Candy for me tonight!

It is the mother's tradition, to send one's child into the cold to forage for chocolate.

I'll be hovering around on the sidewalk, so I'll have done a little work, too. Hence, I'll earn each Almond Joy and Snickers I steal, just as my mother before me earned her candy corn and Sweetarts.

About about ten days ago, I told my son to hit up his dad for a Halloween costume over visitation weekend, thinking it'd be a good way for me not to spend the bucks as well as something for them to do together, as in go to a store and shop. Later, I learned ex did it the online way instead and, last Wednesday, the Darth Vader costume arrived. Now this was not just any Darth Vader costume. After shipping it cost $85. It better last a few years, but it appears to be a hearty one, built to weather a number of wearings as long as we can keep all the accessories together.

So tonight I hope the force is with us, the chocolate force, that is. We're going to do what I call 'drive by trick or treating' and hit up the good neighborhoods.

Good averages

Norma and I, +/- sons, have now been walking for 12 weeks. For motivation, I marked on my calendar each time we walked. We've gone out 52 times, so we're averaging over four times a week. That is better than I ever could have anticipated.

Since my asthma attack recently, she's being uncharacteristically concerned, kindly foreseeing lung limitations that don't really exist. She keeps monitoring my asthma and asking if I want to stop our walking because of the cold. Yesterday, she first said to sniff the wonderful fall air, then, oops, corrected herself telling me she that maybe I shouldn't with my allergies. She's sweetly over conscious and over cautious, but generally people are the opposite about such, especially if they don't have allergies to worry about themselves, so I don't mind.

Sunday we walked by a river and a bridge. Like most kids, my kid is fascinated by echos and he realized that the bridge produced one. Of course, crackpot Norma had to produce another.

son: hello
bridge: hellooo o o
Norma: helloo

son: ouououou
bridge: ouououou ou ou
Norma: ouououoouououou

son: hehe ha
bridge: heee ha
Norma: hehehehehe ha!

finally...
son: Norma has a big, fat butt.
bridge: Normaaaa...buttttt
Norma: Norma is a wonderful woman.

Indeed.

No poop talk

We don't often talk about poop around here. Diapers are long gone, but even then I didn't dwell on the poop because I really preferred each changed diaper to be a done deal. The cat's stray poop is about as bad as it gets now. Well, last week, the worst was a neighbor confronting the owners of pooping dogs.

As of yesterday, we have moved into new territory. My son has his first pimple on the side of his nose. He's had small red bumps, but this is the first to develop a head.

It took everything I had to not pop it, tweezer fingers of mine just itching. Instead I put salicylate on it, the best pimple remedy evar.

When I told J that he had a zit on his nose, him being a boy and completely oblivious about it, he reacted in a strange way. Strange to me.

"Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhu," was all I heard as he digested the news. It was a Beavis moment. Seems that he's happy.

He asked, "Does this mean I am a teenager?" and I quickly screamed/pleaded/begged, um, said, "No, teenager begins at 13 and pre-teen is about 10-12."

He mused, "But I'm only nine!" Close enough, I guess.

Se we revisited how his body changed recently, how his chest and shoulders (and belly) filled out over the summer. He used to be on the slender side and now he is appropriately fuller and entering puberty. Whoa, he liked that word puberty.

Pub.er.ty ... Pube.r.ty.

Off to buy him his own tube of pimple cream. Before I know it, he'll asking for other kinds of cream... or just stealing it.

Everybody's got one

An opinion, that is.

 

Like the rest of the world, I've been following the Mad*nna adoption frenzy, one I do believe was created and perpetuated by the media.

 

Here's Sharon Osb*urne in The Sun:

“Please give me a break, it is like getting a Louis Vuitton handbag.

It is a crock of s**t. If she wants to help the kid she should have got the father a little trade going, a fruit stand or something like that and built him a mud hut.

If the kid is sick then get him a doctor, what was the father supposed to do, he can’t read or write.

She should have left him in his own culture, that is what I say.

Madonna should have given the money to an orphanage, got them a 24-hour paramedic.

She bought a baby for God’s sake.”

I will readily admit that I am not exactly a Mad*nna fan, although I will reservedly admit to dressing Susan-ish in the mid-80's.

 

Seems that the biological dad says he was goaded to rant a few days ago and he's come back around. He feels that this baby, David, would be dead like his other children if not for Mad*nna, a wealthy person who contributed significantly to the orphanage that housed David.

 

According to another article I read yesterday, it seems that the laws, particularly in Africa, are quasi and subject to change, so while it appeared to some organizations that Mad*nna may have broken laws, she was following the laws of a region where she found no abiding laws.

 

I think Sharon Osb*urne is quite off base. She is saying the wealthy should not adopt, but then again many of the non-wealthy adopting are accused of Buy Buy Baby, too. It is absurd for Sharon to think that Mad*nna could throw money at a third world country and suddenly invent an infrastructure capable of suddenly blossoming an weak economy. Or that it could be in place to save a baby sick right then with pneumonia.

 

Even Mad*nna ain't all that.

 

Read this transcript for an agency view of international adoption. This adoption professional helped Angie in Ethiopia last year.

 

Look to Angie and Brad again for the next frenzy. They want a child from India by Xmas.The closest I've heard to a squabble out of them, they can't agree boy or girl. If my count is right, it'll put them with three under the age of two.

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To catch up

For some fucked up electronic-plagued reason, the edit of my last real post didn't come through. Here is the next installment.

The other night after our walk, Norma introduced me to a neighbor near her. I'll call this kindly older lady Mrs. Genteel. She was very pleasant to to talk to, but then she kind of got on a rant as she sought Norma's advice. Seems that she has neighbors who let their yip yip dogs out in the mornings unmonitored, so the dogs crap all over the place. It makes Mrs. Genteel quite angry to hear the barking, for them to poop in her yard, and for them to dare to bark angrily at her as she attempts to herd them back to where they belong.

Mrs. Genteel has tried to take this up with the owners, but she feels like a language barrier is invented so that they do not have to "hear" or respond.

To this, Norma piped up, "Tell them that you shoot dogs ... (pause to see their reaction) ... that aren't on leashes. That'll make it clear whether they understand." Then Norma turned to me and said, "Yeah, just ask Cricket, I shoot things already."

Okay, new computer and new modem..

pshhhhhhhhhhhbbbbrrrt

I'm so fast you can't even see me. When one stays behind on technology, even buying new on the cheap end feels like cool, bubbling, rushing waters.

And just as I decide to write off Tom, he called last night and we talked for an hour and a half. He is truly a nice person. He said right at the outset that he has been extremely busy with work (short staffed) and that he has his kids this weekend and travels for work through the next weekend.

I'm okay with that, just aware. I'm not sure aware of what, but something. Most recently I was with a guy who refused to do anything but put his kid first and I was married to a guy who refused to do anything but put his work first. I need to be higher on the totem pole, so I'm aware. Just aware, and taking notes.

Basically, we like the same stuff. We really like doing the same things and have both taken our kid(s) to the same places. He hasn't been to any of the concert venues, saying he didn't have anyone to go with, so that's an opening for the future. He did mention his old church once, but I didn't pursue it. No need to provide a dose of atheism so soon.

I had a post last week about my volunteer thing, but it was too much a rant. I'll admit, I've had the same rant in my head before about my last of respect for a few service professions who actually buy into their own martyrdom, so the rant last week wasn't an aberration. Maybe I'll revisit it.

PS - Blogger down for service beginning 2pm PST.

PPS - It is fucking amazing how much one can get done when the computer is dead. Then when the modem is dead. My kitchen is happier.

Triple effect

Computer died

 

External modem dying a slow death

 

Plastic is hurting

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Norma on a rant

Norma gave me a lesson on rush hour traffic. It began as she was telling me how she would not let our strange old maid neighbor, Rhonda, who I've talked about before concerning lawn issues, cut in front of her during the morning commute. Norma figured that Rhonda could get in line with the rest of them, Rhonda theoretically capable of planning ahead for her left turn instead of speeding in the right lane and veering and cutting off a line of people.

Norma's a M*rmon badass and, if I were in the situation, I, Atheist Heathen, would be much too cooperative and polite, figuring that dingbat Rhonda obviously forgot the fucking specifics of her fucking daily commute and, added to that, how close she purposefully cuts it each day. The situation gave Norma quite a charge, her figuring that her own commute and time are no less significant than Rhonda's. However, she dared to wave 'hello' to Rhonda the next morning.

Our rush hour traffic conversation progressed.

You know how when you're set to merge left into interstate traffic that is barely rolling? I usually ease into a nice opening that someone has made instead of riding it out to the end of the merge lane. I have a 'Johnny on the spot, the sooner the better' mentality. Oh no, Norma said from years of experience. Oh no. People really don't like that because that person behind you is going to unfairly have extra people coming over at the end of the merge lane because of you and the way things default to alternating down there. Always ride it out to the end, she admonished. I thought it was pretty hot doggy and kind of greedy going to the end, to go as far as the line would allow and pass by all the others waiting. She says riding it out to the end is the way it should be; each car in the existing line then only has a single car merge in front of it.

She says it's the difference between the casual driver and the regular commuter. Rookie mistake.

She asked if I know how you twirl your finger and put it to your head? Crazy. Cra.Zee. was her pronunciation. Norma said her finger broadcasts to fellow drivers that they're Cra.Zee. all the time, then she laughed, saying that she's probably the biggest nut out there.

I love Norma.

Used to be, Norma would shoot out tires with her index finger. As of the other day, she admits she shoots the car and, if it invisibly hits the person, then so be it.

I'm not a great Christian, she declared. I think I should start calling her Road God Warrior.

Granted, she has an awful commute. She confessed that she wishes she had a gun and wonders what ever happened to vigilante justice. The police aren't doing anything, so vigilantes should take care of traffic matters. She said it's a good thing she didn't go into law enforcement like she'd wanted when she was younger; she's confident that she'd react too much. She also said it's a good thing she doesn't have a gun, because she knows she'd be the one getting shot by it.

We were on the phone and I was giggling so hard, I was rolling on the bed and could not breathe. It felt good, Norma on a rant.

Pardon me

while I take a nap.

I have been unusually tired of late, often napping during the day. Can't figure out the cause. The only times I am routinely tired are the days +/- my period starting, but that isn't the case right now. I think my thyroid is behaving, but I have a check up for that (and my cervix) soon.

My diet has slid lately, but I have been able to keep up the walking. My son loves it too much and my M*rmon neighbor calls too often for me to get over on it. We're still averaging 4-5 times per week. My old age is catching up; hips and knees complain so I am contemplating a doctor's visit. Although it needs confirmation, I believe I have broken both knee caps, the most recent one on Valentine's Day and the previous about six years ago, and I wonder if there's anything at all they can do. I'm probably doing the prescriptions already: lose weight (check), exercise (check), take Advil (check). Also, for reference, my bone densities are stellar.

Continuing my healthful (cough) lifestyle, last night I walked to the bar that I'd met Tom. As it turned out, I drank all of three beers, but I wanted to feel free to have what I wanted without driving. My goal wasn't to see Tom, as he as he'd had a week to call but didn't. I have written him off, figuring his tendency toward the introverted has gotten the best of him, despite our lively and conversational times in person and on the phone. Actually, life is so much easier without the diversion.

My goal last night: to get to the closest bar I could walk to for an adult atmosphere, something which is generally lacking in my household. I wanted to chat up some big people. Also, when you really crave first hand smoke, second hand will suffice. I could be a smoker so easily, but I luckily have the same self control as when I denied myself c*caine all those years ago. I knew I would like it, so I didn't try it. I think the cooler weather being called football weather translates to being reminded of cigars-while-tailgating weather. I miss my little green guanas.

At the bar, I got the adult atmosphere I craved and I met some cool people. One lady is going to volunteer with me on my school project and I am basking in the serendipity of meeting her. Later with some other folks, I got in a rather heated argument concerning some local goings on. By the end we all kissed and made up; they understood my point of view even if they didn't agree with it. Apparently, it is a common local bar altercation. Points of view have a lot to do with specific demographics and I was younger than all of them. The bartender apologized to me as he handed me my tab and I still left him a tip.

It really is a swinging hip place. (ha) My achy hips fit right in.

Theatre of the Absurd

In what sort of altered universe doth she speak? Is there a place in the fertile world, aka The West, where a woman can be four months pregnant and merely suspect twins? What? Not confirmed? There are no ultrasounds performed in LA? Tom Cruise cornered the market?

Eddie Murphy and Mel B Might Have Twins

Mel B is reportedly pregnant with Eddie Murphy's baby, and could even be
expecting twins. The former Spice Girl - real name Melanie Brown - gushed to
staff at the exclusive Le Bra Lingerie boutique in West Hollywood that she was
four months pregnant while shopping on Saturday (10.14.06). A store spokesman,
Andy Behrman, confirmed: "Melanie Brown came in and was telling everybody she
was four months gone. "She said she suspects twins because they run in Eddie's
family."

Life is surreal.

Besides, don't the twins have to run on the mother's side or is there an egg-splitting super sperm in their altered universe?

He declared, "Give me liberty and privacy!"

I helped in my son's class today. I was leading a reading group of five that happened to include him. With all the experience I've had with leading kids reading, it was fun.

Beforehand, the teacher pulled me aside. She said that yesterday's class assignment was to write about their family. My son refused. He didn't not want to write about his family, so she allowed him to work on another writing project.

A little alarmed, the teacher asked me this morning if there is anything she should know. I was baffled, saying things have been fine in both homes. I said that, although it seems rampant, often times he's the only kid of divorce in his class or on his team. Perhaps he feels different, but I didn't think it was an "issues at home" thing.

After I led the reading group, the teacher asked if I would help proof the kid's writings about their families from the day before. I think she asked me so I could prod him. J refused to get his, saying he didn't write anything. When I asked him why he didn't write anything, he replied strongly, "My family is private. I do not want to write about it here."

Ahh, third grade and already a Libertarian.

Perhaps it comes from the lectures he gets.

Dad: brfffffrt
Son: I can't wait to tell my mom about that one.
Dad: I will tell you again. What happens with your family stays at home. You do not need to tell anyone that Dad farted.
~
Son: Dad farted.
Mom: You know you should not be telling me this.
Son: But I tell him when you fart, too.

See, it's not a product of divorce thing. It is an appropriateness of a point thing. Maybe it's sinking in and the pendulum has gone a little too far.

We're big pants people

Kudos for title recognition.

 

I am down over 25 lbs now. It has been an excellent gift to myself, even if the thyr*xine did most of the work, my little Thyr*id B1ack Beauties. Granted I am trying to eat decently, but I am not vigilant about it. The walking helps, too.

 

The other night I lamented to Norma that I am still wearing the same pants. It's not that I want to buy more pants right now and I could probably go down a size, but, folks, I am wearing the same pants. They are most baggy on the legs and are prone to dragging, but, folks, I am wearing the same pants. I don't think my waist has changed significantly. We concluded that I must have lost more in my upper body and legs than middle and that each time I gain or lose weight it has a different pattern. My face is thinner, but not 25 lbs worth.

 

Over the weekend, I was going through digital pictures and happened upon a (probably purposefully forgotten) picture of P and I standing together a year ago. As the resident picture taker, I am in few. Of course, this is by design.

 

The picture is from around the time I was at my highest weight. This was maybe two months after I'd begun thyr*id treatment, but while I was still underdosed.

 

All I can say is OMG! I can bitch and moan, but it is unfounded. I emailed it to Norma and she had the same reaction, except she'd never say the G part, of course.

 

I hope this gives us motivation to keep up walking when it's cold; she's been bummed because walking and yoga haven't done their trick on her yet. I tried jogging a little last night, but wound up with a full blown asthma attack - not sure if it was the exertion or the cold, but it was unpleasant. I think I'll stick with walking for now.

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Prolonging the magic

I called Tom this evening. I know, I know, one does not call on Friday evening and let on to no other plans. I figure I have a kid at home, so J's excuse enough to appear as a homebody.

 

Tom immediately said he got my message from Wednesday, but couldn't call back because of the no ID thing, him not knowing what I'd done. Of course, the no ID thing came up again right then when I called, too, as he commented, so I said I'd try to figure out what was causing that. I'll explain better if he brings it up again. Using *67 certainly seemed to call attention to itself. I am sure I would have gotten a call back if I had not used it, but that's okay, too. Patience is a virtue and I am such a virtuous person.

 

We talked for probably 30 minutes, not missing a beat from the other night. Ha! I didn't make up some false rapport in my self-conscious head. We talked a lot about local sites and recommended a few to each other. He loves playing the local tourist like me and he takes his kids everywhere. Did I mention that our exes only live a mile or two apart, with he and I living less than a mile apart? Funny.

 

He asked my schedule and I said I might have Sunday evening off as a trade back to ex for last Wednesday when ex's daughter was sick and he didn't want to infect J. Turns out, Tom has a big festival day planned with his kids on Sunday, so he asked about calling later, arranging something, and hanging out.

 

He's a sweet guy and we have a lot in common. Now to find out what we do not have in common.

 

 

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Removing the sir from the name

In order to get my life moving along, a while back I decided to contact my lawyer about taking back my maiden name. Have any of you done that? I'd contemplated it for a long time and finally decided that the change would be good for my psyche; it would put the men in my past farther in the past; it didn't really matter if my son and I have the same surname; and hey! I have the time to do it now sans relationship. Most importantly, I would become a virgin again. [Okay, I'm fibbing there.]

 

It's been twenty years since I had this name, one that screams ethnicity and tradition to me. I love my maiden name. As expected, I have made mistakes introducing myself. I did the same when I got married and I guess I finally feel officially unmarried. I have come full circle.

 

I've been in the process of notifying all the many appropriate authorities, institutions, and dives. Remember, I'm not so good with paperwork, deadlines, stamps, envelopes, legalese, or anything resembling a job. I am waiting for the especially frustrating change exchange to occur, but it blessedly hasn't happened yet. [Did I say blessedly?]

 

It is a lot of work, just as much as I expected and the very reason I'd put it off, but I am feeling good about being my old self again. Although I know this will be a long process and new yet forgotten reasons to submit changes will continue to come up, I guess I'm losing some baggage that has stretched out over a long time in the process.

 

Someone once commented to me how odd it is to remarry and keep a first husband's surname, but how common that is. I always knew that if I remarried I would go back to my maiden name rather than take a new one.

 

Ever prepared, I will be ready if the opportunity presents. Prepared, that is, to not have to change my name ever again.

 

Certainly not for a man.

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Infertility in the stars

What a week for revelations, I mean besides Tara admitting to awful plastic surgery.

The rumors flying around Madonna seem to have panned out. She's adopting a toddler from Malawi who lost his mother and whose father/family approves of him moving up the opportunity ladder. Life outside an orphanage, regular meals, schooling... that dad is a loving and generous one, however despite all the glam, I sure would hate to be Madonna's kid. She doesn't even allow cola.

The real news behind this, because we all suspected the Angie factor in play already, was the infertility message.

Life & Style reports that Madge and Guy are definitely in the process of adopting a boy from Africa. An insider close to the star says the adoption follows three years of fertility treatments. "They just couldn't get pregnant again," the insider says.

But then Perez had to add, "Congrats to Madonna. Whether its through adoption or having your own, babies are a beautiful thing!" Sorry, silly Perez, your sentiment was right on, but you missed the mark completely. Thanks, though, for at least being the only gossip blogger referencing Madonna, Guy, and infertility, as far as I could tell.

Shifting gears. Okay, Madonna put up with a week's worth of adoption rumors, but poor Sandra Bullock has been hounded about pregnancy since her marriage. Many times when this happens, when there's a little pooch, I worry that it is an ART-induced pooch and the questions are insult to injury, real injury in the form of fertility pills and potions. Sandra put that "Are you pregnant?" frustration into words this week:

Bullock whipped around, got right in the reporter’s face, and pointing her finger, yelled: “Oh my god that is just a disgusting question. And you know what? What if I couldn't have kids? You know what? That’s the way you make women feel when you ask them that question."

Not only does she have a potential ART pooch, she has an ART mood!

Not usually a fav, she's growing on me.

==========

ETA: How dare I neglect the J Lo angle, because contraception is everyone's business and Billy would not have asked this of Marc or if Marc was there, so it is sexist as well. J Lo was quite generous. Maybe Sandra makes house calls providing her coal raking services.

From PopSugar:
Billy Bush clearly doesn't think before he speaks. The Access Hollywood host made a total embarrassment of himself harassing Jeremy Piven at the Emmys, sending Eva to the hospital, and now awkwardly asking J Lo during an interview if she's "actively precaution free." Is he serious?

“What about children of your own?” Billy asked, “Slowing down the career and having that family … are you going to do it?”
“Yeah, yeah. I mean I do want to do it,” the 37-year-old superstar answered. “But I guess it’ll happen in its own time, naturally. I always say the same thing and we’ll see.”
“Is it up in the air?” Billy followed up, “Are you actively precaution free?”
Before Billy could add to the question, Jennifer began to laugh out loud, in mock disbelief.
“Did he say precaution free? If Marc was here, I’d be getting a signal like [cut it!],” she laughed.

Better off dead

About the P post and missing him, to clarify, I am not generally wallowing in sadness. I mostly miss my friend and the things we did together. I sort of celebrate that by acknowledging those things and not being angry anymore.

I finally confided in Norma about it this evening. Even more pragmatic than I, she thinks I have elevated him to being dead.

In her online singles dealings, she finds that the divorced guys are angry and bitter, basically hating women. Opposite this, the widowed guys all had married saints on pedestals, the loves of their lives.

Makes sense to me. I probably love P now more than I did six months ago, because I do not have to focus on the crap. Norma's right. I have to keep reminding myself that P is dead to me. And remember there were many things I didn't like, but do this without getting angry again.

Great plan. Easy plan. Yeah.

While J was with his dad this evening, I began to call Mr. X, who I will call Tom. As it turns out, ex need to bring J back and this happened as I was about to dial. It took a lot for me to get to that point, as I'm not really a phone person, but I'm proud that I tried again later after I sent J to be babysat by the TV.

There was no answer, but that may have been because I used the *67 thing and came up as Scary Anonymous Caller Who Wants to Sell Tom Something. So, I left a brief message, told him my name for the first time, and said I'd call back. I hope to do that tomorrow, if I can get my nerve up.

I also told Norma about Tom tonight. In our extended conversation Norma exclaimed that Tom doesn't stand a chance with the ghost of P. It is food for thought, as I figure I have progressed a long way in getting over P, am done with anger, need to be done with lamenting. I figure a diversion might help, although I do not want a big deal of a diversion. A simple diversion. That might be alright.

Beyond DVDs

I may have mentioned it once or twice, but I like movies and really appreciate DVDs. I like the big movie experience, but revel in the Special Features on a DVDs. I also like to rewind... and look at a nice ass again.

I recently saw Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, something I wanted to see in the big movie and missed by a day. I'm glad I finally caught up with it, a very entertaining movie. I mentioned in the past that I am a Val fan, but this flick was done before Troy, I am assuming, because he lacks the Dunlaps Disease. Robert D*wney, Jr., eh? Fine, he was in it, too.

I must admit the DVD was life altering in my tastes because of the commentary. I figured Val would be charming and Robert would be bright, but scattered. Instead, mostly, Val was obnoxious. He has the reputation of being difficult on the set and I understand that now. It is mostly in the detail and in the mouthiness, a thoroughness I understand, but would never be so pompous as to voice repeatedly.

At the outset of the commentary, Val said to count how many times he proceeded to name drop and he would post the number on his personal website, the winner getting some sort of pseudo prize. Robert acted as if he were counting and Val would remind him to count. Val would get on a string and just BS to list actors he'd starred with, ancient writers, modern artists, you name it just for the name dropping game, which was actually Val's desire to be considered along side greatness, yet make it pseudo funny. It wasn't. I could not watch/listen to the whole commentary. He had to dominate everything. It made me sick. It made me glad Val has a script when I usually see him.

But it made me very happy to have the two main stars in a smaller budget/paycheck movie come together to do the commentary. A for effort.

I've also recently watched Mr. & Mrs. Smith. First, to get these details out of the way, why didn't I realize that the premise is that Brad and Angie are in marriage counseling? The irony!Also, why the fuck did I not know what fucking Vince Vaughn was Brad Pitt's partner in crime? The irony! The intent?

Further, I was astonished at how Angie and P's daughter, L, are so much alike in their body language. Watching Angie, I had flickers of memories which developed into full out reminders, me surprised that Angie stirred these flashes and images. Angie's eye roll matches L's, as does her shrug, her head nod, her face set, her eye squint. It was eerie and completely unanticipated. Angie does a good teenager as she is trying to play an assassin. Go figure.

This DVD sucked concerning the commentaries, excepting the sheer number of them. This single DVD contained four versions of the flick. Four! One commentary with director/photography guy, one with some producers, one with editors/special effects people. Where were Brad and Angie? Jetting around as philanthropists, not to be bothered with the loose ends of a movie? That's why I like commentaries, to decipher the real personalities, and I don't like when the commentaries or interviews are lacking. Honestly, I don't really care about the real personality of the editor.

I do know dick

I have to think about a dick I know to come, so I probably wouldn't make a great lesbian. It can't be anonymous or contrived. I visualize "my man's" dick, the one I know best, not any previous. For a long time even after separating and divorcing, I still thought about ex's by default. He had a good dick, better than he gave himself credit for. Huge head, girth. Good dick when his brain stopped hating me long enough to keep it inflated, when he broke down and decided to actually use it on me instead of using it against me.

Now, I think of P's dick. Still. He has a good dick, too. Knew how to use it. Drippiest I've ever seen. A glorious mess. He's so brown, his dick is quite brown as well, moreso even. Uncut. Nice dick. Worked well. Didn't become uninflated, because he loved me and didn't resent me. Correction. Love. I know he still does. To his core. Like me back to him.

The other night I thought of his dick. And I sobbed afterwards, well, during the afterwards. I miss him more that messy mascara-running tears could completely portray; it's not the first time he brought on and simultaneously ruined an orgasm in the last few months. I miss his dick, but I really miss him. His birthday is coming up and I want to talk to him, send him flowers even, per those stupid fucking flower company reminders I get by email. I want to tell him that I miss him, that I love him, that I still fondle products in the grocery store because of him. I'm silly and he makes me sentimental. I carry him with me, even as I know I am generally getting better about it all.

Marking the seasons apart, I am disappointed and frustrated that I can't tailgate and go to games for his team; each week I catch a glimpse of them on TV and check scores, reports, like a real fan, which I am now. I am befuddled that all my shirts, hoodies, and sweaters are his team colors and I don't want to allocate the bucks to buy replacements, so I feel like I still look like his girlfriend. I wish the Chucks he bought me weren't corny team colors. Yet I sometimes wish I could be corny with him again.

Quiet as I can be, I rarely talk to myself, but now I talk to him a lot. Sometimes I whisper what is on my heart; sometimes I simply tell him that I miss and love him, that I thought of him with this or that circumstance or news item or joke... not that he hears. Not that he'll ever hear. I could never contact him again, considering we are over, considering how things could never work, considering how I burned bridges with my last response, wishing him out of my life after that surprise birthday email from him. It was too painful to have him dropping in half way, being reminded of what I could not have.

Oh, what I would give for it to be possible to have him in even half way.

I hate dating. I hate the chase that others enjoy. I much prefer the capture. Greedy, I want to skip to the prize.

ETA: Perhaps Abby hit it squarely on this one, God's Gift, and my tactics are all wrong.

One area in which I am consistent

About a year ago, Churp, Churp turned 50,000 tricks, preceding my one year blogging anniversary by about a week.

This week, Churp, Churp will go over 100,000 tricks and next week it turns two years old.

I think it's funny. Bad or good, it all comes out in the wash. The pendulum swings and winds up where it was headed anyway.

I've thought seriously about stopping blogging for various reasons over time, but I have kept it up. I've received so much appreciated support and insight here when times were tough. Now that times are easier on the home front, I hope I'm good for a laugh at least. Seeking the laughter 1) keeps me focused and 2) keeps me writing. The last one is my overall goal: to be a good writer as I honestly chronicle my life for my own edification. That doesn't mean becoming a world-famous writer with a book deal. It means being someone who can observe details, nuances, and dynamics, recording it so seamlessly that you understand all the motivations and think you're there.

I figure I have conveyed those things about me fairly well, like me or not. You understand me and my motivations largely because I can write them fairly well and I don't mind being vulnerable in the process.

Now to go add a place to my StatCounter display. Thanks for coming back, all you lovers.

About last night

I went out last night. Not out out, just a little out. I had to return Earl, got another DVD, went to the grocery store to potentially flirt with the produce guy to no avail, bought some pears and lettuce and shrimp anyway, decided to go out for a beer. One. Because of the shrimp. In the car.

 

I was wearing grocery store clothes and my khaki jacket, plus left over make up from the morning. Stunning.

 

The last time I went there was with P in the Spring, one of the last times we saw each other, and I had not been there for over a year before that. I am not a regular.

 

The bar seating was almost full, so I sat in one of the two only open stools, the closest one, between a guy and a woman. The guy on my left was listening to the conversation on the side of the woman to my right, but he was not really talking. I wasn't sure if he was with a different woman on the other side of him, but he didn't have a ring on.

 

Do you know how many years it as taken me to even think to look for a ring?

 

The woman on the other side of the guy asked for the TV to go to sports and I gave her encouragement, which I guess gave him encouragement. Turns out he's a nice guy, nice enough looking, too. He went to the bathroom and my eyes followed him. I realized how broad his shoulders are and I'm not even a shoulders girl. Very nice. Great tush, too. He's a western rodeo guy. Literally. Simple, but smart. Introverted, but conversational. Not suave or flashy, just genuine. Nice.

 

Another guy on the other side of the woman that was sitting next to him by default reaped the attention of the woman who I inadvertently bumped. I'm not sure he was happy for the transition. She had a waddle. That other guy went to the bathroom. I was looking at the TV on the opposite side of where he'd sat when he was coming back and he caught my eye as he returned from the bathroom. He winked. Shocked, I automatically sent him a questioning look, wondering if I saw that right. In return, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. I went bug-eyed. Literally. Ballsy guy, he winked at me behind the back of the woman he was talking to and the man I was talking to. He then looked away and then looked back at me. I saw him in my periphery as I continued to look past him, digesting that wink. I think he liked that I was stunned. He wasn't ugly, but maybe if he had been more handsome... I don't know. He's most probably a schmuck.

 

I'm not a bar fly type. Unfamiliar language and signals. I don't pick up men or do bar flirting stuff. Well, once. In over twenty five years.

 

The guy next to me and I talked a lot. I could tell he was comfortable. He got another beer, but he was walking home nearby, not driving. I could have walked; this restaurant with a bar is near where we walk with Norma and Ben many nights and the guy lives just on the opposite side. I like a guy who worries about a DWI.

 

We agreed that we're pissed that our exes have and don't deserve storybook lives or families. He has two kids, young teenagers, but still fresh and naive, or so he still thinks. He moved here because his ex moved here and he wanted to be near his kids. I told him that I was engaged, am no longer, tried dating, felt too tied down, so have given up for a while. He said he has not had a date for the almost two years he's lived here. He's not the outgoing, pick up type, but I'll admit he's a cute, quiet but not wordless, clean cut mountain man type. As an odd metaphor, perhaps he's a Western geek versus a city geek, the latter translating into being an IT type.

 

I had two beers. More than my intended one. It was time to go get the shrimp in the fridge. I had not even asked the guy his name, but he asked if I would take his number. He asked the bartender for a pen and I felt the eyes of all the bar patrons on me, him, his hand, the pen, the napkin. It wasn't a noisy enough bar.

 

I thought how polite that was, offering me his number instead of asking for mine, awkward as it was. He's the gentleman type, maybe too traditional, too western. But I took his number, perhaps doing so for the first time in my life. He never even asked me my name, probably too self conscious about the dance of giving me his phone number in front of the whole bar.

 

I don't know what to do with his number. It is still crammed in my purse. I understand now why guys don't call. I get it. You second guess the realness, as if we're trained to not trust getting along with or connecting with someone in an odd place, to not expect goodness, so it must have been fleeting and imagined. You don't want to go and ruin something that was enjoyable in that little, encapsulated moment. Maybe I should watch Swingers again.

 

He left at the same time as me. Outside, he walked one way and I went to my car the other. I offered him a ride, as he was barely out of my way, but he wanted to walk. Remember, he's not the suave, pick up type.

 

But I think the whole bar thought he was. Telephone number. Following me out. I guess I have a reputation now and the whole bar will be winking next time.

 

I should bring Mormon Norma. (You should really be laughing now.)

 

 

 

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Get your own web address for just $1.99/1st yr. We'll help. Yahoo! Small Business.

Speaking of which

I just talked about Hedwig, confusing sexuality, and the vision of John Came.ron Mit.chell.

I obsess about Jason Lee and, over the last few weeks, have absorbed (yuck, that sounds like a bad thing) the first season of My Name is Earl.

The two worlds collided on Disc #4 this weekend.

Remember the girl with the BB in her ass episode of Earl? The girl who was a court artist who would do no child portraits? The girl who was Earl's youth-time crush?

She is Miri.am Shor, the gender-defying girl/boyfriend in Hedwig.

Small world.

[If anyone wants to explain about the gender/sex PC thing about which I missed the memo, please give me a primer, although I do have a gender/sex-questionable unherma.phrodite cousin so am familiar in that direct sense. Some time back, I caught on about the objectionable Oriental vs. Asian label, but I think the sex thing must be similar and pissing somebody off somewhere. In other words, I read Bitch Ph.D. and sometimes it just plain goes over my head. I'm a simple short bus rider. I have no water cooler for reference.] [Are you catching my Earlesqueness?]

BTW, I highly recommend Earl's Disc #4 for all the Bonus Features, good behind the scenes and background stuff. Jason Lee parodies himself, Earl, his movie star image. Swoon. He makes me laugh. I do prefer him clean shaven, though.

Great guest actors, too: Adam Gold.berg, Timothy Olyp.hant, Juliette Lew.is...

Questions I will need to answer more fully

My son is a nature lover like me. Considering that he grew up with daily walks in wetlands, seeing such things as a snake devouring a frog, it makes sense. Nature camps are his favorite each summer.

We've discovered and devoured our own new favorite: The Blue Planet narrated by David Attenborough. What a series. We've just finished the last one - four DVDs having eight episodes of the show.

It is a no holds barred representation of the Earth's oceans. Some things are tragic and we found ourselves rooting for the underdogs who too often did not make it. We also often questioned, literally, how on Earth they got the footage.

This evening, we watched our last one: Tidal Waters. Now we've been listening to words like spawning, eggs, sperm, fertilization etc for a few weeks, but real friskiness wasn't explicitly shown much beyond some lumbering sea turtle mounting in the water. One episode when they showed a mile long, wet, ocean, skid mark of semen you could see both from the water and the air, he asked what sperm was and I told him that it was the male equivalent of eggs. He was satisfied with that explanation.

Tonight, as they showed the flat creatures wafting frillily in the gentle current, J turned to me and asked, "Mom, how do sting rays mate?"

My first inclination was to say, "Very carefully."

Or, sorry, but, "Let's ask Steve."

Instead, in shock, I was honest and said, "I don't know."

Jeez, my son used the word, mating, in such a cavalier fashion, as if he fully understood what it meant.

I must ask, however, how can a boy who believes in Santa Claus know anything at all about mating?

Maybe it's semantics

So Gau.tier used a fat model while he simultaneously didn't buck using skinny ones. Are we supposed to be impressed?

What bothers me about it, well, there are a couple things...

• Why do just one? Why isn't there a fat line of clothing by a runway guru? The operative words are line, meaning a variety of items, and clothing, meaning normal day/evening wear and I don't mean that kind of evening.
• Why choose one so large? The article says she weighed almost 300 lbs. She doesn't represent me, either. What about the average, size 14?
• Why say a 300 lb woman wears a size 20? Is this some sort of smoke screen? I was flirting with a 20 and weighed almost 100 lbs less. Maybe if I weighed in kilograms or stones it would come out differently?
• Why have her as the only model wearing revealing lingerie when all the others wore sportswear? Is it the shock value? As stunningly beautiful as Dita is (I've had a girl crush for a while, but I do not share her taste in men), I don't understand how her attendance would be such a big (no pun intended) influence. [All links safe for work.]
• Why can't I find the model listed anyplace else online? Velvet D'Am.our is not listed as an actress on IMDb and that picture seems to be the only picture publicized anywhere.
• Is it not just a whim? Is it more of a ploy? Check out this wallpaper where Ga.utier actually uses cartoon fat women to help sell couture.

What do you think? Are inclusion and diversity the real issues or is it fat exploitation? Or just plain attention hounding?

About which I am psyched

Anybody else excited about the release of Shortbus, the new baby of John Came.ron Mit.chell? According to the reviews, it contains "provocative sex." I am so there, but I'll have to decide which there, as I don't want to get too hot and bothered at the theater with the tall version of Zah.ara J-P and give him the wrong impression. I am owning this swearing off of men.

Okay, confession time. For a long time before I saw Hedwig, I thought it was Hedwig and the Angry Itch, just like he parodies in the flick. I am so boring, predictable, and main stream. I remember watching years of IFC and seeing JCM's blurbs and wondering who the hell that cute, little, edgy, cocky guy was. Now I know and I am a fan. And I think he'll do "provocative sex" proud.

Okay, one more confession. I had never heard the derrogatory slang, "shortbus," before dating P. I've lived a sheltered life. Often rather insensitive, crass, unPC, and, yeah, funny as hell, P would make shortbus jokes all the time. When I first heard it, I thought it was a term peculiar to P and his neighborhood cronies, but then I started hearing it elsewhere, too. For some reason, shortbuses weren't a part of my consiousness. I don't know if they didn't have many shortbuses in the rural South or if perhaps I couldn't tell how short it was from the inside. Maybe we all rode the short bus? Deservedly?

JCM's Shortbus begins opening this weekend, then next week goes wider, but specifics aren't mentioned. It should be fun. JCM is one ballsy guy.

Art history for the 9yo boy

Mother: Look, my son, at this piece by a very famous painter. Unlike the more angular paintings we have been viewing, this on was painted years later. It flows and curls. Instead of being called Dutch Genre, this style of painting is called Baroque. Movement, curves, and colors are exaggerated.
The 9yo, while gratefully resting his feet from the Museum Death March of his own doing, absorbs the work.
9yo son: Wouldn't you hate standing under them?
Mother: Why?
9yo son: Because they don't have on diapers and they would pee and poop on your head. It would be 20 gallons on diarrhea coming down on your head.
Mother: Flow, indeed. Obviously, my work is done here.