People Know Me So Well

Yesterday I told Kim a friend was coming over and I was going to make chocolate mousse.

"Are you going to eat it or play with it?" she asked.

Hee! People know me so well!

Well anyway today I am wearing sexy underwear and hope that is not in vain, but Business tax is certainly in vain, because I have no idea what he's talking about. I guess it would help had I done the reading but a) my book hasn't come yet and b) the bookstore doesn't have the correct tax code and Barnes and Noble was supposed to send it but ?ran out of it? I don't understand.

Business tax is all about something about property transfers and adjusted basis and boot and I don't know what all, none of which makes a bit of sense. He could just as well be speaking Latin for all I understand.

I have been wishing I had this- and now iI found it.

This is totally the wrong time of year for this, but I have been working on Bar Fitness which HURTS LIKE STICKING YOUR HAND IN A WOOD CHIPPER and I was looking for my teaching permit and found it. So this is a Dadaist poem I wrote many years ago composed out of cut-and-pasted Salon quotes.

Do you know why I do not observe Valentine's Day?

I will tell you why I do not observe Valentine's Day.

I don't believe in love. I don't believe in compatibility. I don't even believe in sex.

Do you KNOW why that is? Do you know WHY that is? Do you KNOW how I FEEL?

Because the only thing I believe in
now
is breasts.

That's what I want,
above all,
The only thing I want.

Let me tell you about my girlfriend.

She is a statuesque blonde,
with hair and brains resembling the synthetic floss attached to the heads of Barbie dolls,
with about 90 teeth who farts glowing green gas,
calling attention to her breasts.

I mistook cheap sentiment,
awash in artificial lavender blossoms,
for the REAL THING.
But then I learned:
She had her habit of constantly listening to an ear-shattering rendition of "California Dreamin',"
a heart
of American cheese.

Freudian analysis
as told to
Hello Kitty:
simultaneously vacuous and surreal.

Gooey like paint,
the colors will probably rot your teeth,
like
the cover of a book that tries to persuade you to adopt
a
creepy
new religion,
one with custard
and breasts
and full
tummies.

No, it wasn't her intellect I was after.

It wasn't her personality,
(she once had a life,
but she stopped feeding it, so it just

went

away.)

and it

wasn't

her
loathsome rat
baby
visage.

What she lacks in animation, however

she makes up in cleavage; this impressive attribute has a tendency to entirely take over: it grabs hold of you
and squeezes out all

your better judgment.

Her name is Godreche.

The inert Godreche - who resembles a large stuffed doll - intones to a large, impassive stuffed animal. "You

can't just let

yourself go like this," she cautions a bar

of soap.

Because we were,
as The Cleavage said,
swelling with righteous outrage,
"the seven whitest people in America,"

A bunch of animal puppets ogles her chest, including a ratty, cigarette smoking bunny puppet named Mr. Floppy.

Like an entire Renaissance Faire on stage wires.

We all
have
Moments of doubt.

Wasn't he already in hell?

Their sexual relationship, and his outrageous behavior, scandalized literary Paris.

When have you ever seen a porn star, or any screen heartthrob,

sob after orgasm?

Boldly Going Where Everyone Else Has Already Been

You know, that was not INTENDED to be a pun, but I guess it turned into one? So, no, I did not have sex with you-know-who.

Anyhow, I am back! So today the tax professor asked what happened to my code book, and I said, it hasn't come yet!

And only much later did I realise, I should have said, that's what he said!

Now the title of this entry refers to Martha Stewart's June 2009 magazine, which I just discovered was subtitled, "Take it Easy."

Now Martha Stewart has been duly and deservingly mocked, but I could not really let this lie fallow, so let us ponder what Ms. Stewart considers taking it easy.

Immediately inside the front cover is a rather frightening picture of a lady with an enormous red hair barrette sitting on a cushion, with her knees up, wearing white overalls, a red t-shirt, and Converse, laughing in - do y'all remember that Lily Tomlin character of the little girl in the enormous chair? Or Roseanne Roseannadanna? This lady looks profoundly whatever the current politically correct word for mentally retarded is. The photo spread is an advertisement for Armstrong flooring, which promises, "It only looks like the real thing."

Well I can't say that for anyone I ever slept with, so there.

I can't think of anything of which I ever said, "It only looks like the real thing" as a term of praise. To outline Ms. Stewart's calendar, which she places on the second inside page of her magazine, would be too much bother but nothing in there looks like anyone is "taking it easy." Ms. Stewart includes items such as, on the 23rd, "Yoga," "Friesans and minature donkeys get their annual checkups," and "Leave for London." I do not know what "Friesans and minature donkeys" annual checkups involve, but I would rather hope Ms. Stewart will have to stick her hand deep in their behinds. Then I would suggest reversing the order of "Yoga" and "Friesans and minature donkeys get their annual checkups," because I would think that Yoga would relieve the feelings that you get from conducting annual checkups on Friesans and minature donkeys. Ms. Stewart includes on her calendar items such as "Dinner with the Booth-Clibborns-" Why? Are her readers going to crash the party? She also has listed, "open all windows to circulate fresh air throughout the house," for the 11th, which makes one wonder who exactly Ms. Stewart is writing for and when. June to me seems rather late to begin such a thing, and are her readers so daft this would not occur to them unless she suggested it? Are they saying, Martha opens her windows on the 11th of June, therefore I shall do the same? Ms. Stewart, sadly, has failed to include entries such as "bondage with pool boy," "buy new D-size batteries for vibrator," "drink a whole bottle of vodka," or "make leather restraints for BDSM orgy."

Although the first two or three featured recipes could arguably count as "taking it easy," the third (or fourth) is "cream puffs with lemon curd and blueberry sauce" which features three individual recipes which all look like they take forever to actually prepare.

There is an article on page 44 for "the quest for a good hand soap," which suggests a (hopefully) rarely imitated level of neurosis and boredom. I would rather hope I do not know people who "quest" for a good hand soap, as though this required a concerted effort comparable to questing for the Holy Grail or questing for Eldorado instead of walking into any store and purchasing such a thing. "Most of us pick hand soap based on how it smells or how the container will look beside the sink," derides the article.

I have not even been guilty of this sin; Hand soap is not one of those conscious choices I make, but if I did, it would be soaps I took from EconoLodge.

"But to get the job done- without rubbing hands raw in the process-"

I object to this. Are there large numbers of Ms. Stewart's readers using Lava soap? Are there (ladies, presumably) walking around with raw, bleeding hands waiting for her advice on choosing a hand soap? I hope never to have to shake their hands if this is the case. Is she writing for Lady Macbeth?

Ms. Stewart suggests making a card shaped like a jacket lapel for a pocket square, claiming it is a "gift Dad is sure to appreciate," and features a green and white gingham looking pocket square, and I would love to know whose Dad would appreciate this exactly, because A) no straight white (aw come on, Ms. Stewart can count her black readers on her non-raw hands) man I know would ever wear a pocket square B) my Dad wears velcro sneakers from Kmart and appreciates alcohol and C) theoretically, even if your Dad did appreciate a pocket square? Green and white GINGHAM? How much, exactly, do you hate men? And now we know.

The next page features making a "sack sleeve to match your kitchen decor" for used plastic bags with something called "twill tape."

But the following page suggests several items which strike me as perfect for a really fun and unpleasant practical joke: "Infused liquors are perfect for parties and gifts."

Now that would be fine if she suggested flavours that people would be likely to, you know, ENJOY, but she has suggested, SERIOUSLY:

Fennel vodka and beet-cucumber vodka.

I would like to know, who WANTS fennel vodka? Or what sort of drink exactly would you make with beet-cucumber vodka? (other than a bullshot) Everyone I know is noisy in their denunciation of beets and I can't imagine anyone- and y'all know some of the people I know- saying, yes, let's have some more of that beet-cucumber vodka, mmm!

Ms. Stewart, on the next page, suggests the little black dress as a "new basic," which- who doesn't know about that? That, combined with the beet-cucumber vodka, suggests a reader clueless to the point of imbecility with a serious Sadist streak.

I didn't bother to read the rest of the magazine, so I have run out of criticism, but I would really like (no, I actually would NOT) to meet the person who:

* will copy Ms. Stewart's calendar and open her(his?) windows on 11th June because, "that's when Martha opens her windows!"
* was unaware that the "little black dress" is a basic
* has the level of hostility towards men to gift a green-and-white-gingham pocket square to her (his?)father, in an elaborate jacket card
* will inflict fennel and beet-cucumber vodka on anyone at a party, or as a gift.
* thinks "it only looks like the real thing" are words of recommendation.

Numbers are Inherently Meaningless

Alex is apparently jealous of my Facebook fandom.

He said something about all the people I had "brainwashed."

"Every time you post," he said, "everyone's like, you're so cool! We agree! It's 'cos you brainwashed them."

Well don't hate me because I'm beautiful and smart. Or do, that kind of hate I can take. Even if it is from the neighbours.

Alex had done an interesting job of shaving himself, as in he had also left large unshaven spots under his chin. It was like, if you had a relative, in care, who was being shaved like that, you'd have a prima facie case for negligence. (aren't you happy I talk like that now? Not really.)

Alex reported that he did not care. He had just gone to church he said, and all the people there were dead anyway.

But then why bother at all? He looks like the professor who makes me hungry, all -the-whole-personal-grooming-thing is just not happening. He is supposed to be the normal, I live in a ranch house and eat Cheerios kind of normal person in our family. Not another person who saves used napkins and airs out potatoes in the yard, on the dirt, or saves their used chicken bones in the freezer to boil them up, make soup and then a collage with them. Ok? No.

We tried to take pictures of this but he was fidgeting so they didn't come out.

Then he attempted to criticise me because of my firm position against numbers. I have been frequently quoted as saying, "Numbers are inherently meaningless," because - they are! For example: Your house address could just as well be one number as any other! It doesn't matter which number you affix to it, just as long as it's consistent! The temperature is all dependent on which scale you use, it could just as well be 19 as 73.

Alex objects. "Well," he says, "for example, if you tell Joe, I have 5 apples-"

I (naturally) interrupt him. "Do you have conversations like this?" I ask. "Do you normally go around telling Joe, I have 5 apples, how many apples do you have, and Joe says, I have 3 apples, no you (well, perhaps he does?) do not!"

Alex is forced to concede this point.

"Robin" also dislikes my "Numbers are inherently meaningless" position, particularly when he asks me how far away something is or how long something will take and I tell him, "Four Blocks."

I learnt this from Rob; once we were walking somewhere and someone came up to him and asked him how far something was and he said "Four blocks" and they were satisfied and went away, so now that is what I say when people ask me similar questions.

"But if you were supposed to be paid $1000 and you got paid $4, that number wouldn't be meaningless," he argues.

"But it's not the NUMBER in that case I'm interested in, it's the MEANING of the number," I say. "It's what I could BUY with that number that I'm interested in, whether the number be 1000 or 4. It could be 4 gold coins, for example."

Then today at Georgia State there was no PARKING because of a *^%$#@ baseball game, and I will tell you in great and loving detail what exactly I think they should do with their baseball. I had to park at my externship. It was the distance I would walk if I were in a good mood and good weather but I was in the wrong sort of bad mood to want to walk that far.

O and "Robin" read my blog. "95% of it was funny," he said, "but 5% of it was (somewhat objectionable). I'm glad I don't read it that often."

And I forgot to write that he pretended he was drunk the last night in St. Augustine, imitating me.

"blah blah bloo blooooo blooooooo!" he sang. (I had been singing "Syracuse" at Halloween, and this was what he thought it sounded like.) "Robin" had neglected the fine line between imitating "drunk" and imitating "retarded." "Drunk" generally involves many declarations of love. I should be drunk more so that he has a better idea how to imitate me, but I rather doubt he will agree to this.

Mr. Peabody is apparently no longer speaking to me which- that's his loss, I think!

My new friend suggested that things would be easier if we could beam ourselves places, to which I said I would beam my naked self onto you. That ability would create a whole new area of law, wouldn't it? Imagine all the awful old fatties that would want to beam themselves onto me. I would not like that. I guess you'd have to have a card and have someone agree to receive you but still, there would be many instances of fraudulent/deceptive beaming!

What I Did in Florida

Cruella, where have you been? Are you ever coming back, or what?

Yah well I went to Nashville to see "Robin" and then we all of a sudden (well, he all of a sudden) decided to take a week's vacation and go to Florida. So after establishing that this would not cause my personal bankers to call an emergency debit-card-ectomy on me, we went.

But first I had to do this:

And the Lobsters, although quickly both dead and delicious, exacted their revenge by making the water in the pot overflow which broke "Robin"s" oven. Again. So I did not make Lobster Thermidor but just boiled Lobsters and the Clafoutis didn't happen either.

Well he seemed pleased with his birthday/anniversary (?) presents- a cross, another shell necklace and bracelet and a breadmaker. I also got him balloons and candles and a banner, which made him really happy. No one had ever done this for him before.

We went to St. Augustine, and took a hearse tour, which was a RIPOFF! Those ghost tours are not worth it! The worst part was that the guide asked us -

"What have you been doing since you came to St. Augustine? Walking around, right, just- walking around? Well, that's because the ancient Mayans came here from South America thousands of years ago and just walked around because of the laylines."

This I was not prepared to succumb to believing. The ancient Mayans didn't live in South America, didn't have boats that could go hundreds of miles, and wouldn't have ended up in St. Augustine anyway. He also chided us for being too quiet, but my attitude was I paid 25 smacks so YOU are supposed to entertain us. The tour involved walking around with a thing with lights like a stud finder and looking for ghosts. I would have enjoyed it had he told some good stories, but he didn't, it was some cockamamie muck.

Well, and then we went to Orlando to see SeaWorld and then we went to Tampa and then we went back to St. Augustine and then we went through Savannah and ate at Paula Deen's restaurant and then we came home.

Well a Bad Thing that happened was the car got broken into and the GPS ("Robin"'s GPS) got stolen. 16 cars got broken into. Also the thieves stole a bag of, um, TOYS, from the car which they later abandoned; the police lady was very interested in the toys. She almost looked straight, btw.

"We found something that looked like tools, in a zipper case," she said, "what are they for?"

I thought I would let it go at "toys" but she was rather insistent, and so I described how they are (theoretically) used, because we really didn't play much, which disappointed me.

When I described their use, it did not sound erotic at all. I apparently do not have a future in porn writing, which "Robin" can confirm for you.

Now the GPS being stolen. I just- did not like it. I am old fashioned as y'all know, and on a somewhat unrelated note I might be becoming bionic because yesterday I pulled a rather impressive piece of wood/stick/straw out of my arm? I got attacked by a bookcase (at least that's what I'm claiming) several weeks ago and had a large wound on my arm which has been healing but the wound was getting somewhat bumpy and i squeezed it and this piece of stick pops out of my arm. Isn't that disgusting? So I might be becoming bionic, only instead of having mechanically aided superpowers, I'm turning into a tree? That's disturbing.

Anyway so the GPS, I did not like it because I am perfectly used to navigating by maps. I can understand maps; maps are my friends. I can see where I want to go and connect the dots in between.

Buyt the GPS is not my friend. It unnerved me, because I have so recently learnt to IGNORE disembodied voices. (ha). I don't like that it talks! I find that very disturbing, I can handle machines beeping but not talking. Also I found it gave useless instructions, like turn left in 0.4 miles. That is not helpful to me, because I cannot conceive of 0.4 miles; as many people know, I can estimate neither time nor distance.

Well that is not entirely true; I can estimate distance. But I estimate it as:

Distance I would walk in bad weather if I didn't particularly have to.
Distance I would walk in bad weather if I had to.
Distance I would walk in good weather if I didn't particularly have to.
Distance I would walk in good weather if I had to (about from here to Wal-Mart).
Distance I would walk in good weather if I am extremely angry.
From home to Georgia State
From home to Alpharetta
From home to "Robin"'s house
Mexico.

The GPS doesn't give directions like that, which my directions tend to be "Turn left at the checkers and then go to such and such a street."

And I forgot to point out earlier, we now have a song, or two songs rather; We discovered we both like Van Halen, which is really cool! But "Robin" sang this song which I thought was just the sweetest thing EVER, - (how corny am I?)

and then we both love Elvis' version of Bridge Over Troubled Water. No wussy hippie stuff!

Other highlights: People (not me, because "Robin" doesn't allow anyone around him to drink,) behaving badly.

a three and a half year old girl going round to all the tables in a restaurant and climbing up on the tables, leaning into the candle, and very carefully spitting on the candles to make them go out.

a group of teenagers with an older gentlemen who came from the beach into one of those t-shirt stores and proceeded to wipe the sand/water off of themselves with the store's t-shirts-

And I know I am not supposed to do this but I can't help it.

So the car of a certain person I know needed service so she is concerned that the mechanic will steal the money she has hidden throughout the car. I do not know why she does this. It makes even less sense when you consider she never pays for anything anyway, but makes someone else do it (she always repays them though). So we go to clean out the car, and I want a plastic carrier bag to throw the rubbish away in. She has got piles and piles of old newspapers and garbage in the car.

The first carrier bag she finds is unacceptable because it contains used napkins which she is saving for reuse. That's all I really need to tell you about that.

Then she refused to let me throw away the old newspapers from the car.

Now the other thing was that I bought a lot of food to take up and visit Robin and cook, but I didn't cook all of it. Normally I do two weeks worth of cooking and then he has leftovers for the next week, but we went to Florida. So I bring her the potatoes, which admittedly have probably got frequent-flyer miles by now from going back and forth- if you could get frequent flyer miles by car.

Then I come to help her with the car. The potatoes are all over the ground outside.

O they all went bad, is it? I ask.

No, she says, only some of them went bad, but the rest are "airing out."

eww.