Flashed on my wedding night

Did I ever tell you what Jim did to me on our honeymoon?

(That oughta clear the room...)

No, not that. Well, not that I'll discuss here, anyway.

Back when we got married, things weren't all newfangled and digitimatized like they are nowadays. This was, after all, the '80s. What we lacked in technology, we made up for in voluminous hair. Consequently, when we set off for Detroit on our wedding night (What? There was a Lou Reed concert at the Fox), the only flashpower we were packin' was a little 110 camera.

After we zipped down to our deluxe suite at the Dearborn Red Roof Inn, we found ourselves with several hours on our hands before the concert. Hmmmm...what could two newly married people find to do with a little spare time in a room with passably clean sheets? A little hip-hopscotch, maybe? Mattress meringue merengue? Oh, quit your whinin' and gaggin' out there. At least I didn't say rectal rhumba.

So, after we did things y'all'd rather not hear about, I was wanderin' the room in my unselfconscious, 23-year-old still-hardbelly nakedidity. The sink and mirror were just around the corner from the bedroom, and not in a separate room, and as I bent over to turn on the sink, because everything is built too short for me... POOF! the camera flash went off behind me.

I whipped around to behold my new husband, the complete fuckin' prick, holdin' the 110 and grinnin' like a smug, self-satisfied dickhole.

"Did you just take a picture of my bare ass?"

Grin, grin, not talkin', not lettin' me have the camera, either. He snapped a few more random room pictures, and then pocketed the camera. In the meantime, I was havin' a slight fit about how that roll was almost full, and now we couldn't have it developed, all that suddenly modest bullshit. If only I'd realized what good shape I was in then, I'd have been proud to take 'em in for developing!

So, Jim managed to take the film out and mix it in with several other rolls we had ready to develop. I had no bloody idea which one had my ass mugshot on it.

I took the rolls in one at a time, over a long period of time, always holding my breath when I came in to pick up my pictures that this wouldn't be the time I got the looks from the photo clerks. All the while, Jim teased me without mercy about how he was gonna put the picture on milk cartons with the caption "Have you seen this ass?" (though I did point out to him that he would feel very foolish indeed when everyone called and said, "Oh, yeah, I've seen that ass alright, heh heh heh!")

This went on for nearly a year, and still no ass picture. It was like Russian roulette with my ass spinnin' in the chamber. And then there was one.

This had to be it. The motel pictures hadn't been on any of the other rolls we'd taken in. So, if I just didn't take it in, I was safe. I let it sit for a long time. And then one day, I couldn't stand it anymore. I am, without a doubt, my own worst enemy.

I took the roll in and dropped it off, avoiding all eye contact with the clerk. The next day, I came to claim my packet of shame, steeling myself for the inevitable clerk smirks, or maybe even downright rebukes for daring to bring pornographic photos to a family drugstore. Said my name, let the pixie behind the counter thumb through the envelopes, braced myself for her reaction...and there was none, beyond the standard pleasantries and gathering of cash for said photos.

Once in the car, I ripped open the envelope and began flipping through the pictures. Nope, nope, nope, nope...motel picture. My heart beat a little faster. This was the one! Jim posin' in the room, me posin' in the room, the suitcase. Where was my ass?

Then I found it. A picture, in the motel room, where the camera was pointed toward the ceiling, and captured nothin' but plaster. Not my ass. Just plaster. Jim had been stringin' me along for a whole year with this, and I'd played into his hands smoother than a custom accordian.

Say it with me now: Suckahhhhhhhh!

Now who's the weirdo?

squirl on squirl
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Thought you perverts would enjoy a little Squirl-on-squirl action. Obviously, my kinky sis is not only into bestiality, but she's got it bad for Beanie Babies too.

So who's the degenerate in my family now?

Easily amused

The thirteen year age difference between Jim and me becomes less and less visually apparent as time passes. When I was in my early and mid-twenties, though, people would see Jim's prematurely grey hair and give us all manner of looks, from admiring to disapproving. It's always been fun. Also, neither of us has ever regularly worn a wedding ring of any sort, so people haven't always been able to size us up instantly.

I was probably about 24 when we stumbled upon my favorite game to play in public. We were up in Rogers City on vacation one summer day, and decided to go into Dairy Queen and have some ice cream in the air conditioning. We were the only customers in the place except for one man, an older gentleman who looked like a fairly conservative businessman. He was just a table over and back from us, makin' a lunch out of whatever deep-fried wonders were dished out in between the vats of ice cream.

I really don't know what possessed me, but I slid my hand over onto Jim's, and asked, just loud enough to be heard a table over, "Does your wife know you're here?"

Jim said the guy's hand stopped halfway to his mouth, his fork hovering in limbo, as he tuned right in to our sordid little conversation. So Jim responded as sweetly as possible, "Hell no, the bitch thinks I'm in Kalkaska!"

Our new friend was spellbound. I proceeded to gush about what a fun trip this was, and how Jim was so generous, and how my mom was all wrong about him. Then we giggled and trashed Jim's "wife" and how old she was lookin' these days, and what a complete and utter bitch she was.

"Well," Jim announced, "she's gettin' the bad news in six months, anyway."

Not a single bite was taken at the next table during the course of our awful dialogue. We sort of let it trail off, so the guy could finish eating, and Jim said he was shot several dirty looks before we left.

Personally, it warms my heart to think that this guy probably went home and talked about us at dinner. "You wouldn't believe this total bastard and his little slut girlfriend I saw in Dairy Queen today..."

We've done this a few times since, but like many things, the first time is the most magical.

But if you ever wanna stop forks in mid-air, just start a conversation with the line, "Does your wife know you're here?"

Video bitch

I am at this moment working on a solution to my video posting woes. The server where I attempted to host that .wmv file really sucks donkey dick; it shouldn't take 2+ hours to download this file over broadband. I'm finding a way to convert my wmv files to avi files so that I can use audioblog.com, which seems to have no problem with streaming speed. I'll post as soon as I have the new and improved video stupidity.

In other news, Jim and I are gearin' up for our vacation, which starts Friday. So, of course, I came down with a cold today. I feel like crap, but I'm determined to have this out of my system before we leave, as I will not be denied a second of my vacation fun. Eventually, we will be near Deadwood, South Dakota. Neither of us has ever been to SD, so we're both pretty whipped up about the whole thing. Are the Badlands bad enough for us? I'll let you know. I'll have my laptop along, and presumably some form of (help me now) dialup access while we're gone, so I hope to be updating the Cotillion as often as possible.

As it turns out, our first stop on our way out of town puts us shoutin' distance from Jess and the Bobblehead, so we're gonna meet them and see if my allergy medicine really works when in the presence of twelve cats.

Do you think the cats will like me when they see me with this?

Did you see that? Free toy inside? Could you resist?

I think I'm safe from the feline pack. Of course, the potential evil energy from the combined presences of Jess and me just might cause weather disturbances throughout the midwest and parts of southern Canada. We'll try not to cause any havoc. No guarantees, though.

Well, it's off to a dose of Dayquil, a hot bath, and early bed for me. If you work with me, I'm sorry, but you'll probably see me tomorrow.

How did YOU get here?

UPDATE: I'm still tryin' to find a faster download host for this clip. In the meantime, if your email can take a 7+ MB attachment, and you really wanna see this piece of crap that's little more than a glorified slide show, let me know, and I'll email it to you. Email me at bucky4eyes AT gmail DOT com.

I became possessed with the desire to figure out Windows Movie Maker this weekend, so I'm including a link to my first effort. Because if I can't treat this site like a refrigerator for my crayon masterpieces, then I might as well put the whole kit and caboodle down my pants and go home.

Searching
This is a .wmv file, which I know will play in Windows Media Player.
Unless your browser already knows what to do with a .wmv file, right click on the link and choose "Save link target" or reasonable facsimile.
Awwww, crap, seems like a slow download from the server where the file is stored. I'll link it elsewhere if I can find a better option. Sorry! The file is a bit over 7 MB.

Nipple fever

Never let it be said that I shy away from nudity here at the Cotillion.


Just so it's done tastefully.

Tales of the spotty dog

Damn, you people are vicious! Now Torrie has decided that it's okay to terrorize me until I meet her demands, and sent me an email today that contained an image so horrific I had to nail my hands to the undersides of my desk to keep from clawing my eyes right out of my head.

Torrie's demands, though, do not involve anything overtly unpleasant, humiliating, or likely to cause future blackmail and/or loss of social status. What she wants is the heartwarming story of How Snickers Came To Be the Barzedors' Bundle of Joy. I think I can manage that.



The story of Snickers must, of necessity, begin with chickens.

We do not live in the country. Just because our street has a lot of large back yards doesn't mean that it's a good idea to have livestock here. But our next-door neighbor, Paul, who could be a post or ten all in himself, didn't see it that way. He built a chicken coop, right next to our fence, and bought some exotic roosters and hens. It took a little gettin' used to for this city girl, since I wasn't used to bein' serenaded awake at sunrise by an insistent, roostery Urr urr urr ur URRRRRRRRR! But really, I didn't mind the chickens, and kind of enjoyed watchin' 'em.

The problem was that the chickens could easily hop the fence between our yards, and they often did. One time, I found this big ol' Cornflakes-lookin' rooster hidin' out from a violent wind storm in our garage (and I'm a big softie and made him a burlap nest in the corner). That I didn't mind, as I was pretty amused overall with the poultry. But they would all also come over and tear up our grass. We were startin' to get some alarmingly large bald patches where once there was lush green. Jim started to talk about gettin' a puppy, some kind of terrier, to chase the chickens back over the fence. I didn't like that idea at all, as puppies are a royal pain in the ass and require a lot of work. Plus, we had a very ancient dog at the time, Tuco, who I felt should be allowed the dignity of his age without a new whippersnapper at his heels. I resisted the idea of a puppy at every turn, even though Tuco had zero interest in chicken chasing.

Then the chickens started to dig in my pet cemetary.

I looked at Jim that Saturday morning in May of 2002 and said "Let's go get a fuckin' puppy, right now."

We took my Camaro to the Humane Society. Why take the truck? We weren't gonna get a big dog, just a little terrier to yap the chickens out of the yard. Inside the HS, I remembered why I avoid these places. The sheer volume of animals, the faces in the cages, all the ones I can't take home, all that harsh fuckin' reality just conspires to crush me and turn me into a sobbing mass in the nearest bathroom. I was holdin' it together pretty well until I saw my first frightened cat face in a cage. Jim got that look from me before I dashed off to the ladies' room.

After I finished cryin' like a schoolgirl with her first yeast infection, I didn't know if I could continue with Operation Puppy Pick. All I wanted was to flee to the car and not be faced with the crushing guilt and sorrow I felt in that place. Jim talked me down, and gently guided me away from the cats, which I can't have anymore because of my allergies, and toward some dogs.

We saw some cute dogs, a veritable bonanza of black labs, and a cute little mutt with a white diamond on her forehead. Li'l diamond-head was pretty cute, and she was a definite maybe, until we rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a crazy-lookin' dog who had really, really smart eyes.

Jim told the dog to sit, and he did, immediately. Then he tilted his head, and when he did that, he deftly put a hook right into my heart and made sure it couldn't come out without takin' all the internal organs along.



His little chart said his name was Nicky, he was an Australian Shepherd (which I'm sure is part of it, but certainly not all of it...he's a mystery to me), he was six months old...and he was due for The Bad Thing very soon. Look at that face. Do you seriously think we were gonna let that happen?

We called somebody right then and asked about him. She looked apprehensive as she gave us a leash and told us to take him for a "test run" in the pen out back. There was a long list of people who'd taken him for walks, and promptly brought him back. When we got him outside, he was like a little brown and white rocket. He would not stop. He was like a little comet in a that yard. I told Jim, "Think I know why he got walked and recaged so many times." The people who had him before us had tried to have him in an apartment. Jesus, people, how fucking stupid are you? What this crazy boy needed was a large, fenced yard, which we just happen to have. Both of us knew he'd be a handful, and he was a lot bigger than what we'd come to adopt, but we were both so instantly in love with the spotty motherfucker that we knew he was The One.

The leash lady looked visibly relieved and maybe even a touch delighted when we came back in and did not hand over the wild pooch. Everybody involved seemed pretty happy that Nicky would have a new family. I put him up in my lap in the front seat of the Camaro, and the song Atomic Dog played, and he sat there so good and still, and I fell completely in love with him on the ride home.

When we got home, I let him out of the car, and I wish I had a picture of the look on his face when he saw how big his new yard was. For a split second, he looked like a stoner discovering Amsterdam, and then he was off much too fast for the naked eye to see.



And lo and behold, he beheld the chickens. He went for a chicken at lightning speed, and before either one of us could say a word about it, he'd used his paws to pin its wings down, and he was ripping its feathers out by the mouthful. I freaked out and shrieked at him to stop, and Jim tried to tackle him and release the chicken. The dog was fast, and determined to have that chicken, and probably thought it was a game, oh boy oh boy oh boy! We chased and slipped and he ducked and feinted, in a truly Keystone Cops vignette. Finally, Jim got the chicken away and tossed it over the fence, the bird essentially unharmed but bereft of its dignity and a bunch of feathers.

We didn't have a chicken problem for long after that.

We didn't know the dog's exact birthday, just his approximate age, so we decided Halloween would suffice for his yearly celebration. Tuco, our ancient dog, was not well pleased with the new family member. Jim decided that Nicky looked more like a Snickers bar, so we started callin' him Snickers (we'd at first called him Angel Eyes, to go along with our the Good, the Bad and the Ugly theme, but that was really too bulky and flowery for him). Snickers took over the yard immediately.

He was, as I'd known he would be, a big pain in the ass. He dug up the yard, he pestered the livin' shit out of poor Tuco, he was stubborn and defiant, he'd spaz inside the house with little or no warning, he'd crap on the floor...and he was also the sweetest, cuddliest, most loyal pet I'd ever had the pleasure to shelter. For all the moments I wanted to tear my hair out and wonder why I'd invited this beast of perpetual motion into my home, there would come those moments when he'd scramble up into my lap, all 55 pounds of him, and fall asleep. The moments when he'd be so delighted to see me come home he'd give a long, low bow of delight as I came inside. The moments when he'd tear up and down the length of the front fence, barkin' at cars and kids on bikes, and leavin' a little dust storm in his wake.

People told me repeatedly that age three was the "magic" age for dogs, and it has turned out to be true for Snickers (he turned three last Halloween(. He's still a complete spaz, but he's sooooo much better than he was when first he came home. I think he might possibly be happy here.




Torrie, I better be off the hook now. No more emails like that, I beg you! I have an intense urge to blind my mind's eye.

I wasn't kiddin', folks

Photographic proof of my haunted childhood home.

Ghost posties

This creepy tale comes to you courtesy of the combination of threats from The Bully Currently Known as Jessica Rabbit. If anyone would like to take pity on me as a result of these threats of harassment from the Internet as a Whole, as well as the threat of blackmail for things we just won't talk about here (let's call it the Great Poodle Fiasco and be done with the subject), you are welcome to send gifts and cash donations. Nude photos are also mostly welcome, though I do reserve the right to scream and delete. Ghosts I can handle...ugly naked people, not so much.

I've mentioned here before that I grew up in a house that was most assuredly haunted. It wasn't a slamming-doors-and-glowing-spectres kind of haunting, though. For the most part, it was unexplainable sensations and feelings, and noises that shouldn't have been there.

The first floor was pretty much fine, except for maybe the music room, which never quite felt right, you know? Oh, I guess I should mention, we named the rooms in the house. On the first floor, we had, of course, the kitchen, living room, dining room, and bathroom. But then we also had the TV room (which didn't have a TV in it for long, but the name stuck) and the music room (this is where we all went to close ourselves in and practice our orchestra instrument of the moment, or, in Timmy's case, to tape himself playing viola, then play the tape over and over to fool Mom while he dinked around and played Strat-O-Matic Baseball in there).

The basement was a whole different story. The main room was somewhat alright, but then you had the Lab (I think one of my brothers had a chemistry set in there, and the name just stayed) and the toy storeroom (because we, um, stored toys in there), which both gave me an inexplicable sense of dread if I had to be in there alone. Of course, there was a practical reason for this in the toy storeroom, seein' as how it was possible (and fairly easy) to be locked inside that room. The family room downstairs was only borderline creepy, but the little storage room in the back of the family room was a different story. Of all the rooms in the basement, the Mushroom was the spookiest. My family is full of strange people. When we moved to Michigan, our cat Josephine ("Potato Chip Joe") was so freaked out that she hid in that room for a week. My dad warned that if she stayed in there too long, she would turn into a mushroom. Thus, the room got its forever name.

I'm pretty sure that the noises I heard would come from the Mushroom. It was never any loud, banging, rattling, wailing noises. No, none o' that cliche ghost bullshit for our house. On rare occasions when the house was quiet, you could hear the sound of a conversation coming up through the registers. It was never quite loud enough to understand the voices, but it was definitely voices. I'd always ask Mom about it, and she'd always blow it off and say "Oh, that's the TV" (um, no, the one TV in the house, which is not even in the basement, is off right now) or "That's the neighbors talking" (okay, then why don't I hear those conversations even better when I go out in the driveway right next to the neighbor's house?) And believe me when I say that I really, truly wanted to believe her explanations. It would have been much less unsettling for my little psyche. For years, if I was forced to go into the basement alone for something, I'd go and grab said item, usually with my eyes shut, and then race up the stairs as fast as my chubby little legs would take me.

Before you accuse me of just bein' basement phobic, I can assure you that I was alone in the basements of friends, and never felt the same kind of "presence" that I felt in my own basement. Take that for what it's worth.

As unsettling as the basement was, though, it did not hold a bony-fingered candle to Tardist's bedroom on the second floor. That room has earned itself the distinction of being known alternately as the Ghost Room and the Spooky Room.

Granted, Mom and Dad's room was no piece of cake, either. They had a little hallway inside their bedroom door, and there were storage closets built in across one wall of the room, with squatty little doors because the ceiling sloped down there. I used to always have nightmares that something would come out of those little doors and visit some havoc on the family. Mom could've hidden Christmas presents in there quite safely, as this nosy little shit wouldn't have dared to peek in behind those little wooden doors, not even for money.

But Tardist's room took the creep cake.

It was across the hall from all the other bedrooms, and was probably meant more for storage and attic access than for bedroom duty. The walls were never finished, and I don't know the exact term for the material, but they were almost like tough cardboard walls (anybody know what that's called, or even know what I mean?), and they were this pukey greyish-purple color. As you came into the room, immediately on the right was a little alcove with the attic door above it. And no, in all the years I lived there, I never even seriously considered exploring the attic. Are you nuts? I'll bet none of us ever did (though Squirl or Tardist might be able to set me straight on that). And, because the room wasn't nearly forbidding enough, Tardist painted the window to resemble stained glass. I have it on the best of authority that ghosts are just wild about stained glass. Across from the window is a storage cabinet that sits about chest high on the wall. For some reason, we kept a Ouija board in there (which I was always too freaked out to touch). Why, oh, why would we keep a Ouija board in a haunted room?

The scariest spot in that room for me, though, was the part of the room that was back around the corner from the window. When the ghosts weren't gathering in the attic, or playin' Ouija in the cabinet, I was positive they were congregating back in the corner part of the room, back where Mom and Dad could never see us in time to save us from...I don't know, certain doom? The whole doom and dread thing was always very general, more than vague, but never specific about what horrors would actually befall us at the hands of the haunts. They weren't overtly malevolent, but neither were they friendly. Thinkin' back on it, it's more like they were annoyed with us for bein' in their house. And when a family with five kids, multiple cats, and an obnoxious beagle moves in, who the fuck could blame a spook for bein' a little testy?

The only true incident that I can point to happened to Tardist, as he slept in the room longer than any of us did. He will have to fill in any details I miss. Sorry, Tardist, this should've been your blog story, but you just weren't fast enough to save me from the Wrath of Jess.

Tardist related to me, years after the fact, that even though he often felt unexplained presences in the room, as we all did, there was one time that the presence took a more active role in the haunting. One night, Tardist awoke with a start in the middle of the night and had the distinct sensation he was being watched from close up, and not by particularly friendly eyes. He looked, and didn't see anything, so he immediately tried to get up and go downstairs to shake off the feeling.

He couldn't get up. He told me it was exactly like someone was pushing down on his chest to prevent his leaving the bed. He felt watched, and he felt physically trapped while the watchin' was goin' on. He just stayed still for a long time, eyes closed and heart goin' a million miles a minute, and finally the feeling passed.

Correction from Tardist: I don't mind that you told the story of my room, but I do have one detail to change. When I tried to get out of bed that night and couldn't, feeling just like I was being held down, I freaked so bad that the moment didn't pass - I passed out and didn't wake up 'til the next morning. And I still have dreams (always eerie) about that room.


And yet he continued to sleep in that room! What the fuck?

The house became Timmy's house in the '80s, and I used to stay in the Spooky Room when I came to visit. Yes, it was still creepy as fuck, but I kept my bed right by the door, and frankly, I was usually so drunk I would pass out before the night spooks could start to freak me out. Plus, I don't believe Tardist related the trapped-in-bed story to me until later than that. Timmy won't even let his kids stay in there now.

I still have nightmares about that room. I probably always will. In fact, I'm crappin' my pants ever so slightly just thinkin' about it in detail like this.

So there you have it. Certainly not the most interesting or vivid ghost stories you've ever heard in your life, but hopefully this will be enough to get me off the hook with the Internet as a Whole.

Jess, call off the dogs, fer chrissakes!

Note: There is still nothin' in this world that's scarier than the sight of me, with a jumbo box of Tampax Supers in one hand and a bottle of Advil and a pack of back heatwraps in the other hand, chargin' down the aisle of the drugstore like I'm fixin' to come hurt you with 'em. Just ask the poor cashier boy at Walgreens.

Buff spots and other nonsense

Okay, I've finally gone and done the dreaded "Pet Theme Songs" audio post.

Here are the caveats:

WARNING! Bad singing included.
WARNING! Total stupidity ahead.
WARNING! Don't say you weren't warned.

Hey, I can be proud too

I am finding Grand Rapids to be a fascinating town. Squirl, Ichabod and I just got back from a long walk and the viewing of many way cool old buildings and a couple of Frank Lloyd Wright homes. Now we're watching a fine, fine piece of cinema called Sweet Sweetback's Baad Asssss Song.

But by far the most interesting event today, and indeed, the main purpose for my visit, was down in Calder Plaza this afternoon. The three of us went down to Pride Fest to meet up with my long-lost prom date, "Rico," and see his sister's band play. And if there's any one of you who's beginning to say, "Ew, why would you and your sister wanna go and hang out with a bunch of gay people?" then you should stop reading my site immediately and go find a good friend to pull that big, splintery stick out of your tight ass. Now, moving along...

The first thing we saw as we approached the Plaza was a car that made my thighs quiver.




I love this car. I want this car. I'm sure I cannot afford this car.

Then we went inside, and to my delight, there were lots of folks there who'd brought their dogs (all snappily adorned in rainbow scarves).


I'm pretty sure these two were exchanging phone numbers.

I also could not resist a German shorthair pointer named Jack who was representin' for the local animal rescue (yes, yes, I donated).


If Snickers wouldn't throw a holy shit fit, Jack would've come home with me.

It was pretty colorful down there (at the festival, you sickos).



And I think this dude was definitely the belle of the ball:


Things go better with wings.

And he's so mah-velous, don't you think we deserve another peek at him? I do.


What magic lives in that purse?

The saddest thing I saw while there, though, was this:


Why was he abandoned? And what's with the bobby pin?

The band, Cherri and the Violators, were puttin' down some sweet, sweet, rockin' blues when we came in. Cherri is Rico's sister, and one helluva fine blues belter.


Buy their CDs.





But I'm sure you're all wondering, "Yeah, but what about Rico? Cough up the Rico story!"

Well, okay. Here's Rico as of today:


Is that one self-satisfied look or what?

He's doin' great, and we sat and talked for a while today. His man wasn't in attendance, so I didn't have the chance to meet him, but we had a really fun reunion (I haven't seen him since we broke up in March 1985). He even agreed to be seen with me in a picture:


They made me sit down in our prom picture. This is why.

So, we had a really good time today. It was nice to catch up with Rico and Cherri again, and the people couldn't have been nicer.

Oh, dear. You don't think I'm playing into the hands of the Homosexual Agenda, do you?

For Sierrabella

Saw this in downtown Grand Rapids today, and thought of Sierrabella.



You might have to see the larger version to read the writing on the wall.

It only smells like sex

It's Friday night, I'm almost completely zonked, and my belly is full.

Therefore, you will now be subjected to pictures of my food. Yes, I'm one of those freaks who takes a camera into the restaurant/bar/dive when I go in.

We had some tomato/basil hummous for our appetizer:


Hummous job.

Then I had some kickass sashimi tuna that is even better than the sashimi tuna at the Redwood Lodge, which is nigh unto impossible:


It was almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

And what would sashimi tuna be without our friend wasabi?


I was so tempted to use it like Play-Do.

Then on our walk home, we saw an offer we couldn't refuse:


Free smells? Be still my heart!

Really, though, with my leftover tuna and my overpowering sense of womanhood, I don't need any free smells; I have plenty of my own.

Could this post be just a little more fucking boring? I could tell you that my most recent mammogram and pap smear came back A-OK, but that would be too much information, wouldn't it. I could tell you that I very nearly threw my chaps in the suitcase when I left today, but then you'd all bitch at me for not bringin' 'em. I could tell you that I plan on havin' a butt-sex marathon with a hairy male prostitute in a tube top and capri pants, right here on Squirl's couch, but that would just be a lie (he's not that hairy).

Just wait until tomorrow, though. I will have much to discuss and display.

Just you wait, 'enry 'iggins, just you wait.

Teased to perfection

I just can't leave my hair alone this week!

I have arrived at the Lair of the Squirl. We are plotting evil together, the kind of evil that only sisters can conjure. I shall have many, many pictures to post after tomorrow (and no, if I told you what we have planned tomorrow, that would ruin the surprise).

So, for the moment, as we await the arrival of Ichabod and the subsequent exodus to din-din, I shall attempt to address some snippets of somethings and nothings:

• Songs I can't stop listening to this week: White Stripes' Blue Orchid, Doorbell, Little Ghost, and Denial Twist (thanks, Jess!)
  
• The doc gave me some Xanax yesterday for Bitch Pills. He told me to take a half at a time. I saw those tiny little pills and thought, "Yeah, right, a half won't even register in this body." So I took a half. And an hour later I was snorin' on the couch. And I wasn't bitchy. And thus, my complete lack of input here last night. Uh, oops?
  
• Snickers had completely emptied the bathroom trash in the front room when I stopped by the house after work today on my way out to Squirl's place. I know I should have scolded him and cleaned it up, but I did neither. I knew I wouldn't see my precious little baby again until Sunday, so I left the tissues on the floor and gave him biscuits. Jim will likely kick my ass when I come home.
• There are three of us in Squirl's apartment now, all on our own computers. This is a Gaggle of Geeks. At least it's not a goddamn hootenanny.
  

Reminder

Even Snickers has a hard time keepin' up with his hectic life in today's fast-paced society. He's not too proud to use a Post-It.

I've rarely been prouder

I just discovered that someone found the Cotillion today via a Yahoo! search for Toni Tennille nipple pictures

This may be the single coolest search string ever used to lure innocents to my Den of Incontinence. And that takes into account "The Bouf," girl in diarrhea tub, engorged lesbians, and of course, the ever-popular, there-every-day,"kielbasa queen."

I always hope I've at least entertained people for a minute, even if I don't have those sausage deep-throat pictures they were lookin' for in the first place.

I can, of course, satisfy those who are inordinately curious about The Bouf, for a nominal fee...

Oh, what the hell

Still too snarly for my own (or your) good today. Snarly, bitchy, mopey, suddenly teary-eyed for no apparent reason. Ain't addiction grand? Children and small pets are afraid of me right now.

So I think I'll try my hand at the meme I dug over at Susie's pad.

I am from:

I am from paper moustache, from Pop-Tarts and Tang.

I am from the big white house, crammed full of family and family stuff, haunted, you can hear the voices if you're all quiet enough.

I am from the white birch in the back yard, the ubiquitous tulips that I never fully appreciated until just recently.

I am from loudly sung Irish songs, and from bad feet, from Don and Jackie and Genevieve.

I am from the oversexed and musically inclined.

From thinking for years that Goldilocks jumped out the window, broke both her legs, and had to drag herself home; and Dad's recitation of his original chiller poem, The Crollymog. From "Gotta watch out for that 3:30 traffic." and Mom's valium before she got in the car with all of us for those 8-hour trips in the summer.

I am from deep and stubborn Catholic roots. From my uncle the priest and my dad who was in the seminary for a year before he decided to pursue the husband angle. From family members on my dad's side who are not happy at all with my rejection of the church. I love 'em anyway. We just don't talk a lot.

I'm from Kentucky and Ireland and Germany, from Spam and fried baloney.

From the brother Timmy who, when given a moldy hot dog by Mom, threw it against the kitchen wall and declared, "Ugh! You gave me a moldy hot dog!", the brother Timmy who gave me the nickname "Bucky Four-Eyes" more years ago than I care to admit, and the sister Squirl who kindly took it upon herself to explain birth control to me in plain language when I was 12 (thank you, I said childlessly).

I am from from all the paintings Tardist has done just for me, from the silly recordings he and I have made and will probably make again; from Timmy's kids, my nephews and niece, who have grown up so much more well-adjusted than any relative of mine has a right to be; from the folders on my hard drive that have all the old family photos that have been scanned in (and some are just waiting to be defaced and posted here); from the CDs of JD's music, which sounds just as good to me today as it did when I was a teenager; from the rum cake Squirl makes me to undo everything I accomplish at the gym; from the arms of parents who actively encouraged all of us to pursue our creative tendencies.

I need to quit my bitchin'. I'm one lucky twat.

Photoshop boob job

This is merely a scientific experiment. My question is for the people who hate my pictures that use liquify:

Is it less scary for you if I don't liquify my face in any way? I mean, is it the eyes or the mouth that freak y'all the fuck out?

Take the example above. I've given myself a quick up-'do and a big ol' rack, and I didn't have to miss any work!

So, is this just as bad? You know I couldn't ask without illustration. I think too highly of y'all.

Sunday is just Monday with a head start

I've had several inquiries as to my non-smoking status. Let it be known that I have been tempted often but have not succumbed to the demon leaf craving. But I'm still just a bit tender, emotionally, and I may not have been in the best mood today.

Perhaps a photo essay would be illuminating, or at very least, could pad this post so I don't have to do any meaningful writing.

I was a bit annoyed when I first woke up:


Even a fart joke would not break the grimace.

To be honest, there was a nice spot today when Jim showed me where the foxglove had bloomed:


How do they get their paws in there?

Then, on top of barely suppressed nicotine pangs, I started to get a migraine. This did not a thing to bust out my cheerful nature:


Bring the pain. Wait -- no, don't!

Then I ended up at the grocery store for a lot, lot, lot longer than I wanted to be there:


Please shoot me immediately.


Now, lest you think that I'm just one big ball of whining, head-throbbing withdrawal bitching, let me assure you that I am still the Sunniest Girl on the Block:


Here's your fuckin' daisies.

Then I went to the laundromat, which is always more fun than I can possibly relate here. I love it when a man with one, maybe two teeth makes it his business to oversee the folding of my intimate garments. Yeah, pal - when you can figure out how to keep your teeth in your mouth, then we can talk about my bras. Stand any closer and I'll taser the grease off your nutsack.

As I brought my washables into the 'mat, I was greeted by a sign:


Those damn seniors get all the breaks.

So, what the fuck is a "limint"? Is it lime + mint? Sounded pretty nasty, so I didn't waste my $2.00.

Then when I went to get detergent, I was stopped in my tracks by this:


Just my luck, it was baroque.

The most unsettling thing that happened to me in there today was the skeletal old man in the cowboy hat and wasted muscle t-shirt who wandered by and asked if "this" belonged to me. "This" might have been a horrible orange ankle sock, or "this" might have been one of those chicken-cutlet bra inserts. Either way, I denied ownership, as his haunting, sunken eyes searched my face for a sign of truth, hedging, or downright fibbery. I played it cool, Daddy-O, and Slim Chipley went on about his business elsewhere.

All in all, though, I'm still bitchy and annoyed:


This is the face Jim's had to look at alllllll day.

Photoshop has been an important part of my recovery today, but it is by no means the only part. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm goin' up to the corner store so I can tell some complete strangers to kiss my ass. It's my turn to be the neighborhood weirdo who hangs around the 7-Eleven and makes people nervous about usin' the ATM.

Bucky Bug-Eyes

I think I need to find a new way to relax.

Peer pressure leads to TMI

Alright, I've caved in; several of my friends have done the "100 pieces of heartfelt blah blah about me" and I have become a copy fuckin' cat.

Plus, I can't think of a topic more fascinating to me than...me. How many times can I use the word "I" in a single post?

So here goes a lotta somethin' or nothin':

1. I have a vagina. Really I do.
   
2. You won't ever see it here.
3. I have been a four-eyes since I was eight years old.
4. I now wear dark glasses 100% of the time because I get hellish migraines, and bein' surprised by bright lights is an easy trigger for that shit.
5. That was really not fun when I was onstage in the band. I learned how to not look directly into the stage lights.
6. If you shine a bright light directly into my eyes on purpose, I will kick your ass when my vision clears.
7. If I won the lottery, really won a huge amount, I wouldn't even pretend that I'd still work. Yeah, as if.
8. I've been told many times in my life that I could do much better at [insert task] if only I would apply myself and try harder.
9. Sometimes I follow that advice. Other times I just laugh and eat some more pretzels.
10. I love pretzels. Certain kinds. Not the big, soft pretzels, but the regular sized, curly pretzels. Not butter pretzels (retch). Made Rite pretzels, or Mr. Salty pretzels (do they still make those?).
11. I can't dance, not a step, but I love danceable music. 'Specially hard funk. Yowza!
12. I became totally stagestruck when, at the age of 7, I was taken by my parents to see a community theater production of Man of La Mancha. We went because Squirl was in the pit orchestra.
    
13. I was obsessed with Man of La Mancha for a couple of years thereafter, which my parents found both highly amusing and slightly alarming ; the main female character in the show is a low-rent prostitute who, at one point in the show, is gang raped by muleteers. Yeah, nice. Do you begin to understand my personality now?
14. I was also briefly obsessed with Fiddler on the Roof, which my parents found altogether more child friendly.
15. I took on the challenging role of Roo in a community theater production of Winnie the Pooh when I was 8. Squirl played Kanga. They were goin' for family lookalike realism, I guess.
    
16. I play piano and guitar with varying levels of harsh amateurism.
17. Nonetheless, I have some beautiful, kickass guitars that are much too nice for me
    
    
18. I studied cello in grade school, and was pretty good at it.
    
19. A month after I beat out all the older cello players for first chair, our district cancelled orchestra so that they could instead give extra funding to the football program.
20. I was so pissed by this turn of events that I switched to string bass and studied that for a couple of years.
21. At age 13, I was offered a spot playing string bass in the West Shore Youth Symphony. Being young and utterly stupid, I turned it down.
22. I still wonder to this day if I'd be makin' my living in a symphony now, had I only chosen differently. Yeah, that's my own footprint on my ass.
23. I never took school really seriously until I had to pay for it myself.
24. I took school way too seriously when I was payin' for it myself. Think sudden bursts of hysterical sobbing in the middle of exam crams. Think poor, bewildered husband doin' what he can to calm the hysteria. Think crazy bitch with puffy eyes acin' her tests.
25. That said, I don't like to cry, especially in front of anybody.
26. I have a collection of Babylon 5 figurines. I should do a photo session sometime.
27. I love Babylon 5 enough to marry it.
28. Some of my favorite movies are Clint Eastwood westerns.
29. Jim and I can sit and recite entire scenes from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, or High Plains Drifter, or The Outlaw Josey Wales.
30. I am slowly (?) becoming my mother.
31. My first three concerts, in chronological order, were the Beach Boys (with all three Wilson brothers), Captain and Tennille, and Tom Waits.
32. Things changed for me after I saw Tom Waits.
33. I got to see Frank Zappa three times.
34. I have no fashion sense or color matching skills.
35. I wear a lot of black, not only because I like it, but because it makes my decisions easier.
36. I'm terrible at returning phone calls.
37. I love my assless chaps.
38. Some days, my hair just goes on strike.
39. I can't drive a stickshift, and have zero interest in learning how.
40. If I could walk around all day in jammie pants and a wife beater, I'd go for it.
41. I'm just lucid enough not to try this at work, ever.
42. I really wish I could make money at this writing thing.
43. I know better than to think I could ever make more than pocket money in the music business.
44. I wrote a lot of songs before I finally admitted the truth of #43.
45. I started kindergarten three months after Jim graduated from high school.
46. I'm a happy, horny drunk.
47. I'm a decent singer, within my range, but I haven't seriously practiced in over a year.
48. Since I started to blog, I haven't really much given a rat's ass about playin' music.
49. I'd love to make time to paint again someday.
50. I like to paint with fluorescent watercolors; there will never come a day when I don't think black light pictures are groovy.
51. I used to say "groovy" to be stupid and irritate people, but I've come to really enjoy the word for itself.
52. The older I get, the less I mind tellin' people when they come off as ignorant fuckin' racists/homophobes.
53. I was raised Catholic, but rejected the church by about age 12.
    
54. I identified as an athiest for a few years, but I came to feel like that implied that I had some knowledge that I really don't. So call me benevolently agnostic.
55. I do believe in treating people with basic human respect...until a person specifically gives me reason not to.
56. I really hate confrontation.
57. I am not, nor have I ever been, the least bit athletically inclined.
58. I have always had theme songs for all my pets. Sometimes it's something I make up, sometimes it's adapted from another song, but they all need a song.
59. Given sufficient alcohol and encouragement, I just might make an audioblog of #58.
60. I never think I watch much TV, but by god, if anybody starts talkin' about commercials, I can jump right in and know what I'm talkin' about.
61. I've kicked my fair share of ass at Trivial Pursuit.
62. I have seven abandoned ear/body piercings.
63. There are several I really miss.
64. I won't get anything redone, except maybe my earlobes. I have no patience for healing times anymore.
65. I enjoy watching sports with Jim, but, that said, if sports disappeared from the planet tomorrow, I wouldn't be excessively bothered.
66. I've been called many variations on my name (Kathleen) including Katy, Kathy, Kitty, Kate, Kay, Katy Kat, and Kit Kat.
67. My name means "pure" -- I think that's pretty accurate, don't you?
68. I could never be in love with anybody who didn't "get" my humor and couldn't in turn keep me crackin' up all the time. Gut-wrenching laughter is right up there on my Playboy bio list of turn ons.
69. I got mad skillz.
70. I have some pretty sexy boots I will wear when I lose about 30 more pounds.
    
71. I don't know how long I've actually had it, but I noticed my first grey hairs in the last year or so. Actually, past grey and right to white. What the fuck?
    
72. I can be a real asshole when I stop smoking. Sorry, anybody who's crossed my path in the last week.
73. My prom date grew up to be very, very gay.
74. I swear it wasn't my fault!
75. I'm sure glad we didn't get married.
76. I failed the sewing portion of Home Ec in junior high.
77. I failed a semester of Phys Ed in high school because I wouldn't get in the pool.
78. I'm a bit afraid of water, unless it's in a tub or something.
79. I learned how to swim across the pool, in the shallow end, in order to pass the class and graduate. And I have not swum since then.
80. I have rosacea.
81. There are plenty of times I like to draw the entire room's attention to myself. While I'm eating is not one of those times.
82. I'm horrified to eat too close to small children, as they are never very discreet when it comes to flyin' spit and other bodily fluids.
83. I have never changed a diaper, and I intend to keep it that way.
84. With an older husband, though, that could change.
85. The only new car I've ever owned was my 2000 Camaro. I liked to refer to it as my midlife crisis car.
    
    
    


86. I talk to animals as if they have any fuckin' idea what I'm talkin' about.
87. I think Strangers With Candy might just be the funniest, sickest, wrongest show ever on TV.
88. I'm practically peein' my pants in anticipation of the fall 2005 release of the Strangers With Candy movie.
89. I love to be around people, but when I'm ready to be alone, that's it. At that point, do not crowd me, lest ye be faced with Belligerent Bucky.
90. I actually like to use the UNIX vi editor. I sometimes try to issue :wq and dd and cw commands when I'm in MS Word, much to my chagrin.
91. I'm pretty liberal, politically and socially. But I don't buy into any party line as a whole, whatever it is. I believe most issues are more complex than simple black or white, paper or plastic choices.
92. I don't feel sorry for you if you won't do a damn thing to help yourself.
93. I am thankful for all I have now, and always mindful that my macaroni and cheese days are not that far behind me, and could happen again at any time.
94. I don't think money buys happiness, nor do I think stuff is more important than people.
95. That said, I really like gettin' money and cool stuff.
96. I'm a very good tipper. I always figure, hey, that could be me. Glad it's not.
97. I think it's a horrid, half-witted idea to be rude to anyone who will handle your food out of your sight.
98. I walk extremely fast without realizin' it.
99. I had about a year and a half of French in high school. Of course, I only remember the dirty words and rude phrases.
100. That said, I'm told I speak French fluently (see #69).
     

Things I do in public

I can't help myself. I have the need to scrawl ink doodles on paper whenever I'm sittin' still. It happens in meetings, in classes, at the bar...I'm sure we've discussed this little problem of mine here before.

The canvas that I find most appealing, and the hardest to resist, is a paper placemat in a restaurant. I try not to be without at least one pen on my person, preferably a black medium-point clicky pen. But I'm not obsessed.

My family not only understands this little, um, personality disorder, they heartily enable me. If I happen not to have a pen, and I'm at the Driftwood for dinner with Mom and the sibs, I will find at least two offered to me, sometimes both by Squirl. Then they watch in morbid amusement as I draw shit like this:


Why is this fellow so pissed?



Here's why!



Gratuitous nipple shot

Of course, I am not the only one in the family who plays this little reindeer game. Tardist seemed only too happy to join in this time:



Guess we know who the artist in the family is.



And it's "not me"

So, if you're waiting tables, and you see me scribblin' on my placemat, please make sure you're not settin' my onion rings on a masterpiece.

Let's call it "oil"

Poor Jim. He's been havin' trouble for a couple of weeks now with hip, back, and leg pain. I try to be gentle with him, people, but sometimes I just don't know my own strength.

We took a trip to Walgreen's tonight to see if we could find him something that would help until he can get to the chiropractor. They had a whole display table crammed full with votive candles bearing the striking and handsome likeness of The Recently Dead Pope John Paul II, and they were only $1.00! Folks, you're not gonna find a cheaper miracle anywhere west of Vatican City. Jim wasn't goin' for it, though, so I figured I wouldn't even waste my breath touting the healing virtues of the Wish Real Hard Home Colonic Kit. You do have to believe in order for it to work.

When all was said and done, I had a basket full of Gatorade, vitamins, rhyming snacks like Fritos and Doritos, extra-strength pain relief, a heating pad...and some blue shit made with emu jizz. Well, the package says Blue Emu is made with "emu oil" but I'm pretty sure that's a euphemism for Big Bird Spunk. The package also says "odorless."

Sure.

Jim was nice enough to let me off the hook when it came to applying the emu jizz to his leg. Call it "odorless" all you want, but that was some heavy-duty menthol rollin' off the jizz jar. So he got his leg coated in emu jizz (yes, I do take a childish delight in repeating that), then asked for my assistance in wrappin' him with an ace bandage.

So I got his leg wrapped up snug as a sore leg in a bandage, and headed back to my Doritos and Gatorade.

And realized about three bites later that I had emu fuckin' jizz on my hand, and had tranferred a fair amount of it to my lower lip. My lip had a jizz spot, a mentholy jizz spot, and it was not the most pleasant sensation.

It's been an hour, and I can still feel it a little and smell it a lot. If my lips fall off, you must all go forth and bear witness to the evil that is emu jizz.

I'll let you know tomorrow if it made Jim feel any better.

Why are we sitting in the closet?

Smile and say "fungus"

You'd think I coulda grabbed a better outfit, havin' primo seats in the closet and all. Who thought this was a good place to pose? And what unspoken drama betwixt Mom and Rebel here?

I think it's open to interpretation, people. Don't disappoint me.

Weekend update

purplebitch
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

The good news is: I haven't killed anyone yet.
The bad news is: I haven't killed anyone yet.

No smokes since late last Monday night. The colors in this picture are a pretty close approximation of my mental landscape right now. I'm not havin' a physical meltdown as such, but inside my head, there are giant pools of molten lava, bubblin' like Satan's diarrhea.

Yes. I just said my head is filled with diarrhea. And I'm stickin' by my metaphor. If you've ever had a conversation with me, you might even think that's a forgiving assessment.

This post has become a wandering vagrant, so I shall put it to bed before it soils itself. I shall catch all you groovy people when morning light through yon window breaks.

Yo.

Morning after

Oh, my head...has anyone seen my bra?