to bury their pile of garbage in the dirt and continue on their trip. But first, they had to try and break the thick glass bottles with rocks. Because that was all part of the fun. The first one who succeeded won.
Finally, in the late afternoon, they were walking down the street to Granny's house. The pine trees in her yard made her porch shady and welcoming. Her door was open, and the screen door filtered the sound of the radio from inside. They could smell her cooking something for dinner.
They were tired. Bob's feet hurt in the cowboy boots. Butch had torn his pants climbing over some barbed wire. They walked into the house, dusty and tired. With sunburns and sticky hands. And Granny welcomed them like returning heroes. With cold pop and sliced apples with cinnamon.
It had been a successful adventure.
They started walking east, along the road. They were heading to Granny's house in East Helena. It was a five mile walk. It was early. The sun hadn't melted all of the dew off of the weeds in the ditch by the road. It would be warm, though. That was promised.
As they walked, they explored. If there was a bump that looked like it could hide something dead, they stopped and checked. Dead things could be really interesting if you hit them with rocks. If there was a can, it needed to be kicked. And it was important to see who could kick the farthest.
They walked. Their boots got dusty. The bottom of their pants got dusty. The sun got warmer. East Helena seemed very far away. But so did home.
Cars went by, driving quickly on the highway. They made up a game of counting the red ones. And seeing what license plates were on the cars. And seeing if they could put big rocks in the road to clang off of the hubcaps.
The day got hotter. The sun was high in the sky. There were small clouds filtering by- blown by the everpresent western breeze.
They decided that they should eat their lunches. It was tough carrying the paper bags without crushing the food. And the candy bars probably had melted by now.
The sandwiches were peanut butter and jam. The candy bars were very melty, but still worth peeling off the paper to eat. The pop was warm, but still fizzy. They were ready to bury their pile of garbage in the dirt and continue on their trip. But first, they had to try and break the thick glass bottles with rocks. Because that was all part of the fun. The first one who succeeded won.
Finally, in the late afternoon, they were walking down the street to Granny's house. The pine trees in her yard made her porch shady and welcoming. Her door was open, and the screen door filtered the sound of the radio from inside. They could smell her cooking something for dinner.
They were tired. Bob's feet hurt in the cowboy boots. Butch had torn his pants climbing over some barbed wire. They walked into the house, dusty and tired. With sunburns and sticky hands. And Granny welcomed them like returning heroes. With cold pop and sliced apples with cinnamon.
It had been a successful adventure.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Back in black
And I'm glad to be back. Haven't downloaded photos from the trip yet. But have cleaned out the emails built up in 3 accounts. And have handled it.
MT was ...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same...as...it...ever...was.
But good.
I'll write more later. Need a nap. Because...I just feel like it.
MT was ...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same...as...it...ever...was.
But good.
I'll write more later. Need a nap. Because...I just feel like it.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Holding pattern
We'll be leaving soon for our annual roadtrip. Kind of like a pilgrimage, if you will. Only, unlike the Hajj, there are no pillars for us to throw rocks at, and no one gets crushed by tens of thousands of people. There just aren't enough people in the state of MT to qualify for that kind of event.
So, since the majority of our families lack internet access, I will be effectively offline. Which is probably the healthiest I'll be for a few days. In the absence of compulsively checking my email accounts (yes, accounts, plural), I'll try to find a few other unique nervous tics. Hopefully something with sound. Because that'll make the 14 hour roadtrip more interesting. Maybe I'll start clearing my throat compulsively. That won't bother Kboy.
Anyway, have a good few days, bon voyage, etc.
So, since the majority of our families lack internet access, I will be effectively offline. Which is probably the healthiest I'll be for a few days. In the absence of compulsively checking my email accounts (yes, accounts, plural), I'll try to find a few other unique nervous tics. Hopefully something with sound. Because that'll make the 14 hour roadtrip more interesting. Maybe I'll start clearing my throat compulsively. That won't bother Kboy.
Anyway, have a good few days, bon voyage, etc.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Dolores mouths off
You robbed me of my name. You named me Lo li ta. Something simple. Something with syllables that rolled off the tongue. Something that I had no choice in. How typical.
You cast yourself as some kind of victim. You acted the fool in print. You acted the pathetic, put-upon victim. When in reality you were the predator.
You fleshed out your character in print as the urbane humanist who had this little weakness for young female flesh. And then it was all my fault. Because of proximity. Because you insisted that you saw something in me that wasn't there. Interest. Sexuality. Maturity.
You just wouldn't leave it alone. Not for a day. Not for a minute. I always knew that you were watching. Constantly watching. Looking for a small avenue inside my head. Where I kept myself.
You killed my love. You killed the man who offered me an escape. An avenue away from your control. An escape from your vigilance. Yes, he was just like you in a way, but he gave me the chance to act. To be myself.
Luckily I could force you out. Keep you out of my mind, if not my body. Just keep it on the vapid level. Just act the kid. Just act the sullen teen. Just act my age. Resist the esoteric. See I do know a few big words. You resented it. You pushed. I kept my guard up. I had no choice. You saw to that. It was one big emptiness.
You wondered about the poverty. You felt so sorry for us. Living like we did. And you gave me money. That was good. For services rendered, I figure. But I wouldn't trade one moment of squalid freedom for the guardianship that you provided. With the slavery that it implied.
You cast yourself as some kind of victim. You acted the fool in print. You acted the pathetic, put-upon victim. When in reality you were the predator.
You fleshed out your character in print as the urbane humanist who had this little weakness for young female flesh. And then it was all my fault. Because of proximity. Because you insisted that you saw something in me that wasn't there. Interest. Sexuality. Maturity.
You just wouldn't leave it alone. Not for a day. Not for a minute. I always knew that you were watching. Constantly watching. Looking for a small avenue inside my head. Where I kept myself.
You killed my love. You killed the man who offered me an escape. An avenue away from your control. An escape from your vigilance. Yes, he was just like you in a way, but he gave me the chance to act. To be myself.
Luckily I could force you out. Keep you out of my mind, if not my body. Just keep it on the vapid level. Just act the kid. Just act the sullen teen. Just act my age. Resist the esoteric. See I do know a few big words. You resented it. You pushed. I kept my guard up. I had no choice. You saw to that. It was one big emptiness.
You wondered about the poverty. You felt so sorry for us. Living like we did. And you gave me money. That was good. For services rendered, I figure. But I wouldn't trade one moment of squalid freedom for the guardianship that you provided. With the slavery that it implied.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Jumping the Shark
Give me a break. It's been a busy week. Yeah- I'm defensive. What of it. Do you wanna make something of it? Huh?
Anyway, now that I've gotten the chest beating (which hurts- I'm a girl) out of the way, a friend sent this to me- said it was by the excorable Jeff Foxworthy. So apologies are in order up front. But it is a break (welcome, I expect) from me whining about the weather. And like I said above, I'm just to damned tired tonight to care. But still- the love is there. Just tired love, that's all. And another disclaimer- I have NO idea why some words are capitalized. It distracted me while I was reading- I tried to see if the capitalized words were some kind of code. Then I got tired. And didn't care anymore.
Cheers.
Anyway, now that I've gotten the chest beating (which hurts- I'm a girl) out of the way, a friend sent this to me- said it was by the excorable Jeff Foxworthy. So apologies are in order up front. But it is a break (welcome, I expect) from me whining about the weather. And like I said above, I'm just to damned tired tonight to care. But still- the love is there. Just tired love, that's all. And another disclaimer- I have NO idea why some words are capitalized. It distracted me while I was reading- I tried to see if the capitalized words were some kind of code. Then I got tired. And didn't care anymore.
Cheers.
If "vacation" to you means going shopping for the Weekend in Great Falls , Billings or Bozeman (while The kids swim at the Comfort Inn), You might live in Montana .
If parking your car for the night involves an extension cord You might live in Montana
If you consider it a sport to gather your food by drilling Through 8 inches of ice and sitting there all Day hoping that the food will swim by, You might live in Montana .
If you're proud that your state makes the national news Primarily because it houses the coldest spot in the nation, You might live in Montana .
If you have ever refused to buy something because it's "too spendy", You might live in Montana
If your local Dairy Queen is closed from November through March, You might live in Montana .
If someone in a store offers you assistance, and they don't work There, You might live in Montana .
If your dad's suntan stops at a line curving around the middle of his Forehead, You might live in Montana .
If you have worn shorts and a parka(coat) at the same time, You might live in Montana .
If your town has an equal number of bars and churches, You might live in Montana .
If you know how to correctly pronounce Butte , You might live in Montana .
If you measure distance in hours, You might live in Montana .
If your family vehicle is a crew cab pickup, You might live in Montana .
If you know several people who have hit deer more than once, You might live in Montana .
If you often switch from "heat" to "A/C"in the same day and back Again, You might live in Montana .
If you can drive 65 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging Blizzard, without flinching, You might live in Montana .
If you see people wearing hunting clothes at social events, You might live in Montana .
If you've installed security lights on your house and garage and Leave both unlocked, You might live in Montana .
If the largest traffic jam in your town centers around a high school Basketball game, You might live in Montana .
If you carry jumper cables in your car and your girlfriend knows how To use them, You might live in Montana .
If there are 7 empty cars running in the parking lot at Wal-Mart at Any given time, You might live in Montana .
If there are more people at work on Christmas Eve Day than on Deer Gun Opener, You might live in Montana .
If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit, You might live in Montana .
If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled With snow, You might live in Montana .
If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and Road construction, You might live in Montana .
If you can identify a southern or eastern accent, You might live in Montana .
If you consider Red Lodge exotic, You might live in Montana .
If your idea of creative landscaping is a statue of a deer next to Your cottonwood, You might live in Montana .
If the sunbelt to you means Miles City , You might live in Montana .
If a brat is something you eat, You might live in Montana .
If finding your misplaced car keys involves looking in the ignition, You might live in Montana .
If you find 0 degrees a little chilly, You might live in Montana .
Just quick
Am waking up later than had planned. Mainly because I can.
So all is well.
Sky is leaking. Go figure.
Kbot is on a relatively fruitless roadtrip to MT- because he must like to drive 12 hours one way- four times in one week. The big doofus.
And now I go to work. Where it's getting emptier by the day. As people slough off to holiday vacations.
We leave on Saturday. Because Kbot said so. I gotta throw the boy a bone once in a while!
So all is well.
Sky is leaking. Go figure.
Kbot is on a relatively fruitless roadtrip to MT- because he must like to drive 12 hours one way- four times in one week. The big doofus.
And now I go to work. Where it's getting emptier by the day. As people slough off to holiday vacations.
We leave on Saturday. Because Kbot said so. I gotta throw the boy a bone once in a while!
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Um- about that last post
Yeah- a bit cranky.
sorry about that.
It was a passing thing.
all is well.
send the damned St. Bernards in.
We need those boys.
sorry about that.
It was a passing thing.
all is well.
send the damned St. Bernards in.
We need those boys.
Brains.....Brains.....
This place is downright creepy. On Friday, I fully expected to see hoards of shuffling zombies hunting for human food on the drive home. And so quiet. The street just below us was dark. The stoplight at the bottom of our hill was out. The coffee shop next to the intersection was silenced.
The gas station at the top of the hill was insane. Luckily I was there early. I hear that some stations have run out of fuel.
People are gassing themselves into the hospital by burning barbeques in their homes. I say, perhaps it's natural selection at work. Just like those smarties who burn down their trailers in the winter when they take a blow torch to the frozen pipes underneath. Stupid people die. Fuckers. And get off the damned highways.
One of my co-workers said it has that kind of 24 hours after feeling. And all because we are partially off of the grid. God help us if the mountain ever blows. We are fucked then. Even though we live on a hill, and have semi-sufficient survival skills. The idiots would rule. If it does happen, drink one for me, and think a happy thought about cranky white kitties.
I don't know yet if we have power at work. I hate the idea of busting ass to drive 2 hours to get there and then find out that there's no light in my building. But I suppose that it's worth sucking it up and finding out. Then I can be the hero again. And save the day with my mysteriously impressive supply of computer batteries.
fucking Seattle.
The gas station at the top of the hill was insane. Luckily I was there early. I hear that some stations have run out of fuel.
People are gassing themselves into the hospital by burning barbeques in their homes. I say, perhaps it's natural selection at work. Just like those smarties who burn down their trailers in the winter when they take a blow torch to the frozen pipes underneath. Stupid people die. Fuckers. And get off the damned highways.
One of my co-workers said it has that kind of 24 hours after feeling. And all because we are partially off of the grid. God help us if the mountain ever blows. We are fucked then. Even though we live on a hill, and have semi-sufficient survival skills. The idiots would rule. If it does happen, drink one for me, and think a happy thought about cranky white kitties.
I don't know yet if we have power at work. I hate the idea of busting ass to drive 2 hours to get there and then find out that there's no light in my building. But I suppose that it's worth sucking it up and finding out. Then I can be the hero again. And save the day with my mysteriously impressive supply of computer batteries.
fucking Seattle.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
We interrupt the Decologue
To bring you a weather report.
It's fuck all wet out.
They are predicting 60+ mph winds tonight, with a high likelihood of power outages.
It took 2 hours to get home.
Thank you.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.
Fuck it- I'm gonna go throw Ricky Bobby on the DVD player, drink a beer and go to bed. Because it's the ladylike thing to do.
It's fuck all wet out.
They are predicting 60+ mph winds tonight, with a high likelihood of power outages.
It took 2 hours to get home.
Thank you.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.
Fuck it- I'm gonna go throw Ricky Bobby on the DVD player, drink a beer and go to bed. Because it's the ladylike thing to do.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Numbers 4 and 5- existential question of the day
Now how is it possible to take something in vain, or put something in front of something else if said something either might or might not exist?
In other words, if you are like me, and there is no leap of faith possible- despite numerous attempts over the years in different arenas where leaps of faith are necessary, how do you avoid breaking the two top tenants of well, faith? And why the hell worry in the first place? Just opt the hell out.
College boyfriend- did the bait and switch. Was a closet case fundamentalist. Thought it was fun to lure me in with the disguise of being normal. Then tried everything to convert me to his ...faith. Despite my protestations that there can be no original sin. It's all fabrication to cover some kind of zeitgeist of guilt. That sex can be fun and sin-free- because adultery cannot exist without being married. Aha, he said- but you're committing adultery against your future husband. Fait acompli, saith I. So why not compound the sin, as it's been committed. But forgiveness is possible, said he. How so? Do you know my future husband already, and he's forgiven? By God. Whatever. Who the hell asked him to enter into the discussion. This is a private affair, so to speak, between me and the man of my dreams. Who wouldn't mind a little ...water under that particular bridge, if you catch my drift- because I am the sum of my experience. And tell me, have you ever been experienced? Well I have. And that's not something that is negotiable.
And there you have it. Get my drift. Enjoy the show. Move on, folks. Nothing more to see here. And see, I lie again. Plenty more where that came from. Just don't expect faith to draw miracles down in sheets like heavy rain. Or hail would be more like it. Because I suspect that miracles leave tiny pebble-shaped bruises in their wake. Because miracles have to have an aftermath. They just have to.
In other words, if you are like me, and there is no leap of faith possible- despite numerous attempts over the years in different arenas where leaps of faith are necessary, how do you avoid breaking the two top tenants of well, faith? And why the hell worry in the first place? Just opt the hell out.
College boyfriend- did the bait and switch. Was a closet case fundamentalist. Thought it was fun to lure me in with the disguise of being normal. Then tried everything to convert me to his ...faith. Despite my protestations that there can be no original sin. It's all fabrication to cover some kind of zeitgeist of guilt. That sex can be fun and sin-free- because adultery cannot exist without being married. Aha, he said- but you're committing adultery against your future husband. Fait acompli, saith I. So why not compound the sin, as it's been committed. But forgiveness is possible, said he. How so? Do you know my future husband already, and he's forgiven? By God. Whatever. Who the hell asked him to enter into the discussion. This is a private affair, so to speak, between me and the man of my dreams. Who wouldn't mind a little ...water under that particular bridge, if you catch my drift- because I am the sum of my experience. And tell me, have you ever been experienced? Well I have. And that's not something that is negotiable.
And there you have it. Get my drift. Enjoy the show. Move on, folks. Nothing more to see here. And see, I lie again. Plenty more where that came from. Just don't expect faith to draw miracles down in sheets like heavy rain. Or hail would be more like it. Because I suspect that miracles leave tiny pebble-shaped bruises in their wake. Because miracles have to have an aftermath. They just have to.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Number 3- starting my life of crime
When I was in first grade, I didn't even think twice about stealing. I wanted something, so I took it. I would typically put the purloined item in my lunchbox, and take it home.
Then I got caught. It had been a banner day. I had a lunchbox crammed with stolen items- it was actually bulging at the sides (stupid soft-side lunchbox with the mushroom design on it- grandparents were too uncool to spring for the metal super-hero box). It was really kind of obvious in retrospect.
There was an unveiling before the classroom. Imagine the mortification, as when it was opened on my desk, all of the items sprang forth. I was dragged into the hallway by my teacher, where she threatened to take me to the principal's office. This was back in the day of thrashing for felonies. I cried. I remember the fear. She relented. She made me promise to never steal again.
I really wish that I had kept that promise...
Then I got caught. It had been a banner day. I had a lunchbox crammed with stolen items- it was actually bulging at the sides (stupid soft-side lunchbox with the mushroom design on it- grandparents were too uncool to spring for the metal super-hero box). It was really kind of obvious in retrospect.
There was an unveiling before the classroom. Imagine the mortification, as when it was opened on my desk, all of the items sprang forth. I was dragged into the hallway by my teacher, where she threatened to take me to the principal's office. This was back in the day of thrashing for felonies. I cried. I remember the fear. She relented. She made me promise to never steal again.
I really wish that I had kept that promise...
Monday, December 11, 2006
Number 2- brief shots
Is messing around on a boyfriend/girlfriend really comperable to doing the same with a spouse? I would argue...kinda...but then...
-High School boyfriend # something or other- comes over to my house on Valentine's Day, sporting a vast and varied array of luminous hickeys on his neck. That I didn't inflict. Said it was a reaction to the soap in the boy's locker room. No, I didn't believe him. And no, I never laid a finger on his sorry ass again.
-High School boyfriend- a few later down the road- gets caught messing around with another girl- because I have friends in other towns. Who report shit and enjoy the ensuing drama. He tries to deny, but I fuck it all up for him by making sure that the other girl finds out about me. No one said I played fair.
-College boyfriend- thinks it's cool as hell to show up at an event with another girl in tow. After we had enjoyed a nooner. Fucker.
-College boyfriend- another one- decides that it's fine to stay out all night. Even though when he returned the next morning, smelling of someone else's perfume, it was all because of a "hug." We had just moved in together. Saddest thing- it took me 3 more years of his happy horseshit to kick him out. And that occurred only after things got...borderline violent...physically. The verbal violence was really quite prevalent around that time...sigh...
- And I don't really feel like discussing my side of these kinds of mis-adventures. Suffice it to say, two can play. And the above were the times I was the victim. Innocent, that is- if that word can ever really apply.
But comperable to the married dalliance? No fucking way. Now that I think of it. We have an agreement. Before that happens, we skedaddle. Because I would never dream of inflicting that kind of thing on the K-boy. It's just not something that I could live with in myself. Some of the earlier crap is just difficult enough.
The really nice thing is that it does fade away. The bite is gone. The urge to call up in the middle of the night whilst drunk and scream invectives is gone. Because they don't matter. Not anymore. But I do still remember how it felt. Back in the day.
-High School boyfriend # something or other- comes over to my house on Valentine's Day, sporting a vast and varied array of luminous hickeys on his neck. That I didn't inflict. Said it was a reaction to the soap in the boy's locker room. No, I didn't believe him. And no, I never laid a finger on his sorry ass again.
-High School boyfriend- a few later down the road- gets caught messing around with another girl- because I have friends in other towns. Who report shit and enjoy the ensuing drama. He tries to deny, but I fuck it all up for him by making sure that the other girl finds out about me. No one said I played fair.
-College boyfriend- thinks it's cool as hell to show up at an event with another girl in tow. After we had enjoyed a nooner. Fucker.
-College boyfriend- another one- decides that it's fine to stay out all night. Even though when he returned the next morning, smelling of someone else's perfume, it was all because of a "hug." We had just moved in together. Saddest thing- it took me 3 more years of his happy horseshit to kick him out. And that occurred only after things got...borderline violent...physically. The verbal violence was really quite prevalent around that time...sigh...
- And I don't really feel like discussing my side of these kinds of mis-adventures. Suffice it to say, two can play. And the above were the times I was the victim. Innocent, that is- if that word can ever really apply.
But comperable to the married dalliance? No fucking way. Now that I think of it. We have an agreement. Before that happens, we skedaddle. Because I would never dream of inflicting that kind of thing on the K-boy. It's just not something that I could live with in myself. Some of the earlier crap is just difficult enough.
The really nice thing is that it does fade away. The bite is gone. The urge to call up in the middle of the night whilst drunk and scream invectives is gone. Because they don't matter. Not anymore. But I do still remember how it felt. Back in the day.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Number 2- round one
We were waiting on the bus. For-ever. Because we were teenagers, and any wait was for-ever.
We were going on a speech/drama meet in Billings. That was cool. We got the chartered bus for the occasion. Any roadtrip over 2 hours merited an upgrade from the regular schoolbus. Members of the drama club who typically avoided meets to nearer towns crawled out of the woodwork for the Billings trip. Because it would be crowned by a trip to the RIMROCK MALL. Highlight of the weekend. Beat the hell out of the hometown crap.
We were waiting. Couldn't figure out who we were waiting for. All of the members of both teams were on board. As were the coaches.
Then he arrived. The principal. Which freaked me the fuck out. Why the hell was he getting on our bus? This was unprecedented. No administrator had ever come on one of our trips.
We were in a kerfluffle. But that faded once we hit the road, and started playing Adam Ant and AC/DC on the boomboxes. I suspect in retrospect that there were some sexuality issues at play with the music choice. One boy in particular kept choosing the buttrock. But he knew all the words to the Adam Ant songs. Hmmmm.
So we get to Billings. All is well. The hotel has a sauna. I get to go to the sauna with a few cute speech club members- because the drama boys were rare, and pretty obviously gay for the most part. It was fun. There were ice fights. There were dramatic events in the hallways.
Overall it was a typical meet. We made the finals, but didn't win. We shopped our money away on sparkly, shiny silly 80's baubles. I had a new boyfriend by the time I got home. It didn't last long. And that was really ok- because he was a dweeby kid.
But the mystery of the principal on the bus was solved. Seems he was banging the speech coach. And it was an out-of-towner for them. Classy. I just wonder how long it stayed under wraps after basically outing themselves on a bus chock full o teens. From a smallish town.
We were going on a speech/drama meet in Billings. That was cool. We got the chartered bus for the occasion. Any roadtrip over 2 hours merited an upgrade from the regular schoolbus. Members of the drama club who typically avoided meets to nearer towns crawled out of the woodwork for the Billings trip. Because it would be crowned by a trip to the RIMROCK MALL. Highlight of the weekend. Beat the hell out of the hometown crap.
We were waiting. Couldn't figure out who we were waiting for. All of the members of both teams were on board. As were the coaches.
Then he arrived. The principal. Which freaked me the fuck out. Why the hell was he getting on our bus? This was unprecedented. No administrator had ever come on one of our trips.
We were in a kerfluffle. But that faded once we hit the road, and started playing Adam Ant and AC/DC on the boomboxes. I suspect in retrospect that there were some sexuality issues at play with the music choice. One boy in particular kept choosing the buttrock. But he knew all the words to the Adam Ant songs. Hmmmm.
So we get to Billings. All is well. The hotel has a sauna. I get to go to the sauna with a few cute speech club members- because the drama boys were rare, and pretty obviously gay for the most part. It was fun. There were ice fights. There were dramatic events in the hallways.
Overall it was a typical meet. We made the finals, but didn't win. We shopped our money away on sparkly, shiny silly 80's baubles. I had a new boyfriend by the time I got home. It didn't last long. And that was really ok- because he was a dweeby kid.
But the mystery of the principal on the bus was solved. Seems he was banging the speech coach. And it was an out-of-towner for them. Classy. I just wonder how long it stayed under wraps after basically outing themselves on a bus chock full o teens. From a smallish town.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Number 1- third act
The old man's eyes were so tired. I knew on the spot that it would be our last meeting. He just seemed worn out. It was a hard day.
He had gone hunting that morning, and shot his final deer. From the truck. Not strictly legal, despite the tag. But I seriously doubt any but the most asshole game warden would ticket a 91 year old man with a walker who could still shoot straight, if not walk upright without assistance.
A couple of days before he died, he was in the shop at his house. His son asked him what he was doing at the bandsaw. "making this." was the reply. It was a wood panel to attach to his walker. So that he could put his concealed weapon behind it. Because he still carried the permit.
The end occurred gently, with his sons in the next room. So he wasn't alone. It was hard, but not scary. Difficult, but not tragic. Gently. Just a light snuffing out of the candle. Smoke rising slowly from the wick to the ceiling.
Cue the curtain.
He had gone hunting that morning, and shot his final deer. From the truck. Not strictly legal, despite the tag. But I seriously doubt any but the most asshole game warden would ticket a 91 year old man with a walker who could still shoot straight, if not walk upright without assistance.
A couple of days before he died, he was in the shop at his house. His son asked him what he was doing at the bandsaw. "making this." was the reply. It was a wood panel to attach to his walker. So that he could put his concealed weapon behind it. Because he still carried the permit.
The end occurred gently, with his sons in the next room. So he wasn't alone. It was hard, but not scary. Difficult, but not tragic. Gently. Just a light snuffing out of the candle. Smoke rising slowly from the wick to the ceiling.
Cue the curtain.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Number 1- another time
I did like to kill, though. I have to be honest. I had a real thing for stomping on bees. When I was 4. I would run around the yard barefoot, and stomp on the bees that were visiting the dandelions. Or with shoes on. Didn't matter. Small wonder I'm allergic to the bloody things.
Then when I was 6 and had my bike, I made a game out of playing god with the ants on our sidewalk. I would let some live, then ride along smashing every one I could get. Then I would be benevolent and let them all live- avoiding riding over all of them. Unless it was one of the large red biting ants. Then I would run over it and skid. With my back racing slick tire.
So somewhere, there's a Buddhist crying for my sins. Knowing full well that my next life will be devoted to being stomped on by a really stupid 4 year old. But I'll be able to sting her sorry ass, and cause swelling. Ha ha.
Then when I was 6 and had my bike, I made a game out of playing god with the ants on our sidewalk. I would let some live, then ride along smashing every one I could get. Then I would be benevolent and let them all live- avoiding riding over all of them. Unless it was one of the large red biting ants. Then I would run over it and skid. With my back racing slick tire.
So somewhere, there's a Buddhist crying for my sins. Knowing full well that my next life will be devoted to being stomped on by a really stupid 4 year old. But I'll be able to sting her sorry ass, and cause swelling. Ha ha.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Number 1
I have never hunted. Despite the long tradition in my family, including both parents (there are photos of my mother in a red jumpsuit with a dead antelope- pregnant with me), and almost every extended relative. Never done it. Fishing- sure. Not well, and not in over 20 years. Never with the hunting.
There was an attempt made. When I was about 5 or 6. I think 5- just because of the surroundings I remember. They took me out in the woods in the truck with them. I remember being told to be quiet. Then there was a deer- or someone said there was a deer. I didn't see the deer. Because I was little and didn't know where to look. Or what to look for.
I started screaming, "RUN BAMBI!!!"
Dad spanked me. Then took me back to my grandparent's house in shame.
I went into the basement where my uncle's room was. He had left incense burning. I touched the burner and burnt my finger. I cried. Grandma put butter on it.
That's all I remember of the killing.
(and I would put good money on it that the story varies immensely if you asked my dad- but I'm relying on the memory of a 5 year old. The butter/burn part is true. The rest- I just dunno. It's how I remember.)
There was an attempt made. When I was about 5 or 6. I think 5- just because of the surroundings I remember. They took me out in the woods in the truck with them. I remember being told to be quiet. Then there was a deer- or someone said there was a deer. I didn't see the deer. Because I was little and didn't know where to look. Or what to look for.
I started screaming, "RUN BAMBI!!!"
Dad spanked me. Then took me back to my grandparent's house in shame.
I went into the basement where my uncle's room was. He had left incense burning. I touched the burner and burnt my finger. I cried. Grandma put butter on it.
That's all I remember of the killing.
(and I would put good money on it that the story varies immensely if you asked my dad- but I'm relying on the memory of a 5 year old. The butter/burn part is true. The rest- I just dunno. It's how I remember.)
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Coming down with my annual holiday sick
The cold this time. Getting out of bed is more than a chore. It takes everything. Just want to lay there. Warm. Sleepy. And drift off. Float more.
But there is plenty keeping me up. Gotta run. Gotta keep the commerce spilling over the top of the dam. Gotta keep up.
It's all ok, though. Because this year, it looks like I'll get the cold out of the way well before the actual holiday road trip.
But there is plenty keeping me up. Gotta run. Gotta keep the commerce spilling over the top of the dam. Gotta keep up.
It's all ok, though. Because this year, it looks like I'll get the cold out of the way well before the actual holiday road trip.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Sleighbells ring, are you listening?
Bitterness sinks into the bones. Rendering them heavy and brittle. Both at once. Like some strange radioactive isotope- only found in the lab, under stressful conditions, and for a moment at a time.
That feeling- of sinking deeper into the warp and weft of tissue- is complicated. There's a single-mindedness to it. There's a monomoniacal aspect not to be ignored. Because overall, it's all about the me. Or the you, as the case may be.
But to really dive in. To dive as deep as it goes. Requires either bravery or stupidity. Or just some very good drugs. Your choice. Pick a winner. (or pick a winno)Because coming up for air isn't always an option. Like the mythical acid trip that my friends warned me about. Never would share the goods. Always said I couldn't deal with it. "You can't HANDLE the truth." I call shenanegans.
And that's to say that it's a desirable thing. To go deep. To receive the pass from mid-field. While the cheerleaders do their prancy little sexy thing. And all the boys want to be a hero. Just for one day.
Sometimes superficial appears to be the only option. Because if you're not alone, or have limited time or resources, the deep diving is impossible. No one can come along for the ride. It's not a thing that can be shared. So how are you today? Well, fine thanks. Great weather. Yeah, no rain. Did you find a parking space? Yeah, luckily....ad infinitum.
Because you want to shield others from the sheer mass of volume in the head-screaming and screaming and screaming. I WANT OUT. I WANT IN. I WANT. Because wanting is easier than having. Because once you have it, what the hell do you do with it? Put it in a closet. Or just try to cram it into the available spaces. Because once you have it, the reality of it takes over. Making the imaginary romance of the unobtainable and desirable vanish like a dream of mist on the water.
And to answer an unasked question, yes, I did just get back from Christmas shopping, thank you.
That feeling- of sinking deeper into the warp and weft of tissue- is complicated. There's a single-mindedness to it. There's a monomoniacal aspect not to be ignored. Because overall, it's all about the me. Or the you, as the case may be.
But to really dive in. To dive as deep as it goes. Requires either bravery or stupidity. Or just some very good drugs. Your choice. Pick a winner. (or pick a winno)Because coming up for air isn't always an option. Like the mythical acid trip that my friends warned me about. Never would share the goods. Always said I couldn't deal with it. "You can't HANDLE the truth." I call shenanegans.
And that's to say that it's a desirable thing. To go deep. To receive the pass from mid-field. While the cheerleaders do their prancy little sexy thing. And all the boys want to be a hero. Just for one day.
Sometimes superficial appears to be the only option. Because if you're not alone, or have limited time or resources, the deep diving is impossible. No one can come along for the ride. It's not a thing that can be shared. So how are you today? Well, fine thanks. Great weather. Yeah, no rain. Did you find a parking space? Yeah, luckily....ad infinitum.
Because you want to shield others from the sheer mass of volume in the head-screaming and screaming and screaming. I WANT OUT. I WANT IN. I WANT. Because wanting is easier than having. Because once you have it, what the hell do you do with it? Put it in a closet. Or just try to cram it into the available spaces. Because once you have it, the reality of it takes over. Making the imaginary romance of the unobtainable and desirable vanish like a dream of mist on the water.
And to answer an unasked question, yes, I did just get back from Christmas shopping, thank you.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
More happy thoughts of the season
You are what you eat, wear, spend, drive...
But actually, you are the summation of your choices.
Live with them, they are yours.
Live with them, bad or good.
Scar tissues builds up into a carapice.
When it's intact, it should deflect bullets.
Figuratively, of course- because you lack the prayers that deflect the real thing.
The proper sacrifices haven't been made.
The proper deals haven't been struck.
But overall that's ok.
Because the kind of bullets I'm talking about only
draw imaginary blood.
The kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night screaming.
Because it's pretend horror. And pretend blood.
But real pain.
Them's the breaks, cap'n.
Choices with the accompanying cacophany of results.
Own them. They are your real children.
Because they helped you grow up.
Because you are your only real child.
Everthing else is self-sufficient.
Causal effect, sure.
But overall it's all surface.
The deep stuff remains inside, basically untouched unless you let it...
And to live it's gotta get shaken up sometimes.
But it always pools back in the center- like a mirrored lake of mercury.
Shiny, heavy, liquid. But heavily metallic and toxic if ingested.
But play with it anyway- because those of us about to die salute you.
Because we all are about to die. If you calculate in tree years.
But actually, you are the summation of your choices.
Live with them, they are yours.
Live with them, bad or good.
Scar tissues builds up into a carapice.
When it's intact, it should deflect bullets.
Figuratively, of course- because you lack the prayers that deflect the real thing.
The proper sacrifices haven't been made.
The proper deals haven't been struck.
But overall that's ok.
Because the kind of bullets I'm talking about only
draw imaginary blood.
The kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night screaming.
Because it's pretend horror. And pretend blood.
But real pain.
Them's the breaks, cap'n.
Choices with the accompanying cacophany of results.
Own them. They are your real children.
Because they helped you grow up.
Because you are your only real child.
Everthing else is self-sufficient.
Causal effect, sure.
But overall it's all surface.
The deep stuff remains inside, basically untouched unless you let it...
And to live it's gotta get shaken up sometimes.
But it always pools back in the center- like a mirrored lake of mercury.
Shiny, heavy, liquid. But heavily metallic and toxic if ingested.
But play with it anyway- because those of us about to die salute you.
Because we all are about to die. If you calculate in tree years.
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