In which a toddler is totally cute.

My co-worker, Bucket [he hasn’t updated his site since the last presidency, so don’t bother clicking on the link], had his wife and youngest kid here in the office this morning. I adore Bucket’s wife, MrsS. She’s superior in far too many ways to list. (I forgot to order freakin’ Girl Scout Cookies from her daughters, though. I wonder if it’s too late.)

Anyway. Chance, their youngest? Is so adorable. Tow-headed and shy, but not too shy. He had a little toy train with him. He wouldn’t high-five me, but I got several very cute flirty grins and giggles. When his dad put him down he ran the eighteen inches to his momma’s legs and grabbed on. Then his dad picked up his big foot and tapped Chance’s little diapered butt with it, and the kid immediately dissolved into giggles.

“Hey! You kick him in the ass and he giggles! That’s hot!” I exclaimed.

MrsS took one look at me and practically collapsed into giggles herself. “‘Kick him in the ass and he giggles!'” she repeated. “‘That’s hot!'” she finished, and giggled even harder. It was adorable – cutest thing I’d seen this side of Cute Overload in months. (Then later she called me “a skinny thing,” which of course endeared her to me for-fucking-ever.)

– – –
In other, totally unrelated news, here’s my updated Movies-I-Wanna-See (And-Ideally-In-An-Actual-Theatre) list:

• Nanny McPhee [imdb] [site]
• Roving Mars [imdb] [site]
• Brokeback Mountain [imdb] [site]

– – –
In other other news, on Tuesday PenLohP dropped off this device she’d bought her daughter for Xmas. It won’t work. Since then, half the engineers in the department have played with it and none of us can make it work. This makes me suspect the damned thing is just plain broken, which is bad news because it ain’t returnable. *sigh*

In which I tie up some loose ends.

My recent rash went away all by itself. I think it must have been contact dermatitis because I haven’t had any problems since, and now my skin is peeling a little bit.

I didn’t hold out long: Bread got laid this morning. (Which didn’t keep him from nagging me for more the whole rest of the morning. I told him he was a royal pain in the ass and he giggled.)

He did not snake the drain on Tuesday, though, so we have to take twelve-second showers or the toilet starts bubbling. Ugh.

In which my back hurts and I’m damned grumpy.

Bread woke me up earlier than necessary this morning, like he always does.

He probably used to wake me up early in an effort to share his love and tenderness with me, but now — since I’ve been asking him to give it a rest already for like seven years and he hasn’t — I have to assume he does it just to be a dick.

Anyway, in an effort to get the fuck away from him and stay asleep this morning, I pulled a muscle in my back really quite painfully — that was my first real conscious experience today: brief but searing pain! I was bound in the bedding at the very edge of the bed, and he was hemming me in and poking at me and breathing my air and in general having absolutely no respect for my desire to be asleep until the fucking alarm went off for work, and when I moved (okay, it was more like “when I twitched spastically”) I pulled something and it hurts and now I’m all Quasimodo and crooked and I’ll have to force myself to do some yoga when I get home even though all I really wanna do is take a pain killer and bitch about it.

Oh, okay, yes, I know, I know. When he wakes me up for l’amore sessuale he’s probably not actually thinking, “Gee, this is the 43rd morning in a row I’ve woken her up before dawn and boy will she be pissed,” but in actual fact is probably thinking something more like, “Maybe today I’ll get lucky!”

But I don’t care. I’m still pissed off, and he’s so not gonna get laid before noon ever again.

In which I’m feeling aggravated.

My bank recently changed names from Central Valley Bank to Midwest One Bank.

In celebration of this, they’ve decided to charge my ‘free’ checking account $1.07 per month for the privilege of having a debit card.

Rat fuckers.

In which I do a whole lotta nothin’.

Friday we went out for a drink and were home by ten.

Saturday night we stayed in, although I discovered the next day that MissT had called me to see if I wanted to hang out. *sigh*

Sunday I slept in, then went to rehearsal. I’m still in love with the band, although it turns out we’re having a really hard time picking covers for our upcoming money-making gigs because we all have different tastes in music. GW likes 70’s guitar rock, I like Motown and funk, KO likes fusion and jazz, etc. Our list of possible covers to learn is totally schitz.

After rehearsal I dropped by to see Amazon Blonde and Truck. They were in their PJs nestled into the couch with both the TV and the stereo on. I played Truck’s acoustic guitar for awhile. Truck gave me a lecture about blogging about blogging about blogging, and Amazon Blonde said, “Yeah! What the fuck!” I love those folk.

I slept in again today, then got up and made beans and eggs and tortillas for breakfast. Mmm. As this is Bread’s fourth week home, I asked him if he was gonna get a job. He said he was working on it. When he asked why I was asking, I said, “Just ’cause we’re broke, that’s all.”

I need to go to the store for milk and bread and Tang and chocolate, but I’m really not feeling all that motivated. A nap sounds better. Way better. Although I’m so addicted to Tang I might end up going anyway.

In which I tell you a story.

Once upon a time, way back in the late 80’s when I was in junior college and majoring in voice, I was a stoner. I smoked pot all the time. I smoked it in the walk-in cooler at work at 7-Eleven, I smoked it at Dead shows, I smoked it in public parks and in friends’ living rooms and at parties. Sometimes I kept my bong on the shelf by my bed and smoked before even getting up, but usually I kept my bong in the ‘fridge.

My drug dealer was this guy out in Gresham. I can’t remember how I met him originally, but he was a few years older than me, and both myself and my highschool girlfriend D. had slept with him at one time or another. He wasn’t terribly good in bed, but we both gave him an A for enthusiasm. He had been the guitar player in the local band Quarterflash at one point, but carpel tunnel or something had ruined his hands before they ‘made it’. He had a bunch of gear set up in his bedroom – keyboards and guitars and sequencers.

He was incredibly anal. His house was completely spic and span all the time.

He grew dope up in his attic. I only saw the grow room once, early on, even though he offered to show it to me again later when he went totally hydroponic. He had an air exchange system that blew the pot-scented air out of the top of his house; you couldn’t smell anything on or near his property, but on certain days there was an area several hundred feet away in the middle of a nearby intersection that absolutely reeked of skunk.

Continue reading Back When I Sold Pot →

In which you leave a comment, bitches.

In other news, it’s Delurking Week, so if you don’t comment I’ll – I’ll just – well, I’ll just fucking cry.

I know you’re here, I have tracking software you know!

In which I talk about an ex-boyfriend for a long time, as an illustration of the It Takes A Village concept (but as it applies to adults, not children).

In the mid- to late 90’s I was living off campus in a house on Kirkwood with Cat and M.P. when MLD moved in. He had this monster sex vibe – you could literally feel him walking in the front door down the hall before you could see him. He was only my height, maybe an inch shorter, but he vibed like a linebacker. (I’ve noticed that small/er men, least the ones who aren’t off on some Napoleon complex, often have really fantastic sex vibes. Mmm.) One thing led to another and eventually we were if not seeing each other then at least sleeping together. I think we told people we were “meditating together”; we’d go in my room at program time, meditate, then have great sex. (The man could totally eat pussy, let me tell you. I mean, OH MY GOD could he EVER. I’d tell you all about it except this really isn’t That Sort Of Blog.)

Anyway, I dropped out of MIU around this time because they’d finally pissed me off too much, and I ended up working full-time at Telegroup while I applied to the University of New Mexico.

The era at the Kirkwood house ended, and MLD and I ended up summering with T. & D. at this fucked up country house they were housesitting. (The house was huge and disgusting, and somehow three couples ended up there that summer, but the story of the house and all the strange shit that happened there – all three couples had identical fights over and over – is a whole ‘nother post.) When the summer was over, T. & D. loaded me and my shit into their truck and drove me to school in Albuquerque.

I’d asked MLD to come with me on several occasions. He was miserable in Iowa and had nothing else to do – not in school, no job, many of his friends and classmates had moved away – but he declined. And declined. And declined.

Okay, so, he’ll fuck me, but he doesn’t really like me enough to move three states away even though he clearly hates it here. Okay, fine. Story of my life. Whatever.

Continue reading On Isolation →

In which I can’t think of anything clever, so will bore you with a few mundane details just so you know I’m thinking of you.

My fingers still hurt from playing my guitar.

I’m not sure I’m in love with the idea of an always-home, unemployed husband. Ahem. (He just read this line and said, “Why?” I said, “Because you’re in my space.” He sort of chuckled and went out to do something butch with his chainsaw.)

I suck at writing lyrics, which is weird for a vocalist. Don’t you think?

Band practice last night devolved into a two-hour discussion – with pizza and beer – in PK’s living room. I had so much fun. I adore those people. We didn’t play much, but it was fun to hang out.

I’m sick of doing laundry. I do so much goddamned laundry you’d think there were six of us living here instead of two.

I believe I’ll go make a huge pot of chili now. Hope your day is fantastic.