First things first: Today is the Royal Birthday of the Squirl! That's right, you heard right, she is officially 21 (plus a couple) years old. Whyn'cha go on over to her place and buy her a drink, or at least wish her a most splendiferous day.
Over here, it's a little hectic today. If you know me, then you know I've waited until absolutely the last minute to prep for my trip to Chicago tomorrow. It shouldn't be that big a deal, since I'm only staying one night, but for girls, even packing for one night is generally a family-size clusterfuck. While I might only be taking enough clothes for overnight, I still have to take the same 50 pounds of makeup that I pack when I travel for weeks at a time. You may ask, is that necessary? For the good of mankind, at least the ones with eyesight, the answer to that is an emphatic You bet your ass it's necessary! Some 41-year-old women may be able to get by with naked faces in public, but I was not blessed with a wash-n-go mug. I'd really hate to scare the band off the stage, so I'll bite the bullet and pack the face paints.
Right now, I'm multitasking with the doing of the laundry, the grading of many papers, the printing out of maps and directions, and the obsessive checking of my train tickets every half hour or so (tomorrow, when I'm waiting for the train, I will be checking my tickets every ten minutes). If I actually had my ticket to the show in my hand (I have to pick it up at the venue box office), I'd be checking that just as often, if not more.
I'm basking in the sound of rain on the roof; it's been storming on and off all day, and I've seen some really spectacular bolts of lightning. I just adore thunderstorms. If I weren't so busy with trip preparation, I'd go to the beach and get some photos. But I suspect there will be many more thunderstorms for me to chase, so I have to let it go and get back to my duties as harsh schoolmarm, knuckle whacker, the mistress of matriculation.
In project news, I'm working up a graphic-novel styled book that will be sold through Cafe Press. It's such a new concept that I don't even have a working title for it yet. I'll try to keep everyone updated on it as the work progresses, and I will definitely let you know when it's ready for sale. No pressure at all, but if you do buy one, it will surely save the pandas from extinction.
It's unlikely I will be around at all tomorrow or Wednesday (not until I get home late Wednesday night), so I will catch all you cats and kittens on the flipside. Gonna get my rockabilly on!
While I'm waiting for Rolling Stone to call me requesting that exclusive, in-depth interview, Lynn from Here Today, Gone Tomorrow has graciously consented to send me five questions which I am honor-bound to answer, lest bad things happen.
Love stinks. Love hurts. Yet, you’d do it again in a heartbeat. Why?
In every classroom, there is always one kid who is many decibels louder than his fellow students. If a question is asked, he's always the first one to shout out his answer, and if he feels like interrupting another speaker, he does so without hesitation, essentially dominating each and every encounter. Unfortunately, this kid is not usually the smartest one in the classroom - in fact, most times, he's a moron.
So it is with my heart, which is a certified dumbass. When someone who knocks my socks off appears on the horizon, my brain immediately says, "This is dangerous, this is bad news, this is more complication than it's worth...we just need to take a cold shower NOW." But while my brain is doling out this very sage advice, my heart walks over, kicks my brain right in the jewels and shouts, "I'm in loooooooooove! COWABUNGA!" Then my heart jumps over the edge without so much as a second glance, and all the while my poor brain is writhing on the ground, clutching its throbbing 'nads and gasping, "Wait, you stupid fucker! You're still in Band-Aids from the last time...you'll take us all down with you again!" But my heart is so excited it just plain forgets the other times it's been scarred and sullied. You can rest assured, it won't be long before my heart is lying right next to my brain, clutching its own damaged goods, berating the brain for not trying to stop the heart's ill-advised maneuvers. At this point, brain just rolls over and throws up.
All that said, my heart is, at this moment, mummified in duct tape and stuffed under the skirting of my house. I'm exercising a zero-tolerance policy toward romance.
What would you do today if you knew you were going to die tomorrow?
First, I would score some meth so I wouldn't have to waste any time sleeping or eating. This is a trailer park; there's probably a lab on every block, right?
Now, down to business:
I'd write a heartfelt goodbye post to You, the Internet as a Whole. This post might or might not include uncensored assless chaps photos. Let's face it - a bitch who's gonna kick tomorrow doesn't worry about her reputation or who's seen her pasty ass cheeks (and been subsequently traumatized by the sight - can't sue me if'n I'm dead).
I'd gather my family and we'd have a roast. I don't mean a hunk of meat swimming in carrots (that will be me tomorrow) - I'm talking about a zing-that-bitch-but-good roast in the vulgar tradition of the Friar's Club. With drinks, of course. And cigars. Why the fuck wouldn't I have an AyC Mini in my hand up until the moment of croaking?
After making sure my disposal expenses were covered, I'd spend every last cent I have buying cool presents for my family and friends. Then I'd drive to Grand Rapids and bar hop, using the sympathy card ("You know, I am buying the farm tomorrow...") to worm my way onstage with a bunch of different bands during the night.
If there was still time left after that, I'd knock off a bank for some extra cash, rent a ritzy hotel suite, and have Kelly Monaco flown in. We would, of course, squaredance until dawn. With the door locked and the stereo loud. And a giant pack of AA batteries.
What blows your dress up? In other words, what makes you feel happy like a little girl on a swing set? (stolen from eclectic)
Cats. Kitties. From the arch and spring of a kitten to the contented purr and drool of an elder cat, they've been my favorite critters since Josephine and Tiger stood on the edge of my bassinet to get a better look at the fresh delivery. Cats turn me into a giggling toddler, and I can't help it (nor do I want to help it).
Playgrounds. Swingsets, slides, teeter-totters (though they can be hazardous to one's vaginal comfort), the occasional merry-go-round - if they're hefty enough for my weight, I'm there. Obviously, I have no regard for my own dignity. Contrary to popular belief, though, I have never pushed a child out of my way to get to the swings; I find kicking is much more effective.
Crab legs, red cream soda sherbet, filet mignon (medium), Clover Bar pizza, avo/cuke rolls, shrimp gallaba and hummus from Badawest, crawdaddies, Squirl's salads, non-lumpy mashed potatoes with butter and salt, Quisp cereal, creme brulee, saganaki, guacamole, my spaghetti (because I like it better than the way most restaurants make it), vegetarian lasagna from Latina's, veggie subs (no olives, no oil) from Big John's...yeah, it should be no mystery why I weigh as much as I do.
Music. Discovering new bands. Love at first listen. Hearing albums I haven't heard in ages. The electricity of a great live performance, and the way you never forget some concerts. Some music, and some musical moments - so perfect that they make me cry.
Laughing like an idiot with my siblings over things only we would think were funny. Finishing a song or a video. Sitting in a bubble bath with a glass of red wine and a notebook and/or whatever book I'm currently reading while the kittens walk along the edge of the tub and dip their paws into the water, surprised each and every time that the paw comes back wet.
What version of yourself – the “you” you want to be or want others to believe - do you spend the most time creating for the outside world?
That's an interesting question, since there are so many of me. Also, I have more than one outside world.
When I'm blogging, I let my guard down more than I ever do in my "right here" life (I refuse to call my non-online life my "real life" as I feel like my blogging friends are every bit as real as my "gotta see me in person" friends). I guess in person, I work hardest to maintain the illusion of the Eternal Wisecracker. A lot of the time, it's no effort at all, but there are times when it's a chore. If you're close to me, you'll get the chance to see what's really going on in my head, but for everyone else, I want them to think that shit doesn't bother me. I don't want people to know when I'm scared out of my dwindling wits. I like to maintain the illusion that I have some idea what I'm doing and any kind of control over my life.
Pretzels, butt plug, or Mac? The Cotillion is burning down and you only have time to grab one (don’t worry, the firemen have already rescued the cats and the Dominatrix Leg Lamp). Which one and why?
The pretzels: While it would be sad to know there were perfectly good, only semi-stale pretzels aflame in the house, I think I could console myself with saying a little prayer for them, and then driving down to the gas station to get some more to munch in the driveway.
The butt plug: This was more of a dilemma. Of course, we can be sure that one will make it out safely, if you know what I mean. So I assume you're not talking about whichever one I happen to be wearing at the time fire breaks out (hell, for all I know, the flashing lights shorted out and started the fire right under my ass). Although there is an obvious sentimental attachment to each and every plug in my arse-nal, practicality would win out, and I would just wait for the insurance company to send me the special buttplug replacement check.
The Mac: Oh, yes. The Mac. You'd better believe I'd be grabbing that little sucker, ripping out wires as fast as I could. I'd even shoot the plug out of my butt so I'd have room to carry the mouse. A piece of machinery is replaceable; the shit stored on the hard drive may not be. I can buy more pretzels and buttplugs, but my Mac is the only place in the world where I have all those pictures of that splintery broomstick shoved up my ass the cats and stuff.
So, you wanna play along?
Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me, please."
I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing.
It's a strange, powerful sensation that washes over me when I realize, over and over again at random intervals, that anything happening or changing in this house is based solely on my decision (well, and the conventions of a civilized society, more or less). I still haven't quite gotten over the thrill ride of having two - TWO! - bathrooms all to myself. Conceivably, I could designate a bodily function for each bathroom, if I chose to: the Master Bath is for number two and the SpongeBob Bath is for number one. In reality, I'm much more spontaneous than that, but a girl can dream, can't she?
Another thing that still takes me by surprise is the fact that I have control of all the remotes in the house. These days, there are a lot of them. TV remote, cable remote, DVD/surround remote, PS2 remote, vibrator remote iTunes computer remote...yeah, I'm the boss, applesauce. Sure, I could probably consolidate into fewer remotes, but how impressive would that be when I have company? My skills at home entertainment are few, so let's not whittle the list down even further, hmmmm?
My consumption of DVD-based entertainment has risen astronomically since I moved, and I still have a stack of movies I haven't even watched yet. Squirl let me borrow season one of Desperate Housewives last week, and I devoured at least a disc a day. I also watched El Mariachi (one of those movies that's good enough that you completely forget you're reading subtitles) and have started on Aeon Flux: The Complete Animated Collection, which is some delightfully bizarre shit.
However, last night, I saw the weirdest, most lovingly twisted slice of cinema I've seen in a long time, a movie called Me and You and Everyone We Know. I have to give kudos to Flying Mermaid for alerting me to the existence of this flick by way of a clip she had posted on her website:
So wrong. So very, very wrong. Just having this scene alone on the DVD would've been worth what I paid for it, but the rest of the movie is can't-look-away fascinating as well. I don't even know how to describe it, but I couldn't stop watching when it was on, and I can't stop thinking about it today, so I know it really got under my skin. And isn't the younger brother in this scene just about the cutest kid in the world?
Movies on my shelf which I have yet to watch are Unforgiven (which I've seen lots of times, but I haven't watched my DVD yet), Natural Born Killers (ditto), Tenacious D: The Pick of Destiny, Desperado, and A Scanner Darkly. Also, I've had For Your Consideration and all seasons of Arrested Development recommended to me, so I have a feeling I won't be straying from the television anytime soon.
Finally, on a totally unrelated note (well, I guess I could relate it by saying that I also control the decor in this house, but fuck it - that sounds like too much trouble), in honor of 4/20, I bring you my very special friend, Towelie.
Recently, I upgraded my CafePress account to a premium shop. That means that I can have as many items for sale as I want, and opens up a whole new variety of product options for me.
I've got some ideas in mind, but I thought it might be a good idea to solicit your opinions, you sick motherfuckers. What kind of stuff do you guys actually buy from these sites? I mean, obviously the products are t-shirts, thongs, teddy bears, you know, but what kinds of designs would y'all dig? Snappy sayings? Weird pictures? What about prints? Abstract? Cats? Naked vampires? A calendar featuring the twelve phases of PMS?
The ability to produce CDs, DVDs, and books without any upfront costs also greatly appeals to me. Even more, the thought of supplementing my teaching income with online sales holds an undeniable allure, the allure of not having a job where I actually have to leave the house at a set time every day, the allure of avoiding work that requires such ridiculous restrictions as the covering of one's genitalia. Don't they know I need to be naked to type? (How many drinks will it take you to wipe that picture out of your mind?)
I shall have some new designs available ASAP. Please let me know what you think, in a nice way that won't make me cry like a schoolgirl. If you need me, I'll be designing the Four-Eyed Buttplug.
I just got home from seeing Grindhouse. It would have been worth the six bucks I paid to get in just to see Rose McGowan propel herself through the air with a burst of fire from her submachine-gun leg. Or the fake trailer for a Rob Zombie movie. Or to hear Rosario Dawson patiently explain that a cheerleader movie "...is a movie. About cheerleaders." Yeah, it was a blast! Lots of action, tons of gore, a bunch of humor that no one else in the theater seemed to think was as funny as I did (that's not at all unusual...it always happens to me at David Lynch movies, too). The double feature with trailers runs over three hours, and never once did I consider the possibility of leaving my seat to urinate (that's right - I pissed where I sat). I've heard talk that the studio muckety mucks, unimpressed with the opening weekend box office, are considering cutting the double feature and re-releasing it as two separate movies. Please, please, please, go see it before they do that!
I decided to continue my proud tradition of wearing my jammies to the movie theater. This time, I threw on a pair of slippers for good measure. As I expected, I got a lot more startled looks from people here than when I did this in Illinois. The folks around here just don't get out as much. What? You never saw a middle-aged woman in pink sock monkey jammies and black bedroom slippers attending the late showing of a Tarantino flick?
When I was driving to the theater tonight, I hadn't thought to bring my iPod, so I flipped on a Grand Rapids radio station. When the song finished, what sounded like an intern came on the air to give voice to the vitals. She announced the song that had just played as being performed by - I shit you not - "Dee-pech-ee Mode." Maybe I didn't have to pee during the movie because I pissed my pants laughing while I was driving there.
Dear asshole neighbor:
When I put my trash out this morning, it was because I knew I was going out tonight, and when I go out on Sunday night, I always forget to put the trash out. Like last Sunday. So I had a lot of trash. Also, I had unpacked my chaise lounge and received an ungodly number of packages from Amazon, so my living room was ass-deep in cardboard and bubble wrap. This morning, I packed up all the loose odds and ends and cardboard and styrofoam and shit and stuffed it into the rather large chaise box. It seemed to me like everything in the box was pretty snug and would stay put for the night, or else I wouldn't have put it out so early. Imagine my surprise when Squirl, visiting to partake in a General Hospital hoedown, informed me that she had to chase one of my boxes of trash down the street and put it back on my lawn when she arrived. Damn! I was sure I'd packed that better. I felt really bad when I walked out to take a look, and it took a second to dawn on me that something was amiss. What was that, you ask? Why, dear neighbor (whichever one you are), the giant chaise box was nowhere to be found, and you left all the small boxes and plastic and bubble wrap and styrofoam loose in my fucking yard. I had to duct tape the shit together to keep it from blowing into every yard for two blocks. Did you even think about that when you were dumping shit out of the big box? I don't give a rat's ass if you take my trash, but next time, could you take the big box and everything in it, you cumrag? Just because we live in a trailer park doesn't mean you have to act like it. Don't make me come bust up your meth lab.
Cool link for the weekend: When Tardist and I lived with our parents in Flint in the early '80s, we used to watch a lot of MTV. Most of it wasn't good for much more than laughs, but there were some videos that had the magical quality of making us both shut the fuck up and just stare at the TV. One of those was the video for a song called Totally Nude by the Wallets - an odd song, an odder still video. I hadn't thought about that for years, and then I recently ran across a copy of it online. Check it on out and tell me it ain't the damndest thing you've seen in a while:
With apologies to those who actually enjoy the sound of a castrated elf yipping while his ass cheeks are sawed off
Just now, I looked at my inbox and saw an email from Ticketmaster with the subject line: "Don't miss Rush!"
Don't miss Rush. To me, that's like saying "Don't lose out on the chance to stick your nipples in a meat grinder!" or "Don't be the only one on the block without explosive diarrhea!" or "If you don't use that cheese grater on your tongue, you'll regret it for the rest of your life!"
Careening through a life meant for someone half my age Pinball attention span and a bad case of Twinkie thighs Tails twitch, small whiskered battering rams thunder and flip in the hall While I make a list of all the things I forgot to throw in my cart But I remembered the disco light, didn't I? And the skull for my hair And the banana smoothie bubble bath And the red velvet purse And hell, if I put batteries in that, I'll never do any work The world turns faster, but I sure don't I'm like bagpipes at a rave Splinter of a sliver of green paint clings to the underside of my nail Echoes from the last year cling to the underside of my skin Cling tighter than ink Still easy to catch me off balance But only if I'm not asleep Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt just 'cause I landed on my feet That spiderweb crack in my windshield's not the only one All I can do is hope it doesn't spread The suspense is killing me But don't tell me how it ends.
Thirteen's full name shall be Thirteen Sarsparilla Puffington. Esquire.
All farting will happen daily between the hours of 2:00 p.m. and 4:45 p.m. (your local time, so as to stagger the environmental impact) - plan your flatulence accordingly!
The new national anthem is She Blinded Me With Science. You are now required to cover your heart with your right hand as you shake your ass.
Runway models will be force fed until they begin to resemble actual adult women.
For those few of you not already doing so, everyone is now obligated to yell out "Bucky is a love goddess!" at least once during each act of sexual intercourse and/or yanky yanky.
Baseball is no longer America's Pastime. Fuck baseball and its dawdling, scrotum-scratching ways. America's New Favorite Sport will be pillowfighting, followed closely by squirrel rodeo (of course there will be chipmunks - who else would be the rodeo clowns?) and cross-country circle jerk.
Hair dye elves will now tend to our roots as we sleep. If you say "pretty please" they may see to your eyebrows as well.
All enemas will be performed with the aid of seltzer water, because a bubbly ass is a happy ass. Don't you want a happy ass?
As She of the Decree, I feel that I should have a staff on hand to assist me with my new duties. Interviews will be held next month for my skeleton crew, with positions including chef, chauffeur, cat stylist, sommelier, masseuse, gardener, fluffer, sharpshooter, cobbler, biographer, nipple rouge application specialist, shaman, and dentist. Also, as of now, the new Secretary of the Boudoir is Kelly Monaco.
My current list of Crimes Against Nature will be a few items shorter after I visit the spa today, where I will receive a much-needed haircut, a more-needed dye job, and an absolutely necessary monkey wax. I'm tired of hacking at it with a machete when I need to pee. (Side note: Did you know that severed labia don't regenerate?)