Why Women Eat Their Young

There are five hung over people in my basement.

One is son.

Two are son's friends.

Two are son's friends' girlfriends.

It's okay to be hung over in my basement.

It is not okay to wake me up in the wee hours while you are striving for the hangover.

It is not okay to spill your beer on my sofa. No, not even if you're that pity-inducing sort of girl whose eye-black looks more NFL than Avril Lavigne because you got a little weepy after you puked noisily in my bathroom and came out at three in the morning to be asked, "Who the hell are you and why are you puking in my bathroom?"

It's not okay to slam the door between cigarettes smoked under my bedroom window. In fact, under my bedroom window, it's not okay to joke and laugh or do anything but silently smoke and contemplate how the hell you're going to create a future for yourself that provides you with your very own private home in which to party 'til dawn.

It's not okay to litter your butts on my lawn.

It's not okay to spill your beer on my upholstery. It's not okay to spill your beer on my upholstery. It's not okay to spill your beer on my upholstery.

Thank you for turning your motherfucking "motherfucker music" down after I asked you to. Common sense and courtesy means I should not have had to ask.

All things considered, I'm only a little sorry that I just can't scrub my kitchen floor this morning without playing George Thorogood and the Destroyers's version of "Willie and the Hand Jive" on maximum volume, over and over and over and over, perhaps until my ears bleed.

issing Letters

I had soe stories to tell, bt that will have to wait. y oldest daghter spilled soda pop on y keyboard. I rinsed it ot, bt its not dry enogh to fnction yet. So I got y old keyboard ot, and it sees to be issing a cople of crcial letters. This pts a crap in y blogging activities, which is y ain sorce of incoe right now. I a nder deadlines! So I have been painstakingly copying and pasting the issing letters for iportant proects, bt that is really slowing e down. Does anyone have advice on getting y ain keyboard to dry ot faster (safely)? Or is there a way to goose this old one into operating properly? Please excse typos. Thanks.

Disappointed Visitors

UPDATE

Wow, we have a magical disappearing picture! It would seem that Photobucket has applied sanctions to the shot of Matt Lucas dressed in a huge latex bodysuit to represent the entirely fictitious Bubbles DeVere.

I have emailed them to ask why, of course, however if this was a breach of copyright then I can't understand why nobody would have informed us directly, on top of which the picture originates on a high profile, high traffic site that hasn't even been bothered to disable right-click. It is now thoroughly and irreversibly in the public domain.

So.
Whats left?

I guess the sorry (and rather wonderful) truth must be that somebody complained to Photobucket about this being an inappropriate, pornographic image. I've got to tell you, that just makes my day!

On that basis then, here it is again, hosted by blogger.
Enjoy.
But don't get horny.
(Not unless you really really like your fake women to have their latex on the outside. Like ExoPamelas. Or something.)




~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Original post:

People seem to keep turning up at this blog in the search for Matt Lucas as Bubbles, thus:



It would perhaps be in their best interest to go directly to the BBC Little Britain page for Bubbles DeVere.


Sadly most of the other search terms that bring unwanted strangers very briefly to our door are rather more predictable;

Granny bitches
Old bitches
Granny sex
Bitch sex
Bitches [doing things to*] bitches (*insert misspelled reference to sexually dominating practice of choice).


Yawn frapping yawn! I am pleased to add yet another page to their fruitless searches.

I guess that qualifies me for a Ha-flapping-ha, too, then.

Nyuk nyuk nyuk

I was washing up after Easter Dinner when it occurred to me to ask Moe when Shemp would come around with her truck. Of course, I had to interrump a critical point in the Masters to ask. I didn't really care.

"Oh," he says. "She's not bringing it. I have to go over to get it as soon as the match is over."

Isn't it just lovely the way people who put you out so frequently will lend you their truck and their hand-truck and call it even for another six month's of answering to their needs? Oh, yes. I think so, too.

After I've washed up I decide the rest of the day is for me to get some of what everyone else has been getting: rest and amusement. I plopped onto the sofa, snuggled under the throw, and started to get over another day of servitude. Eventually, Moe and Larry left to get Shemp's truck.

Having been the one to move the old refrigerator across the kitchen and into the dining room, I remembered how heavy and unwieldy the thing is, and I thought of the stairs -- the stairs out of the house and the stairs up to the office. Larry and Moe were going to need Curly. I got up to tap son's shoulder. He owed me thirty-five bucks and this would be a fine pay-back.


In come Moe and Larry with the hand truck. They can barely slide it under the fridge. I've set the fridge on the dining room floor, mind you, which, although oak, is not immune to scratches. I'm cringing, just a little. Finally they get the fridge mounted and tilted back and begin guiding it through the threshold into the kitchen. As he nears the back door, Moe says, "Shit. It's not going to fit."

Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you; you'll probably have to remove the doors from the fridge and remove the hardware from the screen door. Did you measure?" Moe does that thing where you measure with both hands but your arms don't stay in the same place as you walk from the object to the opening. Worth a chuckle after a long day in the kitchen. He decides that I'm right and he goes into the garage to search through his disorganized, mismatched assortment of rusting tools.

I call after him, "You'll need a Phillips and a socket wrench and six-point sockets." Then I retrieve my handy, all-inclusive case of shiny, clean tools from the kitchen cupboard, grab my socket wrench and start removing the hinges from the fridge. He walks in as I'm lifting the first door off the hinges. He is holding a #14 crescent wrench and a box of twelve-point sockets, but no socket wrench.

Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

He's annoyed that I'm getting the job done, so he grabs my wrench. I get my Phillips and start to work on the screen door hardware and finish that in short order. I play a round of solitaire on the computer. Larry has gone into hiding.

Finally, Moe's ready to slide the fridge back onto the hand truck. I'm thinking, "heavy: hernia; stairs, wheels, snow: squashed Moe, oh no..." I tell Husband he's got the wrong man on the heavy side of the operation.

Not that I want Curly squashed. It's just nice to see him do something useful with 200 pounds of muscle on occasion.

So they get the fridge down the steps with a minimum of thumping and crashing, and wheel it out to the driveway. I have no reason to follow them, but I'm actually smiling at this point, so I do.

The bed of the truck is full of snow. By full, I mean there is a four inch dip along the right side of the bed, and a six inch drift on the left, and the warmer temperature has caused what was once fluffy and light snow to become compact and heavy snow. Moe's first scoop with the snow shovel reveals that the bed of the truck is also full of tools and extension cords and scrap lumber.

Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

It occurs to me that in spite of Shemp being a lesbian, she and Moe were fairly well suited to each other.


After Moe shovels out the bed of the truck and shoves the melange of tools and cords and scraps to one side, he and Curly manage to load the fridge and the doors. Curly then gives me the "I've got a date; do I really have to go all the way across town right now?" look. I nod. There is no way in hell Moe and Larry are going to get the fridge up the office stairs without help, and it's only going to take an hour or so, and Curly owes me thirty-five bucks until I say he doesn't. For some reason Moe starts calling for Larry. I guess it's just not a project without three bodies present, even if one body is quite surly and, accustomed to doing nothing more than gaming in front of the computer or lounging in front of the tube or polishing off nine of twelve servings of Easter dessert intended for the entire family, relatively useless.

Off they go.

On my way back to the couch I see that Moe's managed to leave every tool and every piece of refrigerator hardware on the kitchen floor. I take the Phillips and the screen door hinge from the counter, reinstall the hinge, put away all of my tools, and leave everything else the way it was left.

With any luck Moe will trip over the hardware on his way out the door this morning and remember to take it with him.

Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

My tools are safely, neatly hidden.

It's Easter, Damn it.

I'm not religious.

Still.

When the phone rings at 11:00 Easter morning and I see by the caller ID that it's that chauvanistic marketing guy who entertains magazine writers and the like in strip clubs so Mr. Marketing can claim that he's helped someone build a lucrative business by drinking and getting hard-ons on someone else's dime, I'm suddenly not feeling very Eastery. I'm feeling like not answering the call.

I answer it anyway.

"Husband is out on the patio shoveling a path for the dog. I'll get him for you."

"No, no, that's okay. Happy Easter. Are you watching the Masters?"

"Um, no?"

I'm not into golf.

"You're kidding! It's wild! ... blah blah blah watching the Masters yada yada so incredible blah blah blah and so and so did such and whatever yadayada beef it up ramble blither-blather whatever yada very difficult yammeryammeryammer can't believe these guys..." ad nauseum until finally Husband comes in and I roll my eyes, purse my lips, and snort as I hand the phone to him without a goodbye to Mister Marketing. After all, he isn't my business associate.

Why do I hate this guy?

One reason: He once looked me square in the eye and uttered the words, "I don't objectify women. I just happen to like to watch the game on a big screen TV while topless women dance in the background."

To which I responded, "You're a self-contradictory asshole."

To which he responded, "No, really, I'm a nice guy."

Whatever.

So.

I start dressing the turkey, because, as all women know, all holidays are about slaving in the kitchen until a grand meal is on the table for all the family members who've sat on their asses doing nothing all day. The phone rings again. I see by the caller ID that it's Husband's ex.

During the call he asks me what time dinner will be served. I tell him, "Between 5:00 and 5:30, depending on the turkey." After he hangs up I ask him, "What was that about?" He says, "She's agreed to bring her truck over and help me move the refrigerator to the office right after dinner."

"On Easter Sunday?"

"I figured you'd be glad to get it out of here as soon as possible."

Seems I'll be washing up alone.

Pffft.

An unexpected move

Your kiss, so swift, so light, a brush of lips
Was there and gone before the day could sigh.
My heart rejoices, hungers now, and skips
For all the fire that once was you and I.

I know not how defences dropped, or mixed
When love, it seemed, had run its cruel course
And, like opposing planets, orbits fixed,
We'd spiralled ever further from our source.

Why did we just engage in this last dance
of tender meaning, all too small, too late?
What was the fear I saw in your brief glance,
Does hope still seek to contradict our fate?

Oh, for your arms, my warm and musky nest
Where Earth and Heaven mingled in the past.
Its been so long since there was peace, or rest;
Dear God, I wish the die had not been cast.

The Presumption of Pretty

There really is a difference between genuinely beautiful people and, well, the rest of us. I'm not fishing for compliments and I'm not even being bitter, but I am realizing more and more that there is a difference.

To illustrate, a story:

today, I had in my office a simply beautiful 11 year old girl (ok, almost 12). I have known her for 7 years now, as I was the midwife in attendance when her brother was born almost 7 years ago. She has always been a neat kid: smart, kind, gentle with her brother, nice to her parents, respectful without being smarmy, not in the least self-centered (though I am not her parent, of course)... she's just a terrific kid and anyone should be proud to have her as their daughter (and her parents certainly are).

At 11, she is stunning. Poised. Pretty-- really genuinely lovely. Gorgeous eyes. Beautiful hair (that she apparently wants to dye black! Bah!). Lovely skin. Tall. Slender. Graceful. And best of all, she does not appear to be overly aware of it-- she is one of those wonderful pretty girls who doesn't seem to know exactly how pretty she is. Or to care-- though she is well put-together, so I know she does care as most 11 year old girls do. Anyway, she's terrific.

I also had a student in the office today. Another extremely beautiful young woman, probably in her mid to late 20s. Exotic, pleasant, smiles easily, and genuinely a beautiful woman. As we were chatting about the girl, I said something to the effect of "she is just stunning" and my student responded "yes, she is.... but then, we were all that pretty when we were 11." I said "I wasn't" and that was that.

Well, it's true, I wasn't particularly pretty. I was gawky. I was a bit overweight (but I didn't have anything on what I am now, sigh). My hair was frizzy and I tried to keep it straight, a ridiculous thing to even try, and it made my already thin hair look even thinner. I had thick glasses, hiding the blue eyes that are undoubtedly my best facial feature. While some of these have been remedied and I don't think I am ugly, I also realized that I really would not ever expect to be described as pretty. I just don't think of myself that way, and I never have. There have been times when this has been a considerable source of misery, but I think they are pretty much long over at this point.

Still, it is interesting to realize that for some of us there is the Presumption of Pretty-- the absolute conviction that we were at one time pretty, even if that time has passed. It is startling to think that my student might even begin to put herself in this camp, since she is still extremely beautiful and would turn heads just about anywhere, I suspect.

I have never had the Presumption of Pretty. Never. It simply does not form any part of my world view. I wonder what life would be like, to believe that you are or at least once were genuinely pretty, even to complete strangers?

What is it like, to know that you are pretty?