Hair of the Dog... ACHOO!

For the record, this is NOT aimed at any of my close friends who own dogs. Unlike some dog owners, you've been responsible and civilized your pup.

"You know what irony is, don't you, Baldrick?"
"Yeah, it's like goldy and bronzy, only darker."
(from Blackadder, favorite quote provided by Vicki)

After finishing the first draft of this post, I got an email from Amazon.com telling me I would want to know that the book, Woof: I Love Dogs has been published and is available for 22% off the cover price. *headdesk*
For the record, I feel the same way about dogs that I do about humans: as a species, I can't abide them; however, I take individuals as I find.
OK, blurkers, I need you dog people to explain to me what the fucking point is.

I'm serious.

I am NOT a dog person--I am actually severely allergic (like, petting them makes my hands itch and break out into hives and cause me to have serious sinus issues) to most of the beasts. As a cat person, I would never dream of bringing my cat along to someone else's house. NEVER. Because a) my cat doesn't like anyone but me; b) my cat doesn't want to leave the house; and c) what right do I have to inflict my choice of animal companion on someone else's home? As someone who suffers from stupid allergies, I know that just because I'm cool with my feline doesn't mean everyone else is.

Dog people don't seem to get this--there is this perception that EVERYONE loves dogs--ESPECIALLY YOURS! because Rover is just so AWESOME! And that I, as a non-dog person am somehow a very bad person because I don't just adore their dribbling needy loud annoying crotch-sniffing INTRUSIVE STINKY four-legged child substitute who literally makes me sick. It's not that they aren't being responsible pet owners--I'm a bad person for trying to avoid my hands breaking into painful hives and developing a life-threatening sinus infection. Yes, of course, I will risk my health just to reassure your personal canine fashion lifestyle statement and ease your ego.

Why is it OK to hate cats but not dogs? I actually had a guy tell me he couldn't date me because he couldn't get into cats. (Yes, this was through a dating site.)

I was at a party recently and two people brought their dogs along, dogs who just had no business being there. One of them kept jumping in the pool (and making it really filthy); the other--a huge, ugly pit bullish thing with a head bigger than the average watermelon and jaws that could have snapped a steel girder--had to be tied up away from everyone else and would NOT STOP barking at everyone and everything, upsetting the dog that actually lived there. It took the moron who brought the drooling maniac almost an hour to get it through his thick head that THIS WAS NOT the place to have his dog.

Why would you do this? Explain this to me. I really don't get it. I don't get this "let's take the dog!" mentality. Dogs are bloody intrusive creatures, most of them--sniffing EVERYTHING, I mean, EVERY FUCKING THING, drooling, dribbling, farting, shedding, Christ on a crutch, WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT?!?!? And they're so damn NEEDY--they're worse than kids, for fuckssake. Why would you have an animal that can rip your throat out in your home? Or one that you could shove a broom handle into their arse and clean the floor with? (Seriously, if you have to have a dog, at least get one that goes "woof." Anything that yips is useless.)

EXPLAIN THIS TO ME.

Oh, and hybrid? Seriously? Back when I was a kid, we had "hybrid" dogs--we called them mutts and you got them from a neighbor or the animal shelter. The sonofawhore who came up with the "hybrid" concept is one brilliant bastard--one way to save your investment when your purebred drooler fucks a purebred dribbler. Proof that there's a sucker born every minute.

And another thing about purebreds--and this goes for dogs and cats--if you buy a purebred from a breeder for any other reason than allergies (because there are some who are safe for allergies)--you're a shallow, ignorant jackoff. Go to a fucking shelter or a rescue (because there are purebred rescue shelters out there) and stop being an irresponsible, fascist cunt. Nazis care about bloodlines; humans should just care, and there are too many unwanted critters out there who've been abandoned out of human irresponsibility and cruelty. You want the responsibility of a pet? Be responsible then.

I like cats. Cats know when to fuck off and leave you alone. Cats shit and piss in a box and don't require being taken on walkies five or a million times a day. Cats will not mindlessly bark for an hour just because they need to let the world know that, hey, I'M HERE! Cats will cadge food (and do sneaky things), but at least a cat doesn't have jaws that can snap your neck. Unless it's a tiger, and hey, you as a human should know better. Cats don't hump your leg. Cats don't shove their nose in your crotch or arse just because they have to smell EVERYTHING. Cats COVER their shit. Cats clean themselves and don't (usually) need to be bathed to keep from smelling like wet dog (which is one of the most evil smells on the planet).

I get it that the behavior stuff is not the dog's fault--it's the idiot on the other end of the least with the opposable thumbs who hasn't socialized and trained the beast. And there are some pretty obnoxious cats out there. But dogs... Folks, I just don't fucking get it.
Pass me a tissue, will ya?

Blog Shog: Don't Judge Me...

Hey, didya ever wonder if the Bible and the Fundies got it wrong and Judgement Day is really just going to be run like a beauty pageant?
That would be my idea of Hell.

"They sang another victory song..."

Two-three-four!

Tessie, 'nuff said, McGreevy shouted,

"We're not here to mess around.

Boston, you know we love ya madly

Hear the crowd roar with the sound

Don't blame us if we ever doubt ya

You know we couldn't live without ya

RED SOX! You are the only, only,

Oh, there is joy in Mudville today, my cherished blurkers. The Red Sox had their home opener against the Evil Empire (aka the NY Yankees) and kicked arse, winning 9 to 6.

Considering the bastards lived up to their old nickname of the Dead Sox (or the Hahtbreak Kids) this past week--losing SIX FUCKING GAMES, oh, boys, PLEASE! All the fans were saying prayers to the Gods of Baseball that they'd pull their bats out of their arses and swing for the Green Monstah.

OK, I realize that I have just lost almost all of my chick street cred by writing this, but, please understand that, as much as I hate professional sports (with the exception of hockey), the Red Sox are something else. They're almost a religion here, something that everyone from the sweetest little white-haired Nana to the droopy-drawered kid on the street loves.

And, by the Gods, we love our Sox. Bostonians talk about them like they're next door neighbors, either using their nicknames--Papi, Tek, Tito, Pap, YOOOOUKKK!--or their last names--Pedroia, Drew, Crawford--and always in the thick Bawstin accent. So, for Ortiz, it's pronounced "Paaahpee," fer instance. The best Sawx player's name evah rendahed in a Bawstin accent was Nomah Gahceeahparrah. We were all sad when Nomar got traded to the Cubs (and then the Sox won the Series; poor bastid), but he came back for a day to retire a Sawx.

Yes, I have dropped into my native accint. I'm tawkin' about THE SAWX!

'FNX played "Tessie" by the Dropkick Murphys this afternoon around 5. "Tessie" was released in '04, and for me, that song will always be the song of that year. I can't hear it without tearing up a little--'04 was a magical year in Boston. We reversed tha curse.

"The Curse" was the legendary (and semi-mythical) Curse of the Bambino, Babe Ruth, traded from the Sawx, leaving them to nevah win anothah series evah.

Until 2004.

Fuckin' magical, that year. To stage the greatest comeback EVAH, EVAH, EVAH INDA HISSTAREE OF BASEBALL! To come from three games down to the fuckin' Yanks in the ALC East to beat the shit out of them and win, win, WIN THE CHAMPIONSHIP! Holy mutha Mary, you nevah saw such a celebration! Fenway, Kenmore... madness on the TV.

And then... the series.

It looked almost like it was going to be a one-of-a-kind, holy-fuck-NO-ONE-can-win-this-one when the Cubs were doing really well (and then their curse kicked in, poor sonsabitches). I mean, there were a few of us going, "Shit, BOTH teams deserve it--just call the fuckin' series and give 'em both the trophies."

But then, the Cahds (excuse me, the St. Louis Cardinals) who made it from the National League. The World Series was almost anti-climactic after the ALC; I mean, we shut down and shut up the fuckin' Yanks. (Which is why, for me, I don't give a rat's ass about the rivalry any more.) But the World Series... I called my best friend Keith and just said, "How 'bout dem Sawx?" Outside there were people running up and down the street--people came out of their houses, just to share the moment, just to say, "We won!"

Some crazy bastid ran down my street (which is a main street in my city) high fiving every single person.

It was the balls. It was history. All the faith... paid off.

Our Boys did it. And we LOVED that team... Damon. Tek. Papi. Pedro. Manny. Schill.

And there wasn't a one of us long-time fans, fans that grew up here in houses full of Sawx fans, who remember being taken to a game by their father, grandfather, mother, grandmother... someone long gone, who didn't say, "I wish s/he was alive to see this." Any cemetary you visited that year, you'd find Sawx hats, pennants, something, draped on graves, because even the dead needed to know that The Hahtbreak Kids had broken our hearts again, but this time with joy.

Nike ran a commercial that year... I remember talkin to a bud at work about it, both of us had teared up because it showed a family progression over the years from 1918 to 2004, going to Fenway, sitting in the bleachiz, both of us wishin' someone had lived to see it.

That's why when they won again in 2007, we were all like, yeah, '04 was for histaree, this one is for US! Never forget Pap and Tek... that monstah hug on the mound... Magic. Just magic. Mike Lowell. Dustin Pedroia. Jacoby Ellsbury. Kevin Youklis. Papi, Big Papi. Pap dancing on the truck in a kilt with the Dropkick Murphys, and the whole city, the whole damn state, turning out to welcome them home and show 'em the love.

That's the thing... we love our Sawx. There's something special about the Red Sawx. Boston fans... we're... well, we're fanatical. Some of us are fuckin' idiots, to be honest, but most of us... the Sawx are a paht of growin up. They're a paht of life. Y'got three seasons in Bawstin--wintah, baseball, and post-season. The rest... the rest don't mattah. You'll also notice one othah thing 'bout the Sawx and the playahs we love the most--they're good guys. Decent guys. The kinda guys you'd buy a beeyah for down th'pub. The kinda guys who give back--who take their paht of their salaries and staht charities, who support people who need it. Guys who give back. (There's a reason Rogah Clemmins ain't liked in Bawstin; ditto, Manny Ramirez--they're JERKS who treated people lousy and didn't act like gentlemen. In short, they didn't act like Sawx.)

And it also don't mattah if they don't make it ta th'Series. Just so long as they play their hahts out.

(And don't give me any shit about the color of your cap means the kind of fan you are--I'm a GIRL, ASSHOLE--I LIKE PINK! and red clashes with my hair, so fuck off. *rolls eyes*)

And while normally you couldn't drag me to Fenway unless I was bound, gagged and sedated, the Cubs are coming in next month. THAT could be wikkid frickin awesome.

So, fah me, Spring has sprung. Tha Boys are back at Fenway, the bats are swingin' & crackin', and all is right with the world.

PLAY BALL!

Today's pic is the joyous hug between Jonathan Papelbon and Jason Veritek after the final out of the 2007 World Series. I still get a little choked up when I remember that moment... the young pitcher and the solid team captain, the moment of victory that was just pure, unbridled joy, a "WE DID IT!" I wish they'd made an action figure of that moment. It would be on my desk.

Oh, the Summer Time is Comin'...

"...and the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather..."

One of my favorite Irish traditional songs, a lovely, sweet ballad.
Happy Spring! And congrats to Madeline, Vicki's younger kidlet, on successfully reaching 13. Kudos to her older sister for not preventing it, either. ;-) (The two girls I speak of are two of the nicest, best mannered kids on the planet--just damn good kids, despite being teenagers. Three cheers for Nazi Parenting!)
Well, it's spring here in New England, and yes, despite having temps near 60F last week, it is dripping wet rain and snowing in places around the area. This is why I live here--don't like the weather? Give it a day, and you'll get a completely different season.
I can't be too annoyed with the weather (despite it giving me a miserable pressure migraine); there are buds on the trees and crocuses peeking up in the ground. Next up will be the forsythia, and then the magnolias, and once the magnolias bloom, the winter is officially vamoosed out of Dodge.

Well, as my fellow New Englanders know, spring is a fleeting thing here in the Northeast. We rarely get a "real" spring here--usually we get Winter/Summer/Spring/Winter/ Summer/Spring/SUMMER. Just like that. The weather goes from requiring a leather jacket to shorts and sandals. A tad annoying, but there is is.

And that means it's bathing suit weather!

Shoot me.

I am not much of a swimmer. Don't get me wrong--I LOVE the beach. There is nothing lovelier than the beach at night, taking a stroll in the surf, maybe skinny dipping... However, I'm not really a bathing suit person, for very obvious reasons.

Yep, we're back to the fat chick discussion. Because I was asked the other night if I'm the type of fat girl who wears a bikini. I almost had to pry my own eyes out at the thought of me in a bikini. Seriously. This body is NOT meant for a bikini--I don't care how much weight I lose, I am over 40, gravity has set in (I mean, THESE tits in a bikini top? I'd friggin' garrotte myself!), cellulite has established a firm beachhead on my thighs... A bikini? Nah.

I found a very tasteful one piece and promptly went out and bought a pair of swim shorts because I am not going to fry anyone's eyes with the sight of my saggy baggy thighs in all their bright screaming white glory under a summer sun. I mean, I have a little dignity.

I haven't found a good t-shirt to complete the ensemble, however. Because I have yet to dispose of my elephant wings.

See, this is the reality of getting older--accepting that there are things you REALLY shouldn't do, even though you can. I mean, yeah, they sell bikinis for women my size.

Why, I don't really understand.

I also don't understand tube tops on fat women.

WHERE IS YOUR DIGNITY?!?!?

Rolls should only be seen in a bakery case, NOT flopping over your waistband.

And this goes for fat guys, too. Honey, I don't want to see the bags of groceries in front of your six pack, and if your tits can be measured in a cup size bigger than a B, don't be wearing a skin-tight shirt.

DIGNITY, PEOPLE! Leave the skin-tight, zero to the imagination to the hot, cut kids.

Because their time will come. *insert evil laugh here*

Today's image is a classic Maxine one-panel as drawn by the talented John Wagner. I love Maxine; there are days I think I AM Maxine.

Blog Shog: Fangirl SQUEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

I GOT MY TICKETS FOR JIM JEFFERIES IN BOSTON! (Thanks to the Fabulous Alicia for telling me that the Wilbur had announced the show FINALLY.) OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

(First time in my life I've bothered to do a presale. Celebricrush, how you rock my comedy world and drain my entertainment wallet. Although I may guilt Mum into making this an early b-day present. Sometimes, it pays to be an only child. Besides, she OWES me for Foxwoods. /end whine)

OK, I'll stop now. I'm just in a Tigger bouncy mood today. For a very, very good reason. I went to yoga class! (Well, that's a PART of it, but...)

NOT GONNA JINX IT!!!!!

Shit, gotta remember to download the podcast tonight.

Lalalalalalala gonnaseeJiminBostoninnaFRONTrow an'NEVERYOUMINDWHYELSE!

St. Patrick Can Kiss My Royal Irish Arse

HAMLET
The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,

Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;

And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

The triumph of his pledge.

HORATIO
Is it a custom?

HAMLET
Ay, marry, is't:

But to my mind, though I am native here

And to the manner born, it is a custom

More honour'd in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west

Makes us traduced and tax'd of other nations:

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase

Soil our addition; and indeed it takes

From our achievements, though perform'd at height,

The pith and marrow of our attribute.

- Edward, Earl of Oxford writing as Shakespeare, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

The following blog post originally appeared over on my LiveJournal blog back in 2008; the St. Patrick's Day parade in Southie happened on Palm Sunday. It did NOT impact liquor sales. I am not a fan of the day--like Denis Leary, it's the one day of the year I refuse to drink. I got a hoot out of his appearance on the Daily Show and hearing him say what I've been saying for years--it's the drinking day for amateurs. So tomorrow, I will NOT be drinking, at all. (Not that it's a sacrifice for me--it's anomalous for me to drink, most days.) I also WON'T be wearing ANY green--also some anomalous for me, as I wear a little bit of green every day and always wear a claddagh (I will have that on; I'm not THAT ridiculous). I may forego the black armband--I call tomorrow the Irish-American Day of Shame and Mourning.

If you ARE drinking tomorrow, please, play it safe--don't drive, don't do something stupid, wear a condom. I hate the Godsdamned things, too, but better safe than sorry.

Happy %$^&*()_ St. Patrick's Day.

Can I just say that it completely PISSES me off every time someone wishes me a "happy St. Patrick's Day!" Assuming that, because I'm Irish, I celebrate this travesty. Well, (as you've probably surmised from my surly heading), I don't.

St. Patrick's Day, as it's celebrated here in the U.S. is revolting. End of story. It's supposed to be a saint's feast day--a solemn occasion, or at least a decorous one. There's nothing in the fragments of his history that is extant that indicates that the jackass who infected Ireland with Xtianity was a sodden drunken jerkoff, so why is it that those who choose to "honor" him have to be?

I don't get it.

As someone from a typical Irish-American family--typical in that, like so many other Irish & Irish-American families, we have been afflicted with members lost to The Thirst--I hate the fact that the weakness (because, sorry, kids, alcoholism isn't a disease--it's a weakness and a choice. You CHOOSE to take that drink, you CHOOSE to deal with your problems by drowning them in alcohol rather than therapy and/or medication--bipolar disorder IS a medical condition; anxiety disorder is a medical condition; alcoholism is denial) is considered a mandatory part of the celebration of Irish pride--you have to get drunk and act stupid.

Where is the pride in getting falling down drunk? It just revolts me. One of the organizers of the South Boston parade, an elderly boyo with the auspicious nickname of "Whacko," expressed the hope that, because the parade was happening on Palm Sunday, people would behave more decorously--that it would be more of a "family day like it used to be."

Yeah, right. Quite possibly the single biggest sales day for the Southie pubs, and he thinks people care that it's Palm Sunday? Please. Very few remember that Lenten observation is more than just not eating meat on Fridays--it's supposed to include abstension from sex and alcohol (hence, the bacchanalia of Shrove Tuesday/Mardi Gras before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday). I've also been told that sweets were also a part of Lenten no-nos at one time (there's a reason for the chocolate orgy of Easter and the birthrate spike in November/December). There's no special dispensation from Emperor Popatine for the Boston Irish and the once-a-year-Irishmen for St. Patrick's Day.

Sorry, kids.

And what is this "everybody's a little Irish on St. Patrick's Day" bullshit? WHY? Everybody isn't "a little Italian" on Columbus Day, or "a little black" on Martin Luther King Day. I'm Irish every day, 365/24/7, whether I like it or not. Some parts of the heritage I'm proud of, some of it I'm ashamed of, but, either way, it's mine. Don't co-opt my culture & ethnicity and celebrate the worst of it, and I'll do you the same courtesy.

Let's get back to the parade. I boycott the South Boston parade because, for me, it's a symbol of the worst of the Boston Irish--a celebration of our bigotry and ignorance--exemplified by the exclusion of gay & lesbian groups from marching. I guess it's not OK to be gay, out and Irish, or at least to admit it. It just pisses me off. Back in my UMass days, I had a few gay friends (you can't be in theatre and NOT)--all of them from working/middle class Catholic families, either Irish or Italian, all of them either disinherited or definitely unwelcome at home. These were good men--decent human beings who would give you the shirt off their back (as we say in the neighborhood) and share their last meal with you. In short, no matter what their religious affiliation, they were true Christians in that they followed the One Commandment of Jesus Christ--"do unto others as you would have done unto you." Too bad the "good Catholics" who organize the !@#$%^&*()_ parade have forgotten how to be good Christians. Makes me ANGRY.

And let's get to the final reason why St. Patrick can kiss my royal Irish ass--why, why, OH WHY would a witch so far out of the broom closet I've forgotten where the Godsdamned door is, celebrate the bastard who ruined her forebears' culture by shackling it with the horrors, the bigotry, the chauvanism, of Xti-insan-ity? Why would I celebrate the destruction of the shamanic traditions, the bardic traditions, a society where women were respected and played an equal part? Why would I celebrate the castration and co-opting of the Old Gods and their rich and full stories into sanitized, chaste saints? Roman Catholicism is the WORST thing that ever happened to Ireland, worse than any strife the British brought.

Gimme that Old Time Religion--bring back the Old Gods and keep your stupid saints.

Today's photo comes from the Northern Sun catalog, http://www.northernsun.com/. I NEED one.

Foxwoods: The Aftermath

Or, A Mother's Ultimate Revenge

OK, so I gave y'all the review of the fantabulous show at Foxwoods last Saturday night. You heard how utterly, brilliantly hysterical Jim Jefferies was, etc. (And thanks to all the friends who have given me shit about the picture. I love you, too. ;-)

So... The trip itself.

Now, regular blurkers are aware I got a little wrecked on Friday night/Saturday morning. I was catching up on the podcast, the mood was right, and I wanted some fucking tequila. So I had some tequila. And then I went to bed and overslept a wee bit, which means I was running a shade behind on Saturday.

You know where this is leading. You've been down that road with me... you know what I'm like. A madwoman. So, I run around the Somerville/Cambridge area, fueling up the car, getting coolant (and yeah, there's definitely a problem with the Blue Bomber's cooling system which means large repair bill headed my way if I want to drive to Nova Scotia in April and see Jim in PGH in May. Shit), directions, etc. Before I head out, I make sure St. Teresa's arse is in gear because she's sod-all slow and dithery, and no effin' way am I going to miss the damn show because she's dawdled and I got stuck in traffic in $%^&*()_ Connecticut like on the trip to PA.

So... Yeah. I get the missions accomplished, get my ass back to the house, showered, dressed (and was incredibly disappointed to discover that the brand new black jeans were boot cut instead of pegged. Sod that--not with brand new, custom painted Chucks. Besides, I hate boot cut--they make me look short and fatter), the Amazing Tess arrives, I manage to get makeup on, and finally out the friggin' door.

Half an hour behind schedule. NOT happy.

Get Mum loaded into the car along with her blasted walker.

Allow me to describe her walker. I wouldn't call it the Cadillac of walkers (thinking back to the time when Cadillacs were actually elegant and an automotive thing of beauty, rather than the pieces of ugly, generic, over-priced shit they are today; show me an Escalade, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I can show you an asshole behind the wheel of it), but it's definitely a luxury model: padded seat that flips up to reveal a storage space, mag wheels that pivot, hand brakes, sparkly paint job--definitely NOT your bog-standard hospital-issued brushed aluminum mobility aid.

It's also a pain in my fucking ass because I'm the poor sod who has to get it off the porch and somehow wrangle it into the car. Accomplishing this took moving up the driver's seat, unpacking everything that had already been packed, wrestling with the blasted contrivance, and a whole lot of swearing whilst Mum attempted to be helpful and yell suggestions and other cars swerved around me, honking, because there's still a fair bit of snow on the streets. Oh, yeah, and a high, biting, whipping wind.

Now I am running behind, am freezing, and am THOROUGHLY annoyed.

"I have to go to the bank!" announces the little old lady in the HUGE blue puffy coat in the back seat.

"Both of them!" she adds.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

So, stop at the little bank on the corner. She spends five minutes just trying to dig out her card. I get out of the car, come around, and look for it for her. In the high wind.

As I said, Tess is amazing, so she is maintaining her good humor and being cool.

A couple of minutes later, the woman who had been standing inside the ATM knocks on the window to let me know that she has had to explain to Mum how to operate the ATM because she was leaving the card in the slot.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

Ten minutes later, St. Teresa returns to the car, annoyed that the ATM won't give her what she wants. Now, she KNOWS there's a daily limit to how much you can withdraw. She KNOWS this. But she is not acknowledging this. So I now have to drive to the other bank across town. Steam is starting to come out of my ears despite the cold.

Get there--swearing at other drivers along the way--get the card from her, go through the drive thru, and she instructs, "Get me five hundred!"

At which point, I keep myself from diving over the back seat and strangling her because I can just imagine how much money she was originally planning on pissing away on the many-buttoned bandits. I get her $300, which is the limit the ATM will spit out in a given shot, and which is PLENTY to spend on a fucking slot machine. Too much, if you ask me, but then, I don't gamble on anything but myself and the occasional date (usually to my detriment on the latter).

THEN I speed across town to my Starbucks because I need coffee for the fucking road. I mean, if I don't have caffeine, we aren't going to get there safely nor will we get home safely. (Granted, I had stashed my tin of Via iced coffee packets and a quart of half-and-half in the back seat, but better to have it ready-made with an extra shot or three of espresso for safety.) Of course, I have to get Herself a cup of tea.

Now, I know how to make my mother's tea. Stas, lovely fella that he is, knows exactly how to prep her tea from the barista side of the counter. I grab a protein pack, Mallorca sweet bread for her, water for Tess, St. Teresa's tea, and two trenta's for me. Because that's how I fuckin' roll, dammit.

Show off my new custom kicks and the fabulously vulgar yet elegant blouse (I'm going to have to replace some of the crystals on the hand if I want that to be my stage shirt), and get a pleased crack from Stas about getting flashed (I was mortally embarrassed, but he was teasing. I mean, I love my tits, but I'm not flashing flesh in Sbux, y'know?). Hit the ladies, prep Ma's tea, and hop back in the car.

To almost get into an accident from an ignorant piece of shit coming in the exit. I really, really hate people. He tried to get into a pissing contest with me, but a) I drive a Buick; and b) despite being expressly female, I have bigger balls than God when I'm in a hurry and behind the wheel. I called him an ignorant cunt and went around him, despite his attempt to prevent it. No way some dumbass mofo was making me any later to see Celebricrush.

OK! On the road! Backstreets through Cambridge, out to route 2, on to 95, cruising and doing a fair clip at 75-90 for most of the way until I hit traffic in Rhode Island. *shrugs* It lasted about five minutes, and I hit Foxwoods about 8:30, cutting the drive time by about fifteen minutes--not my best time, but still, not bad. St. Teresa keeps asking for napkins because she has spilled her tea all over her coat. *sigh*

Parking was fairly simple, the wind was fiercer than a blow torch, and we managed to finally, FINALLY get inside the fucking casino. OK!

Drop Mum off at the Dream Rewards counter, check she has her cell phone, tell her that the show will be out around midnight, and I WILL CALL HER AS SOON AS IT'S OUT.

Then... pick up the tickets, catch Jim at full throttle in the background, walk out grinning grinning grinning and PSYCHED up for the show. You know how the show went--you know how awesome it was.

And then... it's 12:35. I'm sobering up (thank you, gastric bypass), hungry, tired and ready to find Mum, grab a quick bite, and get on the road.

So I call her cell phone. Five rings, and the canned voice, "I'm sorry, but the person you have called has not set up their voice mailbox."

Shit.

Wait a minute, call again.

Five rings, canned voice, shit.

Wait three minutes, call again.

You get the picture.

Tess and I start walking down towards the casino room--I am still OK, still fairly up (I mean, hey, I just had Jim Jefferies's arm around me and a great convo with Pat Oates. Life is awesome!). Tess takes a troll around, doesn't see her, we walk down to the food court in case she's gotten tired and sat down... No Mum. I hear a page over the speakers, get the idea, we walk back, ask the guard at the door and get directed to the security desk in the back.

This is where my high ends. I HATE casinos. I REALLY, REALLY FUCKING HATE casinos. Too many people doing something I find really fucking stupid and useless, and now, I have to enter one. Immediately, my spidey senses start screaming because there is some dark and ugly energy in the room. I mean... it's like being in Dawn of the Dead, and there is a part of my soul screaming, "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT BEFORE THEY EAT YOUR BRAIN!!!!!!!" I mean, seriously, it was not a happy experience, just walking through, and no sign of the little Irish American lady with the giant coat and tricked out walker.

A lot of people with drinks, cigarettes and crap food mindlessly whacking buttons. *shudder*

Not good.

Soooooooo... I have her paged.

Nothing.

Go outside, wait in the corridor.

Nothing.

Go back, have her paged again, tell them to tell her we're in the food court.

Nothing.

Tess goes and looks again.

Nothing.

I am getting pissed.

Enraged.

Angrier than hell.

Panicky.

Because she was VERY unsteady on her feet. So now I am scared that she's taken a header and no one has been able to get in touch with me.

My groove has been so harshed the record has been shattered into a gajillion shards of vinyl.

We actually walk back down to the club in case she's wandered down there looking for me and run into Pat Oates who I'm SURE didn't need a panicked me asking him if he'd seen a little old lady in the club lost and looking for me.

Jesus, I felt like a loser. I mean, seriously--43 years old and I take my mother along on a trip to a comedy gig. I mean, yeah, it was the right thing to do--she needed to get out of the house and have a good time for herself, but... sheesh. WHY DID I HAVE TO BE INVOLVED?!?!?

ANYWAY... now, I am mad enough to kill. Fed up. Panicky. HUNGRY. Exhausted. Groove harshed. And still no St. Teresa. Tess needs to get home--she has a lovely man waiting for her. We were supposed to be on the road looooooooooong ago and on the way back to Boston. Back to the security office for another page, and this time, the guard asks if she has a Dream Rewards card because they can track her down with that.

Thank the fucking Gods.

So, as they're pulling up her info in the computer (which I find really, really creepy but was thankful for), Tess comes rushing back--"I FOUND HER! I must have gone past her a dozen times, she's tucked back in a corner. I told her to stay put!"

Bless Tess. She is going to be an amazing therapist some day (if that's the path she chooses). She really deserves the modifier "Amazing" because anyone who can deal with me dealing with my mother and remain positive and pleasant is a saint.

Yours Truly stalks across the back of the casino, holding back my rage, and muttering, "I am going to STRANGLE her!"

Sure enough, there she is, tucked back in a corner, whacking away at a slot machine.

"Oh, hi! How was the show?"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?!?!?"

The exchange that ensues goes like this:

"No."
"It's two a.m."

"Really?"

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"I've been here the whole time!"

"Ma, the show was over an hour and a half ago; I told you midnight, it's 2:00 a.m."

"Why didn't you call my cell phone?"

"I've called YOUR CELL PHONE A DOZEN TIMES!"

"I need a new one."

You get the picture.

To make matters even worse, she turns back and starts whacking the button again. At which point I stand up, announce, "I am leaving. NOW."

"But I'm winning!"

"NOW. Or take the fucking bus home." And I turn around and stalk out.

What makes this really amusing--in a dark and twisted way--is that she and I have had the same conversation, only she was the one in the rage making pronouncements.

Yeah.

Well, she eventually dithers out. I am ensconced on a bench, taking deep breaths, trying not to flip out or make a scene because I am ready to fucking lose my shit right then and there. And she says to me, as I sit on the bench, glowering, trying NOT to yell, "So, where are we going to eat? I haven't eaten yet."

It is after 2 a.m. in the morning. We have been here for almost six hours. And she Never. Ate. Never. Ate.

NEVER FUCKING ATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I explain to her--in a very, very quiet voice, the voice that makes most people who know me run for the fallout shelter, that everything has closed--all of the shops and restaurants. And We. Are. Leaving.

I stalk off, looking for the elevators downstairs, walk past them because I thought they were the wrong elevators, and find myself lost, heading for another fucking casino. I mean, it's worse than the mall! And zombies... so many zombies, smoking, doused in cologne and perfume and trashy clothes, and I'm lost and REALLY starting to panic and can't take a Xanax because I was drinking tequila three hours ago and it will put me to sleep and REALLY fuck me up.

Finally get to the correct elevators, the doors open, and I here a *thunk* behind me. Mum has taken one of her famous falls, and now I am panicky, angry, upset, scared, and feeling GUILTY because I have been mean to an old lady who is now on the floor and has knocked her head on the crown molding. So I switch immediately from Raging Bitch to Terrified, Highly Competent Caretaking Daughter, lift her back on to her feet, deal with the nice man from the casino who has an EMT meet us in the lobby downstairs while the Amazing Tess runs to get me a hot dog and a bottle of water because I need hydration and protein, and get her downstairs and checked out.

Still with me?

Get her settled in her seated walker, order up the car from the valet service, wait for the car and listen to her complain about everything and ask inane questions. Including, "Can we stop at Dunkin Donuts on the highway?"

Get her into the Blue Bomber, wrestle the walker back in as the razor wind rips through me, and try to find my way out of the fucking casino. I get turned around, take the wrong exit out of there, and end up tooling around the back roads of rural Connecticut at 3:00 in the morning. Ma announced she was hungry and got handed the protein plate from Sbux.

Thanks to Google Maps and my Droid, we eventually made it to 395 north. We passed Mohegan Sun on the way. We skipped Rhode Island completely. I almost cried when I saw the sign for Worcester and the Mass Pike. If it had been warmer, I probably would have pulled over the car and kissed the tarmac after we crossed the Mass border.

Around 5 a.m., I pulled up in front of Tess's man's place. Thankfully, he only lives a few houses down from me. I found the last parking space on the street, got St. Teresa out of the car and headed for the house, and got myself in. I left the walker in the car.

I was in bed, asleep, within about fifteen minutes. I think I hit the bathroom before I made it to bed. I managed to get my vitamins and some water into me; beyond that, the details are fuzzy.

The next night, after blogging from Starbucks, I pulled up at home and cleaned up the car. I finally got the damn thing tidy (instead of looking like a frat party aftermath), I wanted to keep it that way, and I damn well didn't want anything rotting in the backseat (because Mum is a cross between a toddler and a teenager with the car habits, and it just ain't pretty). Sure enough, there was the protein plate on the floor, egg still intact. However, the packet of Justin's Honey Peanut Butter was still in there, unopened, and damned if I was going to let THAT go to waste.

I picked up the protein plate. I opened the protein plate. I lifted up the packet of Justin's. I screamed.

Underneath, I found her bottom set of teeth. There is nothing more disgusting than dentures (well, except shit, but you get my drift).

The next morning, I couldn't find my keys. She'd borrowed them to find her teeth. The ones sitting right next to the chair she was ensconced in. She left my keys in her coat pocket and made me quite late for work.

The way I see it, my mother has paid me back in spades for any trespass I ever committed.

And I'm a saint.

St. Teresa... 'Round the Twist?

…Or Just Out to Get Me?

I promised this story a while back and never got the time to type it up. Tonight, as the regulars know, I'm off to see Jim Jefferies down at Foxwoods; my friend Tess is going to the show with me. There is going to be another passenger with us: St. Teresa. Yeah. You heard me right. Pray for me.

In December, St. Teresa was hospitalized after she did a nasty faceplant in the kitchen. Being the Good Kid of the Year (FOUR YEARS RUNNING!), I went up to visit her daily while she was in (except for one night, but I was working). Well, I had my laptop with me on one of those nights, and as I was taking it out of my satchel, I also happened to pull out Alcoholocaust. (I had that, along with Going Postal, in the bag because the lappie is the only DVD player I have set up for UK DVDs). Well, of course, she had to look at it.
“He’s not bad looking in this picture, Lee,” she remarked, looking at the inside sleeve. (From Mum, this is high praise for anyone not Elvis Presley, Tom Selleck, or the Loon who played Mad Max.)
I just shook my head and smiled. “Yeah, well, as he hasn’t announced a Boston date on this tour, I think I’m going down to Foxwoods in February to catch him.”
“Oh, good. I’ll come along.”
At which point, my head snapped up, a look of wild-eyed panic on my pan.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can go see him, and I can go play.”
To which I replied, in an effort to keep my rising panic at the idea of being saddled with Her Daftness at Foxwoods while trying to enjoy myself and relax, “Why don’t you call Marie and ask her along? You two can make a night of it.”
“That’s a good idea!”
“Yeah, I can just see it now… I make a pass at Jim, and say, but we have to go to your place because I’ve got roommates. Real smooth.”
“Oh, you get your own room then.” And then she looks at me—y’know, the way a mum looks at their kid and REALLY looks at ‘em, and says, “Y’know, Lee, you should try to lose a lot of weight before February. You could do it.”
There was no meanness in this statement (for once). My mother was actually trying to help me get lucky, and not just with anyone, either.
I don’t know how I feel about this. Honestly. I really don’t. Aside from the fact that I was joking about making the pass (I am still embarrassed about NYC, and I’m having a laugh at my own expense, folks), I don’t know whether to a) be flattered that she thinks I would actually have a shot at him; b) be worried that she WANTS me to have a chance at him; c) ask her what the aliens did with my uptight mother who can’t stand the idea of me having any kind of fun that might lead to sex.
Either that, or she was having me on.
No matter what, I’m doomed.

My real fear is that she's going to show up in the lounge and accost Jim and the story will end up either on the podcast or in his act. Pray for me.

5 a.m. Confessions

For the record... this post was written between five and seven a.m. this morning. I was HAMMERED on tequila zingers (silver tequila, plum ginger cordial, lemonade) and the dam broke in a very good way.

Greetings, my cherished blurkers.
In this dark hour before dawn, I shall make my confessions.

Confession the first: I am HAMMERED.
Confession the second: I am happy to be so.
Confession the third: Godsdammit, but I sod-all needed the drink.

As the child of a drunk and coming from a family full of ‘em, it scares the piss out of me to pair the words “need” and “drink.” Because that is a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad thing. It’s OK to WANT; NOT OK to need.

But tonight, I needed.
Been getting caught up on the Jim ‘n Eddie podcast. Got one last episode to listen to, but in #12, they got Jason PHUCKED up. And it was cool. It was the way getting drunk should be—just good friends being stoooooopid and having a fuckin’ laugh.

That’s the real reason for alcohol—just to relax a bit. Let the fences and walls down Just to be human without all the defenses for a little while.
It’s a friggin’ pity most of us can’t accept that and be there. All the excuses—“well, I was drunk…” So?

Maybe that’s it—I think I’ve identified my problem. I am who I am no matter what state I’m in. If I say something drunk, it’s the same as if I’m sober. No bullshit, no lies. No prevarication. Even less of an editor.

I’m good with it.

Confession the fourth: I’m dealing with a severe case of love. Yet again, I have fallen in love with a friend. I swear, I am the biggest fucking idiot on this planet. And it’s someone that I can’t have, for so many reasons. Too many reasons. Heinlein defined love—real love—the best: love is when what is best for the other person is more important to you than your own desire.
It sucks.
I hate it.
I want to be a selfish cunt and put myself forward.
But I won’t.
And for once, it’s not cowardice. For once, I’m not being noble. Stupidly noble. For once, I’m doing what is right.
Still sucks.

Confession the fifth: I need help. (What else is new?) See, I’ve put my ass on the line, doing this blog. I have a rule for myself: what goes on the blog, stays on the blog. No editing (even the odd typo—and you don’t KNOW how crazy typos make me; blame Sister Jane Michael, but I cannot abide mistakes in my own work. It makes me cringe, makes me feel a failure, a Bad Person. Fucking Catholic school. A blessing and a curse); what gets written, stays written, as is, and I have to accept it and embrace it, even when it hurts.
I’m good with that. It keeps me honest. Makes me stick to it. Doesn’t let me wimp out.
I’m not giving up this time. I am not crawling back into a life of obscurity that I have condemned myself to out of duty and cowardice.
Yeah, I said it—Cowardice. I let “duty” and “responsibility” override my duty and responsibility to myself. In my attempt to prove to my family that I am NOT selfish, worthless, horrible person, I gave up my dream to be America’s answer to Ken Branagh. This is a meaningless statement in 2011; back in 1995, it was a declaration of war, a statement of intent—a throw down to become the Shakespearean director of my generation, a general in the war against the Stratfordian Orthodoxy. Fuck, I miss Shakespeare. I miss my Lord of Oxenford and his blessed words, the words that woke me from the sleep of the Briar Rose to the world of the theatre. I fear it may be too late to reclaim my dreams, to throw my hat back in the ring and take my place.
But I am sure as FUCK going to try. If I fail… then being me, being the starry eyed Quixotic figure of ridiculousness that I am, I will try again. I will find my own version of Dulcinea and tilt at the windmills that may really be giants…
Shit, I’m talkin’ ragtime. I’m let the tequila control the fingers.
No, I’m not. I’m letting the tequila take down the barriers, remove the breakwaters, the harsh reins I’ve put on myself to keep the frustration in check. I want the stage back. I’m taking it back. I’m going back to open mike. I’m not going to let my own fears hold me back.
Because I am that good. I am. I am. I know it. I’ve coached so many, I’ve seen talent, I know talent. I know I have it. I know I have The Shine. I can do it.
I just have to hold on to that feeling and not let Duty take it away.
Help me, beloved blurkers, keep that faith. Send me good energy, think me good wishes. I am going forward. I have to. I am going to beat the odds, I am going to be the success story I should have let myself be years ago.
I know that the therapy words would be, “Maybe you weren’t ready for it.”
Bullshit. I needed it then; now, I’m trying to prevent my life from being wasted. I don’t want to be a “might have been”—“she had so much talent, such a shame she didn’t…” Bullshit. I promised myself the world.

“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending…” And I’m not dead yet.

Tonight, I’m seeing Celebricrush. Can’t wait. I doubt he’ll remember me; I doubt there’ll be anything more than a happy handshake and an autograph and a damn good show. And that’s OK. It took me so long to realize that I have to be my own hope. Last night, I had some kindness—a little bit of Happy Exercise (yes, another Heinlein reference) with a man I hadn’t thought I’d see again. I hope to see him another time. We shall see. It’s not what I want—I want to be in a relationship. But then… I don’t know where life is going to take me in the next six months.
I know I’m lonely. I know I want a circle of friends again. The problem is that I’m back to where I was in my 20’s—single, starting over, and enjoying life. Most of my friends are in a very different place—committed, established and dealing with very different issues. I’m free, almost. Almost. Six months, I can slip the surly bonds of responsibility… I can have my life back again.
Confession the fifth: That scares the fuck out of me. It does. It means I have no excuses any more. It means I have to take the leap of faith. I have to believe in the only person I’ve ever trusted or ever really feared—ME.

I wish this was a wise piece; I wish this was a funny piece. It’s not. It’s just me, naked and vulnerable. It’s just me. I have to be up in a few hours and go to the gym; I have to do my workout and keep the momentum going. I have to build my strength, slim my body more. The gentleman observed that I had lost weight—it was the best thing he could have said. I have felt ugly and fat; to have someone who hadn’t seen me in six months, someone who had seen me naked on a beach, approve and want me… I needed that validation. I need to be wanted and desired. I cannot embrace the one I love—and I see the trap I laid for myself, falling for my dark angel who is not within my grasp—and this other gentleman is a person of worth and intelligence and kindness.
Somedays, I find hope a hard thing to have. But right now, all I can feel is the bubble of potential… the feeling that Something Is Coming. I hope so. Dear Gods, I hope so. Hope has come so hard to hold on to, and I have come to despise my little life, this little life I condemned myself to in the name of duty, from the desire to prove myself worthy of love to a parent.
Confession the sixth: I should not be drinking. But I do not regret it. I try too hard to control, and sometimes, I need to let go. So I will thank Jim, Eddie, Jason and Lindsay for letting me be a silent witness to their silliness and fuckery. It was therapeutic.
Confession the seventh: I have just emptied the last of the New Year’s Eve Espolon tequila into my glass and added some homemade plum ginger cordial and agave lemonade Lifewater. The sky is lightening through the dining room window. I am not going to send the text message I want to send. I can’t; it would be self-destructive and selfish. And I could not bear to lose a friend.
KJ, I forgive you. I love you, my friend, and I forgive you, as I always have, and as you always have forgiven me. That’s what it means to be best friends—the love, the bond, the everything, is so much more important than trespasses. And unlike Annie, you were always true. There was never a siphoning, an agenda. We were, are, and always will be the Pros from Dover. We are, and always be, sisters. Like all family, sometimes, we hurt each other. But like family, the love, the bond is more important. I miss you like a fibre from my heart. Something… something went awry. I can feel it… like a wrong note. Like directing a rehearsal and hearing a false line… like a note off key. I am trying to find the thread, unravel the mistake, reweave reality and make it right.
I hate being a shaman. Because there is a place that the shamanic soul goes to… this is where the right chemical takes me. It’s dangerous. It’s scary. Because it’s a place of truth. This is where the New Age airy fairy bullshit meets reality—I wish this wasn’t real. I wish I could turn my back on what I’m experiencing. But I can’t. There is a higher truth, another level from coarse reality. Call it God, call it faith, call it aliens, call it whatfuckingever… it’s real.
The sun is up. I am somewhere in the aether. It’s OK. I need this, right now. I need to let go.
So… I am going to speak to the cards and then I am going to sleep. Let this move through me, this Golden Moment of Clarity…

Blessings, my darlings. Thank you for indulging me. Whisper a word in the ear of your favorite deity that I can hold on to this moment, this feeling, this clarity.
Much love… so much, my heart aches…
Your Empress

Dear Jesus... Two VERY Different Conversations

Or, Why I REALLY HATE Religion

Death: Humans need fantasy to *be* human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
Susan: With tooth fairies? Hogfathers?
Death: Yes. As practice, you have to start out learning to believe the little lies.
Susan: So we can believe the big ones?
Death: Yes. Justice, mercy, duty. That sort of thing.
Susan: They're not the same at all.
Death: You think so? Then take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder, and sieve it through the finest sieve, and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy. And yet, you try to act as if there is some ideal order in the world. As if there is some, some rightness in the universe, by which it may be judged.
Susan: But people have got to believe that, or what's the point?
Death: You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?
- Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

Dear Jesus,
Could you have a direct word with your followers and remind them about the One Commandment? And that to be one of your followers, they're supposed to follow that ONE Commandment? Or, better yet, tell them the truth about the censoring of the Bible, the truth about your life (especially those missing years), and the fact that they weren't supposed to make a separate religion out of it?
Many thanks,
Empress

So, I had an interesting weekend. It seems that even when I'm not trying to get into trouble, I get into trouble. Now, I've mentioned that I am a Neopagan--that while I believe in God, I really feel like He needs friends, and I like having a man to argue with who doesn't argue back. It doesn't work in a real, face-to-face relationship, but it gives me the illusion/delusion that I'm not talking to myself.

I used to be a Catholic. Scratch that--I was never a Catholic, but I was raised Catholic and realized after graduating from Catholic school that the reason I never quite fit in is because I didn't believe the dogmatic bullshit. For the record, I don't believe in Jesus Christ as a God figure. I love his philosophy--it jives with several other philosophies that I think are worth living by--and I generally respect his message. HOWEVER... I also accept that he has been used across two millennia as both an agent of civilization and oppression, and that clever men have manipulated that message and history for their purposes.

That is historical fact.

I also accept that we all need beliefs and superstitions. I get that--I have a shitload of my own, and I get that most of them are security blankies--my way of insulating myself against the ugliness of reality. I included the exchange from Hogfather because I think Sir Terry got it right--belief is the essence of being human. It's just that some of us take our beliefs a little too far. Allow me to elucidate.

I was late leaving work on Friday because I stopped by the desk to chat a sec with one of my favorite student workers, Tess. Tess is awesome--aside from the fact that she's brave enough to venture on a jaunt to the Asshole of the Northeast with me to see Celebricrush--she's just a fabulous person. Now, two other students were having a convo, and I couldn't help but listen because it was a GREAT convo--convos like this are the reason I LOVE working in academia because every so often, I get to witness (and take part in) a REAL exchange of ideas--people listening and sharing and discussing--the free exchange of ideas--with civility and respect. What was even more awesome was that Lex and Chris invited us into the conversation. It started with single parenthood and went on to feminism, language, racism, and ended with a handshake on the steps.

I LOVE THAT. Convos like that are food for my soul--nourishing, uplifting, joyful, stimulating and just AWESOME. I left here happy and feeling fabulous, my faith in humanity renewed.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. I overslept Saturday morning, missed Jason Ciaramella's comic scripting seminars (both of them) at the Brockton NE Comics (majorly annoyed, considering the next writing project after the rewrite is finished is taking a hack at adapting Tory's MS for a manga), as well as getting my hair cut (which it needs desperately). It also put me behind schedule for Getting Things Done--I had a long list that included working out, hitting the supplement store, getting coffee, taking Mum on errands, and running a few of my own before getting home by 8:00 in order to finish up the Lurve Monkeys for etsy.

Sooooooooooooo... I finally made it to the supplement store around 4:30. A friend is running this side of a new business, and I'm psyched because he always give great advice without trying to rip people off. He knows how strapped I am budget-wise, BUT he also knows that I'm hoping for some serious success in the gym PLUS all of my allergy issues, so I can trust Lou's advice (and I will be giving the store a plug in my next "promotes" post). So, I have my selections and he's ringing me up, and there's this old guy leaning against the counter, talking away, and of course, I get pulled into the convo, talking about how long we've known Lou, yadda yadda.

Well, of course, the talk shifts to politics, and it becomes almost immediately obvious that this gent and I are on POLAR opposites of the political spectrum. When I politely make this clear, he tries to hand it off to Lou, who clearly states that he and I have agreed not to talk politics because we are friends and want to stay that way. Lou and I agreed years ago to agree to disagree and not try to sway each other. It's about respect.

Then it gets interesting, because Old Guy is NOT gonna let it go. He pulls another guy over--"Here, let me introduce you to my friend, HE knows all about the TRUTH."

I should have RUN. Instead, I continue to be polite. Mistake: turns out Mr. Truth is a Tea Partier. And a fundamentalist Xtian. Who has studied theology. Who KNOWS Jesus. Who tells me that I don't know Jesus, I haven't studied theology (and yeah, the idiot did NOT know where I work), I don't know the Bible, and the list went on.

I finally said, once I'd been told that I was WRONG, that I was getting out of the conversation because he was being uncivil and not listening and I was walking away. And I did.

Stop fainting--I was in a friend's place of business, I was dealing with old people, I was not going to start cussing him out and making a scene. I modeled my beliefs--I remained civil, polite, and walked the fuck away to look at the menu for the restaurant this place is attached to. Mr. Truth continued to yammer and gesture to Old Guy about how wrong I was, and eventually, they walked out. I tried to look at the menu, but my appetite was gone at that point. I turned around, said good-bye to Lou, and headed for my car. I opened the door to hear Mr. Truth say, "She seems like a really nice lady, but she's WRONG."

I grin, shake my head, and start to descend the stairs. To have Mr. Truth suddenly in my face, trying to evangelize me, reiterating how I don't know The Truth. At which point I say, "There is no single truth. Truth is subjective."

And he freaks. FREAKS. "There's only ONE TRUTH!!!"

Me: "No, there's three sides to the truth: yours, mine, and somewhere in the middle, is fact."

"YOU'RE WRONG!"

I walk away while he blathers and yammers. He continues to shout at me while I walk to my car.

I turn and tell him, "Go in peace," and do the yoga half-bow, hands together with just the fingertips touching.

"YOU GO IN PEACE, TOO!"

What brings me up short is this: "YOU'LL NEVER KNOW JOY BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW JESUS!"

I stop, standing by the door of my car, looking at him with a look that clearly conveys the fact that he has grown four extra heads and I'm trying to comprehend it. I have been rendered speechless. Seriously. Speechless. He repeats himself. And repeats himself as he disappears between his vehicle and an SUV.

Old Guy is standing there, watching me, waiting for my reaction.

And finally, my face splits into a grin, and I say to Old Guy, "Get him a good psychiatrist, willya? He's crazy!" I wave, bust a gut laughing as I get into my car, and I can hear Mr. Truth's voice dopplering over that I'm the crazy one and he doesn't need a shrink, he's got Jesus.

Yeah.

*slams head on the desk*

Being me, I posted the statement to the Twitverse & FB: Evidently, I can never know joy because I don't know Jesus." I also had to call a couple of my Fellow Faithless, the Fabulous Alicia and Vicki and have a damn good laugh with them. Leesh explains that her hubby used to have a roommate named Joy, and she knew her pretty well, so she's OK, and we conclude that I just need to meet someone named Joy. Vicki and I just shake our heads and laugh. I went to the gym, still amused, and got in a good (if short) workout. The FB exchange was pretty good, and of course, I had to tell St. Teresa when I got home because I was still trying to process this insanity. She had the best reply (and remember that St. T. is a good Catholic and real Christian): "How the hell can you know him? HE'S DEAD!"

Yeah, I actually inherited my sarcasm and lack of tolerance for the morons from her.

Had a laugh in Sbux over it with the baristas AND the clients. I got mileage, let me tell ya. I actually had to watch I Swear to God yesterday for a dose of Jim Jefferies's atheism and common sense as an antidote to the rabid Xtianity that had infected my day. How fucking sad is it that the atheists and Neopagans know more about Xtianity and Jesus's philosophy and religion than the people who claim to believe? And to tell me that I hadn't studied theology when the fucker didn't even know my name, never mind my background. *slams head on the desk* THIS is why I HATE people--I really tried to give him a chance, but the idiot wouldn't give me a chance to get a word in.

And I know why--it's not because Mr. Truth trusts his belief. I always find that argument amusing--that it's because a person is SO INFUSED with their FAITH they MUST share it with you. BULLSHIT. It's because they have so little faith they need to shout down the rest of the world lest a little fucking common sense and intelligence worm its way in and create doubt. It's the ultimate form of insecurity--they have so little grounding, they have to shove what little bit of meaning they've found down the throat of others. I hate it. Jesus wept, I have so many fucking insecurities, but I have enough faith in myself and my spirituality to give others the space to be who they are and believe what they need to.

Gimme the same fucking courtesy, willya? Don't look down on me as some poor, uneducated, deluded fool, and I'll give you the same respect, ferfuckssake.

I'm still baffled by it, but for me, it really sums up the difference between the right and the left these days (and it's not an original conclusion): the Right believes that it is RIGHT and leaves no room for discussion. The left concedes that the Right has a right to believe what it does, has a some valid points, but isn't seeing the whole picture.

I'm in the middle--there are people who will tell you that I'm not, but it's not the truth. See, while I have seriously liberal leanings, I also have a fair measure of common sense. I belong to the Coffee Party because I believe in what they're doing--they're working towards civil dialogue. That's all I want. I'm sick of rhetoric, bullshit, bullying, and outright lies. I'm tired of the truth being twisted. I'm tired of the conspiracies and the conspiracy theories. I'm FUCKING TIRED, PEOPLE. It's fucking time we all got along and played nice. Either that, or Washington and the lobbies and the bureaucrats need to be wiped off the planet, let a little anarchy in, and rebuild. I'm done.

(That being said, let it be noted that I am not one of these extremists that has a stockpile of weapons--chemical or firearms--at home who would act on such an insane premise. What has been stated above is HUMOR--BLACK HUMOR, CYNICISM. And it makes me very sad and lose hope that I have to make a statement like this on this blog because my country has forgotten sanity and civility and is going the way of ancient Rome--once a beautiful civilization worth respect and glory, now a crumbling ruin of inanity, excess and extremity.)

So in conclusion... Argh. To be Christlike, consider the above parable-ish. If you find yourself dealing with someone with an opposing viewpoint, LISTEN. CONSIDER. You don't have to change your beliefs or your faith, but at least allow that the other person has a right to their own truth.

Doing what Mr. Truth did to me on Saturday is how wars start. How Christlike is that?

The Destruction of the Throne of Power

Or, the Downfall of Sports in Hell's Vestibule


Well, there's little joy in New England this week--aside from all the snow, rain, and more snow, the Patriots lost on Sunday to the Jets.


I couldn't be happier.



Now, I (usually) am a home town supporter; I certainly am NOT a Jets fan, not after their utter lack of sportsmanship (although the Pats don't have a great rep with the coaches spying on other teams, etc.), but I also can't stand the way the city erupts whenever there's a championship here. I mean, I understand getting excited about the Sox. We waited a longass time for that World Series in '04, and after the division win over the Yanks, that Cinderella comeback... That was a glorious year, the one that left all of us saying, "I wish *insert dead dear one's name here* was alive to see this." Then 2007 was just the icing on the cake, y'know? But the stupid behavior in the streets... *sigh* I hate it. I REALLY hate it.



It doesn't help that I don't have a lot of respect for the way the team owner has held the state hostage for money to rebuild the stadium, not to mention the fact that I won't patronize the place--what they want for parking is obscene. And I really, REALLY hate football. I mean, I was cool with the Pats for a little while--seeing Teddy Bruschi playing with his kids on the field right before that first Superbowl win softened my attitude towards them, but after he retired... And let's face it, Hollywood Tom is the NFL's version of the blonde joke. What a fuckin' IDIOT. He opens his mouth, and it's like, Dude, are you retarded and just got lucky that it doesn't show in your face? Wow. That, and the fact that he dumped his pregnant girlfriend to shag a supermodel... Ug. Classy guy. And the fact that the city almost shut down because he had a little fender-bender on Cambridge Street... Please. WHO FUCKING CARES?!?!?!?



I mean, if it was Jason Veritek or Jonathan Papelbon, I'd worry a little. Ditto if it was Papi.



I also don't give a hang about basketball. I used to like basketball--I came of age in the era of Larry Bird, Robert Parrish, Kevin McHale... Decent gents who played the game with style, class and skill. Now... thugs, the lot of 'em. I gave up on basketball after Charles Barkley made the announcement that he was a basketball player, not a role model. Sorry, for the money they're paying you, you can behave like a decent human being and shut the fuck up about it.



Whatever happened to the concept of citizenship? Explain that to me.



Ditto for football. Thugs. I mean, how many convicted felons are playing in the NFL today?



We won't discuss the prices they charge for "official" team gear. Jesus wept. I was actually having a convo with an idiot in Sbux last week, and he tried to give me shit for wearing "official" team gear (I had my pink Red Sox fleecy scarf that Vicki made for me for Xmas). It gave me a tickle to say, "Hate to tell you, but all of my 'official' gear has come from Canadian thrift shops. I've never paid more than $5 for it."



It was funny to watch his jaw hit his chest and try to recover. I LOVE doing that to idiots. That conversation was a trial; not only does he worship Radiohead *gak*, but he needed to one-up everything. What was funny was when he switched the topic to autism and how a "guy he knew" could pass for normal because "he'd learned scripts." When I replied that I could always spot it, he was like, no, I doubt that. The exchange went on for a bit, and I had to bite my tongue from saying, "ASSHOLE, I KNOW YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF!!!" Fucking retard. Two decades working at an education school with an LD program, yeah, I know how to spot.



I'll talk about retards at another time. I have one in my family; I hate his guts. He's an asshole. Not because he's retarded, but because he's a fuckin' retard. If you're one of those apologists who think that just because someone has a handicap, they're a saint, please... fuck off. Go read someone else. Please. Being retarded doesn't exempt you from being human. Don't believe me? I'll introduce you to my older cousin. Actually, I won't. I don't speak to him.*



Going back to the Red Sox in '04, my *insert dead relative here* was my mother's father, Jack. He was a die hard Sox fan, definitely one of the faithful. Never went to Fenway; I don't think I can ever recall Jack going to a live sporting event, but by God, that TV never went off, and if it wasn't the news, it was sports. *slams head on the desk*



And where he watched was from the Throne of Power.





I hadn't thought about the Throne of Power for years (probably because I'd deliberately blocked it out), but Celebricrush's story about his mother (yeah, the fat joke that still makes me howl) and the Throne of Misery brought back all the horror of the Throne of Power. I promised you guys a Jack story a couple of weeks ago, and this is the one that came to mind...

And now… the Saga of the Epic Battle



In Hell’s Vestibule, the Throne of Power was the Center of the Universe. Jack always had a chair, a recliner covered in naugahyde (what the fuck is naugahyde? Has anyone ever seen a nauga?). God help you if you sat in His Chair, even if he wasn’t home. Ever seen All in the Family? My grandfather made Archie Bunker look like a flamin’ liberal, I shit you not. My grandmother had her chair, too—always a fabric-covered rocker, sometimes with a foot rest that popped up, sometimes not. Their chairs were side by side in The Den, and the narrow path between them was the only way to get into The Parlor. Directly across from the chairs was the TV, to the right of the kitchen doorway. The TV was the High Altar of the household—Jack’s constant companion after he retired. That goddamned thing never went off, I swear, and if it wasn’t news on the box, it was sports.

If you ever wondered why I am not a professional sports fan (with the exception of the Red Sox, but then, that’s a religion; and hockey because he never liked hockey) it is because of Jack. If there was a football game on, he’d find it. If there was no football, there was a boxing match. If there was no boxing, there was baseball. Basketball. Gymnastics. Horse racing. Billiards! Shit, the Olympics were like Christmas for him, TV wise. Didn’t matter that no one else wanted to watch it, it was HIS house, HIS TV, get the hell out if you don’t like it.


Yeah.

Anyway, Himself went through a couple of Lazy Boys and fuck knows what else. After my grandmother died in ’85, he decided to get himself a NICE chair. Her rocking chair was moved to the parlor, and he bought himself a Craftmatic Contour Recliner.

With heat.



With massage.



With a fucking remote control.



It was warm beige. Naugahyde. Wooden arm rests. HUGE.


And it was FUGLY.

And uncomfortable.

This was a $1000 chair, and the damn thing was the worst piece of shit to sit on. There was no way to get comfortable on it unless you used a mound of pillows and covered it with a sheet. Any bare skin stuck to it otherwise, and peeling yourself off of it was painful, like ripping off a bandaid times ten.

And he loved that chair. It was his Throne. He watched TV in it, he read in it, he ate in it, he slept in it.



Well, he and his love affair with the chair lasted until he went into the nursing home in 1989.
When it was well and truly established that he was not coming home, the decision was made to dismantle the chair.



We tried to do it properly. We did. Rick (my ex-husband; he'd earned a shot at it--he'd done more to take care of the old man towards the end than any of his miserable sons, including bathing and dressing and generally dealing with him when the rest of us were considering calling Dr. Kevorkian, or just grabbing a hammer) pulled out his electric screw gun and tried to find a way to take it apart piece by piece. However, the chair would not cooperate because even though the motor had gotten cranky and the heat didn’t work any longer and the massager made an ominous grinding noise that made the monstrosity dance across the hardwood floor, it was actually incredibly well constructed.


So we decide to take it apart.

Fuck that—we decided to massacre that damn thing.

Picture this: three adults (myself, St. Teresa and Rick) armed with a crowbar, a hatchet, and a saw, approaching the Throne of Power like we were stalking a wild boar, ready for it to turn on us and gore us bloody. It took all three of us to turn it upside down, legs in the air, helpless as a turtle dropped on a rock by a hungry eagle.

And then… then we fell upon it. Every scream of a screw being ripped from its anchorage made us cackle in fiendish delight as the Throne protested its demise. Every wire torn from its housing, every mechanism levered out of its safe niche… the Throne of Power put up a hell of a fight, but three hours later, covered in sweat, dust and sawdust, the three of us stood over the pile of scrap that had been the symbol of ultimate control in the house, gripping our instruments of destruction, panting with exhaustion, glowing with triumph.



The Throne of Power was dead.



And the oppressed celebrated! We howled in jubilation over the pitiful remnants of the instrument of our subjugation. We patted each other on the back, complimenting ourselves on our fortitude and grace under pressure, for not bowing before our stubborn foe.



Frabjous Day!

And then, of course, we had to haul the parts out to the side of the house to wait for garbage day. But that bit of drudgery didn’t matter—we had prevailed.



And you can be DAMN SURE not a scrap of it was allowed to be squirrelled away and taken back in.



I'm also willing to state that, with the exception of the occasional Bruins and Red Sox game, professional sports has not been allowed on our TV since the day he left the house.



I'm good with it.



* I used to work in a theatre company with someone who would deliberately cast at least two of the LD students per production. It was good for the company. The only problem was that, rather than treat them like they were human beings, this person would speak to these kids like they were three-years-old and hard of hearing and thinking, rather than just in possession of a learning disorder. I don't see that as a positive thing; I see that as just another form of stupid prejudice. I mean, yeah, you make allowances for the LD, but at the same time, the whole point of the program they were enrolled is was to prepare them for independent living and functioning.

Headin' South?

I had one of my Ridiculous Riz Moments last night in the car whilst talking with the Fabulous Alicia of Slice of the Blog Pie. I was reflecting on my colorful sexual past and came out with this gem: *

I've been in a few threesomes, most of them with women--NOT my preference. I have NEVER forgotten the first time I was faced with going down on another women. I was like, "Jesus Christ, ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?! DID YOU AT LEAST WIPE THAT FUCKING THING THE LAST TIME YOU TOOK A PISS?!?!?" I mean, I didn't say anything--I didn't want to hurt her feelings, and I was the one getting royally fucked, after all. But it was REVOLTING. And all that HAIR. Take a fuckin' weed wacker to that mess, will ya?

I mean, with a cock, at least you don't have to deal with all that hair (unless he's got a short dick, but even then...). If he's cut, it nice, neat, clean--smooth. You're just dealing with skin. And all that squishiness... *shudder* Bleeeeccccchhhh!!!! I totally get why guys have an issue with oral sex. And it's not like you can have a wet facecloth handy at all times or a napkin, not without being insulting.

Seriously, I have NO PROBLEM giving a blow job. Never have, never will. And I have no issue with swallowing--I'd rather just get it out of the way than have him cum on me. Just shoot down my throat, please, and don't mess up my hair. I mean, that shit SMELLS, especially if he's into spicy foods. And Gods forbid you don't wipe it off when it's still wet--NASTY. Scaly, flaky crap, like dandruff or something. Bleurrrrgggghhh.

Although I discovered the only thing beer is good for--makes it taste better. Cuts the salt content. Beyond that...

* Just a couple of necessary statements:
1. The incident cited above happened almost 25 years ago, at the encitement of my (much older) ex-husband. It was one of those experiences that confirmed for me that I am probably the straightest woman on the planet. Tits are interesting, but so long as men have nipples, I'm good!
2. I haven't been in a threesome in nearly 20 years. I'm REALLY good with that.
Have a nice weekend, folks. Get lucky!

Shame of the Scion...

... Or, Connecticut is the Asshole of the Northeast

Greetings from East Bumfuck, PA. After almost nine hours (eight hours and forty-five minutes, to be exact, from the Prime gas station at the corner of School & Summer streets in Somerville to the middle-of-friggin-nowhere AND WHY THE FUCK AREN'T THERE ACCURATE STREET SIGNS, GODSFUCKINGDAMMIT, AND STREETLIGHTS! WHERE ARE THE FUCKING STREETLIGHTS?!?!?!? central Pennsylvania), on the road, I have arrived at KJ's place, three hours later than I predicted and 2.5 hours later than she predicted.

All because of Connecticut.

Fucking Connecticut. It is the BANE of my existence. The best things that have come out of Connecticut have left it (and include several lovely people whom I know). This is the first time I have ever been foiled, well and truly FOILED in my travels by an entire state. I mean, I have dealt with the drama of domestic airline travel (two words: lost luggage), but this is the first time when traveling via car I have ever, ever, EVER been delayed THAT badly. I mean, I am the Scion of the Massachusetts Satellite--I am Speed Racer, I am a demon on wheels (but a safe one! I always use my turn signals and say thank you when someone gives me a break).

But Connecticut... Argh. How the fuck can a state that connects major metropolises--Boston and *gak* New York--HAVE ONLY THREE LANE FUCKING HIGHWAYS?!?!?! WHAT GENIUS DECIDED THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA??!? Seriously. Three-lane highways. Some of which go down to TWO lanes around major metropolitan areas.

This is sheer fucking stupidity.

BTW, in case I haven't explained the whole "Massachusetts Satellite" thing... that was the nickname my father gave to my mother's father, Jack. He drove like a fucking maniac--I have (very bad) memories of his driving... him going so fast up Route 2, his Ford Grand Torino was shaking like it was having an epileptic fit; "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!" his eternal battle cry... Yeah. Well, I have his attitude--although my battle cry is, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY, YOU IMBECILIC SON OF A CUNT!" (Yeah, I know... I am a delicate flower of femininity, especially behind the wheel.) I definitely drive with his turn of speed, but I have a little more common sense. I think.

Anyway, it's sod-all embarrassing to take an extra 2.5 hours for a 6.5 hour drive. It's just NOT DONE, at least when you're me.

I do have ONE positive thing to say about Connecticut--the service I got at the Sbux off of exit 14 off of Route 84 south was excellent. (The coffee sucked, but you can't have everything, I guess, and I almost got t-boned by a rich bitch in a Caddie who was too important to pay attention to the stop sign in the parking lot. She had so much hairspray in, you could have bounced a brick off of her head and not done any damage.) Was awesome to know that the Sbux locator app I downloaded to my phone works like a charm.

Anyway, I am here in PA for a few days to hang, party and spend time with my best friend and godson before returning to the rat race.

I may have to consider taking the bus to the Jim Jefferies show.

Wait. No fucking way am I trusting my safety to another driver. And not after the NYC experience. Guess I'll have to drive through Connecticut again. This time, perhaps, with explosives...

Blog Shog: Fa-la-la-la-la-FUCK YOU!

OK, I am going to echo a friend's sentiment of last week (and I forget whom)--there needs to be a universal ban on Xmas song remakes.

Because, if I owned a gun right now, I would take out EVERY FUCKING SPEAKER IN THIS BORDERS!!!!!! *slams head on the table*

Jesus, it's an abomination. Der Bingle's dust is whirling in its grave.

My Brain Hurts!

That's all. Need to be said.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled Sunday.

Blog Shog: The Magic of Jim Jefferies

Regular readers will know that I spent yesterday afternoon in the emergency room at LMH whilst Mum was CAT-scanned & her head stitched after doing a faceplant on the kitchen floor.

Well, because I am not a TV person (I'm not; I think it SUCKS), I had music on the lappie whilst I was blogging and surfing. And when I finally got bored out of my fucking skull, I said, screw it, gonna watch Alcoholocaust and have a laugh because I am getting FUCKING STRESSED.

So, I popped the Silversun Pickups out of the DVD/CD drive, slipped in Alcoholocaust (after stopping to admire the pics of Mr. J inside), and fired that fucker up.

Sounds like I'm talking about weed; well, good comedy has the same affect on me, so... it's comparable.

Anyway, I chose the "play feature," double-clicked, watched Jim Jefferies hustling through the West End, pint in fist (actually filmed after the show was filmed), heard the intro, watched the audience start to go mad, and then Jim hit the stage, began to speak... and Mum appeared in the doorway.

Like magic!

Brought back the moment in July of 1983, Sullivan Stadium in Foxboro... had been pissing rain all day, and Maggie and I were going to see David Bowie on his "comeback" tour--his first tour since 1977. We were excited as only teenage girls can get excited. But it was pissing rain.

As soon as Bowie hit the stage and started to sing, the rain stopped. Stopped dead. Not a drop. I looked at Maggie and said, "God is a Bowie fan." Even the papers commented on it.

(This was very funny yesterday while sitting there. It's not as funny today, which just goes to show... ya had to be there. Well, no, you didn't, because that would mean you would either have a) been injured or b) been dealing with someone who was injured, and I wouldn't wish that on you. I was getting a bit punchy by that time, and the old lady perfume and gangbanger BO & alcohol fug was starting to make me doofy.)

I'm still a little punch today. Almost getting jumped outside of a store last night can do that to you. But that story isn't so funny, so I will tell it in a non-fuckery post.

Blog Shog: Damn you, Chuck Jones!

There's a campaign on FB right now to protest child abuse, asking people to change their profile pics to their favorite cartoon character from childhood. I'm down with it--I don't know what kind of effect it's going to have, but, hey, I loooooove cartoons, so... I went with Daffy Duck.

Not the evil, mean, jealous horrible Daffy of the Chuck Jones cartoons; no, I hate that Daffy. He's an asshole, a cheap foil for Bugs Bunny, and personally, while I respect Chuck Jones's work to a point, I also have some serious issues with the blatant racism of his cartoons (Tex Avery had a good go at everyone, but so did Chuck, and while you don't see the African American stereotype cartoons being shown, the horrible Irish ones are still out there and shown without apology or what have you) and what I consider the cheapening of the characters of both Daffy and Bugs. The rivalry didn't work--it was just ugly shit, got old real quick, and, quite frankly, boring.

There, I've said it.

While the cartoons of Bob Clampett... Bob was just as guilty of stereotyping as the others, but at the same time, I find it a lot easier to forgive Bob. He was insane, and his gags... I love a good Bob Clampett gag. He was maaaaaaad. (And if you look at the work of John K. & the 'toons that glommed on to the Ren & Stimpy style of gonzo cartooning, you are witnessing the heirs of Bob Clampett. John Kricfalusi tells of hanging with Bob Clampett on the extras on one of the Looney Tunes Golden Collections, unabashedly touting the genius of Bob over the other Warner directors, and I have to say that I am on that bandwagon.

So in response to a Certain Australian Gentleman's question regarding why the cartoon thing, I made this statement:

I changed my pic in protest of the destruction of Daffy Duck-from wild & crazy mallard, a star in his own right, reduced to a mere comic foil, a bitter shadow of himself! Curse you, Chuck Jones! The heirs of Bob Clampett shall rise up & reclaim our sullied hero!

(The pic is from The Great Piggy Bank Robbery, one of Bob Clampett's best... hysterical pastiche & tribute to the craze of the day, Dick Tracy. Daffy & Bob at their finest. :-)

BLOG SHOG: Old Lady Perfume

OK, here is an eternal question I need answered: WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY

WHY FUCKING WHY

do old ladies wear half a fucking bottle of perfume a day? I mean, like, I have finally worn my mother down on this one because I got tired of my nostrils burning in the fucking car whenever I'd give her a ride someplace.

And it's never one of those light, pleasant citrusy scents. No, it's always one of those heavy, spicy, "exotic" scents, the ones with notes of patchouli and European primal forests and the rare Gofrigyself orchid... *slams head on the desk*

I don't know which is worse--the perfume or the BO from the gang members/frat boys in here. (Like there's a difference these days; both come from money unethically obtained and neither recognize the law.)

Blog Shog #2: But that sounds so... UNAPPEALING!

OK, let's talk about sexual nomenclature. Yet again.

In an earlier post, I expressed my annoyance with the word "pussy," and my dislike of it.

Now, I'm going to have a go at the word "penis."

Yeeeeeecccccch. I really hate that word. I read a novel years and years ago (like high school years ago) in which the protagonist (a young gay man) says that a penis sounds like something you'd examine under a microscope--something unappealing, slimy, infectious.

I agree with him.

I don't like the word. Especially when I'm contemplating something I am going to be experiencing in my most intimate places. Yeeeeeeecccccchhhhh. It's clinical. Cold. Icky. There is nothing fun about the word "penis." It's not even fun to type. (Seriously. I'm sitting here with a lemon face.)

"Dick" I can deal with (although I tend to think of that more as an insult--a tear down, something a bit too small to care about). "Cock" tends to be my preferred word--it has weight, heft... balls.

A very important thing when discussing male anatomy.

Blog Shog #1: A Startling Discovery!

Here at the Empress Labs, I am constantly searching for the answers to the questions that plague humanity.

Today, I have discovered the answer to an age old quandary--the female ability to multitask at (almost) all times vs. male inability to do so once a bloodrush to the dick is encountered.

There is an old saying that God gave men two heads and only enough blood for one to operate at once. Now... in utero, we begin development with identical sets of stuff, which once sex is determined, develop into discreet equipment i.e. internal ovaries vs. external testicles, penis vs. clitoris.

The head of the average dick takes considerably more blood to engorge vs. your average-sized (or even larger than average) clit.

Are we seeing the trail of logic here? So, because of physical construction, the joke is actually a TRUTH; and so men can't help being obsessed with sex and unable to multitask because they have not been physiologically equipped to do so, so therefore... they are cognitively handicapped due to physical limitations.

And therefore, if the heterosexual women reading (and the one writing) this blog ever want to get laid, we have to give them a break. Because while they are retarded at times, it just ain't their fault.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Friday (and I know I am never going to get laid again).