Doin' the time to get the dime. Her Momma did NOT raise her to drink cheap champagne.

April 29, 2004

Smack My Bitch Up

This should really be titled what babies smell like, but, I'm listening to that song right now, so I figured, "What the hell?" You know me, a little whim, a little wine, and pretty soon everyone's clothes are hanging from the chandelier!

The other day, I nostalgia bought (Nostalgia bought: When you buy something because it reminds you of a time a long time ago because of smell, sight, etc., EVEN if you don't fucking need it. Most oftenly occurs when spouse is away.) some Johnson and Johnson (and MOTHERFUCKING JOHNSON) baby shampoo. If there is one thing I am addicted to like crack (worse than that heroin habit I kicked a couple of years back), it is the way that babies smell. Their heads, specifically. Have you ever smelled that? I mean, "should've stopped by to get me high" and all that good stuff, but damn, I could carry a bunch of kids around like a bouquet of squirmy flowers and sniff those like my friend Kevin sniffed Scotch Guard in High School. Consequently, he fell of a building and didn't die because he was so damn high that the doctor said his body was nice and loose. He bounced. God, I love that kid. Kevin Chow, if you read this, you're my hero.

Where was I? Babies. Washing my hair, I opened the bottle expecting to be able to replicate that better times inducing smell on my own head. I opened the bottle, took a big whiff and SNEEZED. What the fuck? It smells like a french whore up in here. Here's another fucking tangent. When D.H. and I first met, I always thought that he was a busy guy (TCWH for male slut) because it always smelled like skank in his apartment. Turned out he was just a clean freak and vaccuumed about 30 times a week with that *gag* scented shit that smells like DING! DING! DING! French whore. Maybe I should say Uruguayan whore? I've never actually been to France, so I don't know what they smell like, but I have definitely seen a Uruguayan whore. And some American ones. And some Russian ones. And some Filipina ones. Hang on, hang on - got to think about it. I'm going to go with the Russian Whores for 1000, Alec. Okay. Washing hair. Open bottle. Russian Whore. I don't mind smelling like a whore - I mean, hey, I work with little kids, how much trouble can it get me in? But a baby? No more baby headed sweetness. Damn you, Johnson and Johnson! Who told you you could fucking change that? Although, I suppose with a name like Johnson and Johnson, you're looking to attract an older clientele...

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April 28, 2004

Step Away from the Cheap Glasses


You know, everytime I hang out with AT and her husband, we drink ridiculous amounts of wine. And at some point in the evening, I put on some ridiculous glasses. These are my Dexter look. And I was almost speaking like him at that point in the evening. Except I don't have a sister named Didi. Hey, you! Be glad I didn't blow this motherfucker up! I'd break your damn computer.

One of my students said that my smile was...funny. Whaddya mean? I growled back at her (No. Not fucking really. Let me live my daydreams, okay! After wiping 27 noses a day, sometimes I feel a little fucking disgruntled) It's girl, who talks 24 -7 was at a loss for words! It's so square! she finally volunteered. All right. I'll buy that for a dollar. Beats getting told that I have child bearing hips. (Note to stupid motherfucker who said that to me: What on God's green earth made you think that I would go home with you after you said that? For the rest of y'all who can't see me, imagine the bewildered WTF? look on my face HERE???!!!!) Psst! Just for next time, compare me to Venus de Milo, okay? She's got some big honkin' hips and people think she is an object d'art! (Yeah, yeah, that's for you Mr. How do I get into a girl's pants on google. I don't care if you're 12 or not. Learn some fucking manners. Shit. Yeah. That would be the sound of me dismissing you right about now.)

When I started this blog, I had every intention of making myself look reasonable all the time, but I thought, what's the fucking point if not a little fun between friends? For that reason, and for the sole reason that I am drinking some Red REd wine (Oh. yeah. You make me feel so fine.), I posted that picture of me. Yes America, I am an asshole too. Here's my motherfucking membership card.

In a random thought, do you ever wonder what happens to the assholes that you went to school with? I went to school with a girl by the name of Samantha Dickinson (and I so hope you do a vanity google so that you can find yourself on here!) who I knew in 7th grade. She accused me of stealing her boyfriend. By the FUCKING way, I was 10. ABOUT 6 years away from puberty you psychotic cunt! (Long story, readers. 'Nother time, 'Nother bottle) Sam, as she liked to be referred to, could not comprehend the fact that I was 10 and she was 13, and that as a result, I was about as sexual as a, Shit...what am I looking for? 2nd time. Better than the first. I was about as sexual as a....eunuch residing in the Imperial Palace catering to the Last Emperor. Although I did eventually "fill out". Poor bastards. She decided that she was going to make my life hell for the last 38 weeks of the school year and did just that. She pushed me into the swing pole, laughed when I fell off because it had struck me from left shoulder to right hip damn near paralyzing me, and then when I had to be picked up later that day came up to me, whispered in my ear and said, "I was pushing you that way because I wanted to kill you." Umm, hello? Social services? She did all kinds of other shit, too. But it was that particular killing remark that just kind of stays with me, you know, just because I'm anal retentive and shit. *dripping sarcasm* So, I just wonder what kind of person she is today. I sincerely doubt that she's working in child care, or sales, or real estate, or as a waitress, or anything that requires interaction with people. Yeah. I'm Jenny MOTHERFUCKING Jones today. Buy me a fucking drink.

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April 27, 2004

Stealing MY Thunder


Hmmm. Um. Hello? Excuse me? Now, I'm not going to point any fingers, but look what I saw on AOL today! Coincidence? I think not! Maybe I am missing some part of a bread trend. Far be it from me to notice. I've had my head up my computer's butt doing homework for the last eon straight. Color me partially disgruntled.

Know why kid's aren't learning anything in schools? Because they're TOO busy participating in Secretary's DAY! Mother's Day! Pan-Asia Pacific Day! Father's Day! Thanksgiving! Christmas! 30th Anniversary Day! Adopt an orphan day! Perhaps the only one I can argue for is Earth day. At least that's educational...grumble grumble. Maybe we'll churn out some good little team players who would do well at Hallmark, but they won't be the sharpest knives in the drawer. But that's okay, because they will damn well sure know how to throw together a mean invitation/announcement/greeting card.

I'm too tired to be funny. All those babies I wanted? FOR. GET. IT. Not a chance in hell. I was standing waiting for the elevator in my apartment building and I saw an OFFICIAL NOTICE , notifying us building residents that all diaper excrement was to be washed down the drain BEFORE diapers were disposed of. There is absolutely NO WAY IN HELL that I would do that. First of all, which drain? A sink? Shit in the sink? That grosses me out so much I can barely type it. That leaves the bathtub, and we all know that's a fantabulous idea. Maybe I'll just toss said excrement off the balcony. We have that shuper shexshy anti-pigeon netting (They are so stupid they just fly up to it, hang on to it and flap their wings for a good hour or so, anyway.), so I think it would land nicely on the neighbors balcony with a kerplop, depending on weight. Trajectory. Angle. It's a diaper! Are you meaning to tell me that all the people in Japan do this, and that is why we have to do this, too? I don't think so, pal. That's it. No tiny tots for me.

WTF? Is today Monday or something?

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April 26, 2004

I'm so Excited! And I Just Can't Hide It!

I finally got some free time to go to the Commissary and buy some bread and (Yay and Behold!) they had reduced fat bread! I have been since reduced to a jealous monster since D.H. has told me that the CommY at ABC Air Force Base is packed to the gills with all things good and yummy. Every time Momma sends me coupons I cry, because we can't get that stuff here. Yeah, yeah, I'm spoiled.

So I got the bread home and was preparing for a lovely sandwich, when I opened the bag. What did I see?

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April 24, 2004


ACE of Base.jpg

I got in the car Thursday...what was playing? (pretend you can hear the cheesy music and my off-key singing. Get in an 80's frame of mind. Ready? Set? GO.) "All I need is a miracle! All I need is you!" I didn't know the rest of the words, so I just dun dun dunneed my way through the rest of it, as I drove around the runway to work. AND, I thought to myself, "Is somebody trying to tell me something? Because I really do need a miracle. In a big ass way. More time. More brain. Less sleep." But I just dismissed it as another random thought. Also, you know my ADD makes it damn near impossible for me to focus on any one thing more than say....Hunh?

After the song was over, Nelly Furtado came on. Except the DJ introduced her as "Nelly FurTARdo" which really bugs the piss out of me. The guy, as a DJ, sucks. Judging from his show, I am guessing that he got hired because he is bilingual. I'm cool baby, I can dig it! I just feel that as a Native English Speaker, he should be literate, too. I think that is probably the only gene? trait? that my parents are proud of passing on to me. A disgusting habit of being obsessively anal retentive about all things grammar. Yes Virginia, my parents still correct my English. How old am I? 28. Yes, I'm a married woman who is one month away from her Master's degree that still gets corrected (at the dinner table no less!) by her parents! *FUN* Actually, it used to piss me off, but, now I am happy that my parents, after shelling out a shitload of bucks want me to reflect that I am indeed educated.

And then I lost the rest of the day to nosepickers and sticky fingers and "are hot dogs made out of weiner dogs?" and crazy assed parents (and we are NOT! NOT! NOT! talking about that.) , but not before I saw a website that expressed dislike in profanity, because we're smarter than that. And I thought (little 'ole me of the "Motherfucker! Shit! Damn! Fuck!" with Tourette like precision) that I AM smarter than that. You can calm down now, because it will be a cold day in fucking hell before I stop potty mouthing it through life. However (and I am SOOO waving my hand through the hair to get you to listen RIGHT. NOW.) , HOWEVER, cursing for me is an art. More than a form of lazy, satisfying self expression, (TANGENT: Which reminds me: It is kind of like lazy, satisfying sex. And I am definitely of the opinion that sometimes that can be the BEST kind. Not everything has to be all damn hot and heavy up in herre, you know? If you disagree with me, well, shut up.) cursing is an extremely effective form of anger management for me. You anger me, I go home and say, "SHITFUCKCOCKSUCKERWANKER," about five or six times, and I feel MUCH! BETTER! Presto! Relief! I no longer feel stressed out. For me, it is not really a matter of intelligence and communication, but a matter of anger management and stress relief. And it's fucking free!!!!! I bet I could market that. How to curse your way to a BRAND! NEW! YOU! Lose weight, too!

So while I'm pretending to write my three papers due Monday! Tuesday! and Wednesday! because I am convinced that rather than let me graduate with a 4.0 the University is conspiring to kill me, I'm really just watching the signs. This much I know is true (Shameless ripoff of book title. Literature, crunch crunch, it's *yummy*!):

1. I need a miracle. If "you" is a person who can do my papers for me, then I need you, too.

2. I am disgustingly anal-retentive and I likes it.

3. I curse, therefore I am.

Linky Linkers: I will get to you this weekend, I PURROMISE. I have not forgotten you, my lovelies!

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April 21, 2004


When I was in High School, my best friend Beth and I used to write notes in list form. Efficient little fuckers, we were. In light of recent events (namely me not having any time to myself), I have decided to readopt that format.

No voice.

Meals for the past three days? Weight watchers for lunch, spinach for dinner. Cheese for breakfast if lucky.

Husband? Far away? Flimsy phone cuts me off. Hello? Hello! Hello? Hello! Can't hear you! Click!

Idle hands scribbled patterns into the carpet to be scrubbed out with RESOLVE tomorrow.

Overwhelmingly large 3 assignments hang over my head. Impending doom. Dun dun dun dun.

Kindergarteners? Kicking my A.S.S. (shh!) Talk. Incessantly. Move. Jerkingly. Picked noses and wiped tears.

Black circles under my eyes? Racoon is out. Well rested is in.


Oh. If you have linked me and would like me to link you back, please let me know. I am all about the RECIPROCITY. Hey! (lightbulb!) I can be a comments whore, and a LINK WHORE! I'll just slap that badge on my whore...on my whore...what the hell is that thing that the girlscouts wear? I can put it in my whorefolio!

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April 20, 2004

Major Woody? Meet Major Asshole

Usually I try not to fucking offend, but it's been a bad day at the grindstone, and frankly, I could fucking care. Less. I came home today to a phone call from DH, to which he told me that he is NOT allowed to get a rental car, nor is he being given any type of allowance because he is supposed to eat in the chow hall. Fine. No problem. ABC Base? Bigger than Anna Nicole Smith's money grubbing ass before AND after her stupid diet, which did nothing a push-up bra and some sit ups couldn't do, by the way. The shuttle? Not until 4:00. P. fucking M. So apparently, not only is DH supposed to walk his skinny little ass to and from school each day (Round Trip 14 miles) , he is also supposed to walk to and from the chow hall (Round Trip 20 miles) every fucking day! His class? Starts at 4. A. fucking M. So the way I figure it, if he leaves the house at around 2:30 am in the morning, he should make it there on time. Thank God he can he can go for over 12 hours without eating, because with all the time he's going to spend walking, he won't have time to grab a bite!

The kicker to this bend over and fuck yourself without the Vaseline is that all the other guys from the other bases (even OTHER BASES IN JAPAN!) all get rental cars and daily allowances. Oh yeah. And the guys who live 20 minutes from the base? Hotel? Check. Daily Allowance? Check. Rental Car? Check. So my question to YOU MAJOR ASSHOLE is this: WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM? You have no problem on signing off for plasma TVs for every shop in the squadron, but you can't provide my husband with a rental car so he can drive his ass the 10 miles to the chow hall to EAT FOR FREE? FUCK YOU! You sir, receive my official MOTHERFUCKER OF THE DAY award. Hell, you might win my MOTHERFUCKER OF THE WHOLE MOTHERFUCKING YEAR award. I could just scream right now, but I don't have a voice, so I'll give y'all a little guidance. Find the Phunk Junkeez. I don't remember the name of the album. Listen to "Devil Woman." Wait until the end. When he says "Fuckin' Bitch" and then screams? That is what I want to sound like.

I suppose I could put my "motherfuckers" where my mouth is and do something military wifely like write a letter to the BIG COLONEL, like so many others do. But let's consider the repercussions. An abundance of those letters make the writers sound like whiny bitches. I don't want to sound like a whiny bitch. I want to sound eloquent and educated. However, I have learned that with some things military, you just bend over and take it. And, I doubt that I could produce something erudite without revealing MAJOR ASSHOLE's real name, much less sounding rational. All of this would just result in a whirlwind of shit for DH, not something I really want to do.

Adding to my motherfucking frustration?

1.) I slept through a dinner invitation from AT and her husband. The bitch of it all? I cannot call to apologize because *HEY!* I can't motherfucking talk!

2.) Shit load! of! Homework! Time for TCWH! None!



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April 19, 2004

It All Started Innocently Enough.

OR Wherein TCWH proclaims her love for gay men.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was whisked away to downtown for some Summer Sunday Socializing. Not very much fun when you have to get up at 5:30 the next a.m. to get ready for school, but my caretaker was not to be deterred, as he had strict instructions from DH to get me out of the house in his absence. Although, I think DH maybe had dinner in mind. Not drinks n' dykes. "Be ready in 25 minutes," he ordered. "I am NOT taking no for answer." So I gathered my sighing self, slithered into the shower, and got ready to go. We chatted all the way down to Tokyo, and within 45 minutes I found myself standing in the balmy night air, Corona in hand, surrounded by a young inebriated gentleman who kept pinching my upper arm and saying, "YOU are so pretty. I like penises, but DAMN GIRL! You take the cake!" He repeated this every 30 seconds or so, and punctuated it with swigs from his own Corona. After the 3rd or 4th time, I smiled at CT and admitted, "You're right, this is just the medicine I needed!" And what girl wouldn't really?

I will say that I was hit on by a young Canadian woman who came right out and said, "Are you gay?" When I replied in the negative, she immediately finished up the tidy little conversation and walked away. "You know," CT shrugged "Time investment and all that jazz." "Sure" I smiled through the lime tidbits swirling around in my teeth (because nothing makes me happier when you go to a bar and THEY KNOW how to serve a Corona. Corona without the lime? It's a fucking travesty. Tragedy.), although I was a little suprised by her abruptness. "Shut UP!" CT admonished "She hit on you within the first five minutes we were here!" So I promptly removed my head from my ass and went about having a *FABULOUS* with a capital FABULOUS time. I was missing DH a little bit, but was glad he was in another country. Last time we went to a party, all the men were sidling up to him and saying, "Wouldn't you rather go home with a real man?" and then giving me the dagger of death eyes when he said he was married. To a woman, no less.

I had such a good time, in fact, that I danced and socialized and flitted around until nearly 11:15. Two hours and fifteen minutes AFTER I turn out of Cinderella into the lonely deployed wife. The highlight of my evening came in this form:
condoms.JPG A young flight attendant that I met who was SO! DAMN! CUTE! handed one of these to me. Thinking that it was a pack of matches (Hey, hey, hey. It was FUCKING dark in there, all right?) , I tucked it inside my shirt collar so that it was sticking out a little bit. This amused him to no end, and he ran off and grabbed another one so that I could stick it into the other side of my shirt. It wasn't until the drive home that CT said, "Honey, you know those are condoms, right?" and I just laughed because I really hadn't had the faintest that I had been socializing around with two condoms sticking out of my shirt. TCWH (THAAAAAT'S ME!) advocates safe sex. The little mascot on there, Bumpy, was just so damn cute, the last thing that I associated him with was sex. And I can hear you now, smirking, "But sure, you associate him with fire? Have another drink, TCWH."Thank you. I think I will! (Psst...if you can't read the small print, because I had to shrink it, it says, "bumpy! says RIGHT THERE!" and "bumpy! says FEELS GOOD!")

Oh what a night! *Twinkle*

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April 18, 2004

TCWH: So Damn Accomodating


Happy Sunday Fair Readers! In the interest of raising site traffic, I have decided to be Ultra (That's right, ULTRA! Like the newest Marlboro's!) accomodating and SUCK IN (You are getting very, very, sleepy. No! Wait! Look into my eyes, damnit! Look into my eyes! Or I guess look into your screen. ::shrugs:: Concentrate, DAMNIT!) anyone who happens by here by accomodating their requests. I'm like Subservient Chicken, only I'm vocal. And I do not perform sexual favors. Or do housework. Or jump and down and quack. Or do anything that the damn chicken does. Thus, without further ado, I present the following: (Ummm. No drum roll here. How about some 70's porn music? Bow chicka wow wow!)

Dear how do i get a girl to let me go down her pants,

Firstly, I must apologize to you. I am sure that upon perusing my site, you were disappointed to find no such advise. Yesterday I stated that you may go fuck yourself or someone else, but apparently herein lies the problem. You have not found the *lucky* lady who will allow you to fumble your way into the immediate vicinity of her *ahem* vagina. That being said, I hope your search was not entirely fruitless. For advice, not women.

Secondly, the issue at hand. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you are all of about, oh, 12. But for legal purposes, I will pretend that you are 18. I will also tell you the same thing that I told my cousin, when we had this talk. If you are going to get a girl to let you go to 3rd base (Because I'm so up on the teen lingo, y'all!), you damn well better be sure that you're ready to invest some time and money. Or go get you a slut, and just get the whole fucking ordeal over with.

What you must first realize is that throwing on some (Insert whatever fucking stupid music you listen to here, like J-Kwon. Let's revisit him. I guarantee you that sharing some pot with a girl and then kicking her to the curb because she won't do what you want her to is not the advice that you need to be listening to.) is not going to cut it. Well, maybe it will, but there exists an abundance of artists out there who I assure you will help you reach your goal.

My personal favorite is this band:SVB.jpg. Throw this baby on the record player, cue it to "Afternoon Delight", turn that shit all the way up, and let the magic happen. If you're old enough, I'd also indulge in some wine. If you're not old enough, which I am sure you aren't, I'd also indulge in some wine. Some nice Boone's farm - although not the blue kind, because it will also turn
your tongue blue.

Hmmm...lost train of thought. Was whisked away while writing for drinks and fun, and now, well...You're on your own!

Wishing you luck!


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April 17, 2004

Guilty Pleasures in Japan

Walking around "THE MALL" with some friends tonight after dinner, I encountered this. I immediately started giggling. The male of the couple, who is probably more accustomed to me being...well, me, said something along the lines of me being perverted. The funny thing is, it never struck me this way. I was laughing at the tummy part. AND, because the first part of the "H" is missing, I though it was "Fold it in your hand" - not that anyone I know has EVER folded a crepe in their hand. Fucking AGIVEMEABREAKWILLYOU? Speaking of which, what kind of excuse will I get to make after I am done with the Master's program on the 19th? What of my stupid remarks then? Guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I then told him that I hadn't thought of it that way, and HE should get HIS mind out of the gutter. Embarrassing for me, really. 9 out 10 times I would have beat him to that assumption. However, I thought this was too good not to share. Hold it in your hand, love it in your tummy. Even more embarrassing was that as I had to get situated to take the picture (And believe you me, with the new toy you get situated, there's a add on to take pictures. But when I have I ever had anything against being conspicuous?), the people working there were saying, "Irasshaimase!" Welcome! Welcome! I felt kind of guilty. I'll get over it.

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On Glass


Half Empty? Half Full. Half Empty? Half Full.

These are the things I am free to do. Half full! Half full!

I may eat potato chips dipped in spaghetti sauce accompanied by banana peppers with Ferrero Rocher Chocolate for dessert for 21 days in a row.

I may sprawl across the entire bed and sleep on top of all the pillows and all the covers.

I may play the Indigo Girls and other unappreciated CD's and sing at the top of my lungs. (Betcha REALLY wish that I lived right around the corner now, dontcha? Shut up. The chick upstairs sings "The Ketchup Song at the top of her lungs and dances around on the balcony. It's a little bit of heaven right here on earth! She even knows all the words! *twinkle*)

I may play "Rub You the Right Way" by Mr. Gill as loud as I want to and as many times in a row and move all the furniture out of the way and dance around as wildly and as stupidly as I want to without being interrupted.

I may watch 36 hours of continuous TLC and MTV reruns if it so pleases me.

I may blog without abandon without feeling neglectful.

I may walk around for the entirely of the TLC/MTV marathon without showering if it so pleases me (I feel pretty. Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and...")

I may work on my ridiculously long Teacher Work Sample for many hours at a time without feeling like a ridiculously neglectful wife.

Yup, and if I can convince myself that all these things are *great*, I'll be just fine! *TWINKLE*

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New Toy New Toy New Toy

Apparently, D.H. has figured out a way to baffle me for the entire three weeks that he is gone. He has bought me a new toy:
With my technological prowess, I should be able to turn the damn thing on just in time to catch his arrival at the airport!
And guess what? It has a digital voice recorder on it, too! But, I have decided to start keeping a notebook by my bed, too. So we'll see what kind of literary hi jinx that unearths. Hell, maybe I'll keep it on the bed, since I'll have the California King all to my DAMN self.

SIDE NOTE: I usually don't like to jump on any wagons, but I was pleasantly surprised and delightedly amused by the way some people have stumbled upon this page as of late. Let's take a look, shall we?

1. educated beyond her intelligence (Yahoo) 2 Ooh! Ooh! Somebody knows where I am! Maybe it is D.H.

2. what goes on in the girl's mind pics (Google) 1 This one caused me to spit soda out my nose. First of all, if you are looking for the female perspective, I am one of the LAST girls to ask, because I'll probably tell you to go fuck yourself. Or go fuck someone else. Not to be rude, I'm just sayin'.

3. I'm sorry Miss Jackson I am for real and OutKast (Google) 1 Okay, this one actually might be legit, you know, since I quote Andre 3000 all the time and shit.

4. beyond song naughty girl to hear (Google) 1 Bueller? Bueller? What the hell is this?

5. crack contactplus (Google) 1 Somebody make a joke, please. Or decipher this for me. I'm stumped.

6. Gaijin girls beautiful pictures (Google) 1 Momma always says not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so, if you get here looking for beautiful girls, ummm...I'm sorry. Go somewhere else. Or go down to Bar Row. They have lots of Russian Hookers down there that have enough make up on so that they look pretty after a full on night of drinking. I don't know this from experience, of course. I just heard it from someone while I was volunteering at the orphanage.

7. select girl's boob size (Google) 1 J Kwon, is that you? Admittedly, there is something Weird Science about this search. Any man who is looking to select a companion by first finding out how to select boob size is a sad, sad man. Or woman. Hey, I don't discriminate.

8. sleep intelligence (Google) 1 No sleep, and no signs of intelligence, either. Go back from whence you came. Although, judging from my lack of traffic lately, except for the one day that Rose so graciously pimped herself for me, I should say, "Come on in! Have a drink! Have three! Stay awhile!"

9. spring break 04 spankings (Google) Pleading the 5th on this one.

AND MY MOST FAVORITALICIOUS ONE EVER: (Ready? Ready? Are you sure? Nevermind. Just kidding. Did that make you want to smack me, or what?)

Insert Heavenly Music here. Or Handel's 'Messiah'. Whichever you prefer

10. Pillow facial disfiguration.

I shall leave that one commentless. It is the piece de resistance (Yes! I know it's supposed to have an accent! I don't know how to do that!) in my little bag of tricks. Think Felix.

I shall fidget with my new gadget until I figure it out. Or fall asleep. Or spontaneously combust. Parting will be such sweet sorrow.

P.S. If you think it takes to long to leave me a comment, you can always write to me. That's okay, too.

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April 16, 2004

My Indian Name is Bangs Head Frantically Against Wall

OR Go Blog Yourself.

My blogging, as of late, has sucked (Yes, yes, for lack of a better word and all that SHIT. Want to help me out? Find a BETTER WORD for me.) I spend all day working my ass off, then come home and work my ass off, and then go to sleep while still mentally working my ass off, and feel not one ounce of creativity until right before I fall asleep.

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April 14, 2004

Military Base Mathematics

Y'all have to understand where I live. In order to get home, I have to drive down one long stretch of road (about the size of a football field), go out one gate, drive past a guard into another, and then cross some train tracks. As I neared the football field stretch of road, I noticed brake lights. Lots and lots of brake lights. No problem I thought, there was a good song on the radio, I'd wait it out. (Like I had a fucking choice. It's ALL about options!) (driven by spoiled high school kids and people who care more about their car image than the food they put in their mouths) snake up to the front of the line. I pulled over to the left a little to watch him, hoping and praying that he or she was not a total fuckface that would simply *click* put on the blinker and proceed directly to go. Guess what? She or he was. Okay, okay, okay, I remember thinking. One car. It is okay. One asshole. One asshole doesn't have to spoil it all. Then, came a red mitsubishi. Then, a red acura. They were doubling! And how far had I moved this whole time? Ding! Ding! Ding! You're right! Another two inches! A five minute trip took me 42 minutes. This is what I noticed:

For every 1 leader asshole, there will be 3 others who follow.
For every 5 assholes, 2 are red cars.
For every 4 assholes, 12 more will follow.

38 minutes later, as I neared the front of the line, I noticed that ALL THE ASSHOLES were making a break for it. Quick, quick, get in that lane so you can put your blinker on and FORCE (and by Force, I mean, get the front end of your car RIGHT in there so that I cannot possibly drive around you even though I have been waiting her for 3 fucking quarters of an hour, and you 5 minutes!) your way in front of me! No! I don't have anywhere to be! No! I don't have a final due today in about 3 hours that I still need to work on! Sure! Go ahead! Not even the obligatory "thank you" hand gesture. Not that it would have made a difference at this point.

Worry not. I got home a ridiculous amount of time later. I'm thinking of sending a copy of this post to the base paper. (Yeah right, y'all. Like I would ever do anything to stick up for myself. Except stick my tongue out behind your back.) What makes this situation even more infuriating is that the minute (Yes, yes, the FUCKING minute) I drive off base, there's the Japanese, bowing and driving, letting me in all over the place, guiding me out into traffic, and extending their general courtesy all over the road. Makes me want to stand at the gate with a sign that says, "What in THE HELL is WRONG with you people?" I don't think that would go over to well with the Colonel. But oh believe you me, I was entertaining some motherfucking ideas. In my mind, I got out of my car, went up to that Aristo, that mitsubishi, that acura, and banged on the windows, gesturing wildly, screaming, "Don't we all have somewhere to go?" "Don't we all want to get home?" and turning around to the ear-splitting sounds of applause to all those non-assholes who waited in line like me. But I, I took the road less traveled y'all.

Military Base Mystery: In the drizzling, I saw some families walking down the football field stretch with pizza boxes. At first, I thought they were holding them to shield themselves from the rain, which of course is what I would have done, but as I watched, they just walked, holding them at their sides. They must have been hungry.

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April 13, 2004

The Call


Our phone rang at 10:38 last night. How do I know? Because I had passed out from exhaustion around 9:30 and was well into my bizarro dreams when the contraption not 4 inches from my head JANGLED! BLATANT! DISCONTENT! (Can phones exhibit blatant? Discontent? I am the ONE that is in charge here, so I say WITHOUT a DOUBT. See: TCWH crossing her arms and turning her body the other way.) As soon as I heard that fucking contraption I nearly jumped out of my skin. I strained to hear what D.H. was saying and heard this:

D.H: Mmm Hmmm. Oh No. NO! NO!

And in my mind, we were already back on the plane for (insert family emergency here). I already had half my shit packed by the time he got off the phone. "Shit!" he spit, putting the phone down not so gently in the receiver. "What?WHAT?WHAT?WHOWASITWHATDIDTHEYWANT?" I bugged him. Turns out he might have to go to work. After working all day. To stare at a plane all night.

I have to explain my psychoses about middle of the night phone calls here. It's quite simple. Don't blink, or you'll miss it. When I was little, we lived overseas. Any time the phone rang in the middle of the night, it was death/cancer/aids/your worst nightmare. I suppose I am like one of Pavlov's dogs...Wait, wait, wait, wouldn't that make me a bitch? (Sense of humor warning! Watch out! Watch out!) Whenever the phone rings before nine, I am happy for the attention. Whenever it rings after nine, my adrenaline gets going and I immediately suspect a horrible thing.

So imagine my pleasure at receiving this half-assed phone call after the "good time" stating that my husband has to go back to work. *Sure* I've got only 4 days left with him before you rip him out of my arms. *Sure* I enjoy sleeping alone curled into the smallest circle possible under my blankets and getting almost no sleep because YOU KEEP FUCKING CALLING and going to work the next day! *Sure* I don't need to spend time with him! *Sure!* I can manage! Fuckers.

Oh, and if you're that bitch driving the Charcoal Gray Skyline GTS who cut me off on the way home because you obviously don't know how to merge with a line of oncoming traffic? Fuck you, too.

In additional news, I found the sex scene in Enemy at the Gates with Jude Law VERY DISTURBING. What WAS that expression on her face? Certainly not pleasure. And if it is? Ummm, let me talk to you in private... (whispering) If you have sex with men or anybody for that matter ?with that face on? you'll scare the heebiejeebies out of them. Just so you know. My good deed is done for the day! What'd y'all do today?

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April 12, 2004


Okay, okay so I suck (Mean people suck, NICE PEOPLE SWALLOW) . Nothing bugs me more than checking my favorite blogs daily and seeing SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT. The same thing. Three days in a row. Funny thing about us bloggers, sometimes life gets in the way. I hope I will be forgiven for my discrepancies. I could say that I was unable to get to the computer for various reasons like the fact that an incredible lake grew in between my room and the computer and a huge purple alligator lived in it and every time I TRIED! SO! DAMN! HARD! to get here, he would snap at my toes. And I love my toes. All 12 of them. OR, I could just tell you that I had a good friend get back from the desert, we went out and got hammered (lay down in a flowerbed and take pics hammered) (start fights with men that are 3X your size hammered), and then I had Easter Dinner and homework. You choose...

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Posted by Alex at 09:50 AM | Comments (12) | TrackBack (1)
Madfish Willie's Cyber Saloon links with: Scattershooting

April 09, 2004

I've Got a NEW Attitude


Fair Readers,

As many of you (read: ME) may have noticed, my last three blog titles with the exception of yesterday's and including today have been lyrics. (Gee that chick is whacky!) No, I don't really think that I'm a rock star, and I certainly don't think I am a monkey. Although I have been known to eat shit from time to time. (So! DAMN! PUNNY!). I am sure you all are sitting on the edge of your collective seats wondering what I am trying to signal to you. I'll tell you. Come closer. Closer. Closer. (DAMMIT! I said CLOSER!) Thank you. *wink wink*

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Posted by Alex at 06:35 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack (1)
Beyond the Black Hole links with: What smells like tuna in here?

April 08, 2004

The Weight Of It All

I remember being little burying my face in my Nana's neck. She emanated patience and goodness and light. We drove to school together every day. We'd stop at the little gas station on the bottom of Capitol Hill and get two cold cheese burgers and share them for breakfast. I'd shift. She'd coach. "Okay," she'd prompt "We're speeding up. You're going to need to get ready to shift into fourth gear." And I'd wait, giddy at being given such a big responsiblity until I saw her foot lift up, signalling that it was time. "That's right. Nice and smooth. It should relax right into it." And it always did. Because I was seven and she was my world.

Nothing in the world could replace those four years of morning drives for me. Starting at the top of the hill in the early morning light. Winding down the hairpin curves catching glimpses of the sunrise splashed on the horizon between the tangan tangan of the sparse, picky boonies. Colors I had never seen before. Peaches and vibrant pinks, purples, and blues. They matched all the colors in her dress, and I used to love to stand next to her as she taught art, tracing my finger along the patterns of her dress, oblivious to the rest of the people in the room, because as long as I can remember, it has only been me and her.

"See those clouds up there, Alex?" she asked me one day after we woke up early and stole out of the house, just the two of us, to go watch the sun come up. I stood in the morning damp and nodded. "Those are angels. They're watching over you." I looked into her face and then followed her gaze up, mesmerized. Rows upon perforated rows of clouds. I knew that she was showing me God.

Now, I am 28. Morning drives and art classes are miles and lifetimes away. She lives on the reservation now, in her little house that my Aunt Ce left her. Snuggled in her fur coat, I can hear her shift her weight as she talks to me on the phone. She pauses, holding her chest. It hurts when she coughs. I can hear that hurt across the oceans and through the phonelines and it grips at my throat. The promise that I made to her when I was six years old and had my whole life ahead of me resurfaces, and I wonder if it hurts her that I did not make good on it. Instead of living in a house with her and me only, I am living in Japan. With no garden.

"Will you be coming home this summer?" she inquires, and I can hear the careful deliberation in her voice, know that she's checking her own self to keep out the anxiety so that I don't feel guilty. Always thinking of me before she thinks of herself.

I remember last summer. When I had to hug her goodbye. She was small. And sick. And I held her in my arms, and just hung on as hard and as long as I could. I didn't want her to know that I was afraid I wouldn't see her again. That I remembered my promise; that I remembered I was breaking it. I felt heavy. And empty. And afraid.

And I wanted to be five again. Two again. 14 again. So I could have all those years again. With her.

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April 07, 2004

You can't be ME, I'm a Rock Star

pupils.jpg Running on the TOP of a Cop Car (No, I'm not trying to be like Michael Jackson in that ridiculous show of WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? when he came out of the court house and got on top of the car and did a little Billy Jean. Right before he invited his fans over for tea and crumpets. I think it's a cult. I'm trying to be like N.E.R.D. They're on my playlist. When I write papers, I have to have music that I have listened to so much, the words don't distract me. Trust me. Anything distracts me at when writing. Sports. Candles. Outside noises. Yes. I need help. I know.)

Let's add today to stupid TCWH tricks. D.H. has been working nights. I have been operating on little sleep. Let me tell you why. Y'all wanna talk crazy? Have a seat.

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Posted by Alex at 08:24 AM | Comments (9) | TrackBack (1)
Beyond the Black Hole links with: What smells like tuna in here?

April 06, 2004

In the Time of Chimpanzees, I was a Monkey.

sushi.jpg I'm ruminating. Marinating. D.H. and I, for matters financial only, have been reduced to eating at what the gaijins refer to as screaming sushi. I wrote about it here, and you can read it just in case you haven't already. Make sure to scroll down. It's the one at the bottom. I've already waxed philosophical about it. More than once. Instead, I bring you:

TCWH's Ode To Toto Ya Michi
Also known as: When Boredom Strikes.

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April 04, 2004

I Might be a Redneck

redneck.jpg Before I embark on this little diatribe of mine, there's something I think you should know, just to disperse any thoughts as to me being racist.

Recipe for TCWH:

1/4 Cup Philipppina
1/8 Cup Tribally enrolled land owning, non casino working Seneca Indian
1/4 Jewish (I don't know what this means. It was how it was taught to me by Momma. It's her father, so if she chooses to identify it as an ethnicity, SO BE IT. Speaking of NOT being racist, the first time I found out about her father's origins I whined "No wonder I keep spending money! I'm a JAP!" I thought the cigarette was going to fall straight out of Momma's lips into my Mimosa. Ain't I a hoot?)
Everything else is varying shades of white, of which Momma says some is Celtic. Or some shit like that. Educated fraternity boys that live in Louisiana referred to me often as a mutt. What a *great* pick up line! Witness:

Stupid Frat Rat: So, what are you?
Young, Impressionable TCWH: What do you mean?
SFR: Why do you look like that?
YITCWH: Like what?
SFR: Tan skin? Blonde Hair?
YITCWH: Dad: Philippino and White. Mom: American Indian and White.
SFR: Oh, so you're like one of those stray dogs...what'sitcalled? Ummm...
SFR: A mutt! You're a mutt!
30 minutes later
SFR: Sure you don't want to come home with me? I've got the room all to myself.
YITCWH: thanks, despite your tantalizing pick up lines.

I'm just kidding, kind of. I don't think everyone who belongs to a Greek Organization is stupid. I was in one myself once, in a past life. Look at me, trying not to step on any toes. That one quality is enough to infuriate even the most patient of souls,, who cares? The guy called me a mutt, he did, he did. My point? My parents raised me with a great appreciation for all cultures, regardless of color or infuriating habits. Which leads me to this...

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April 03, 2004

Bright Ideas


Just a quickie, before I get in the shower (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) because I actually said this to my fucking husband today and almost slapped myself. (TANGENT, TANGENT, Will Robinson. I am doing my utmost to curse as much as I motherfucking can out of respect to my newest hero, The Tenth Muse . It seems she has been accused of being a foul-mouthed, hateful, classless, bigot because she offers dieting tips on a site that she pays for! Well God Forbid that she puts what she fucking wants on there! I mean, she pays for the damn thing! Who the hell does she think she is? Shit! Fuck! Damn! *All said with Glee*) So, yeah, this is what I said:

TCWH: (in sick scratchy voice) Do you want me to get dressed today so I can leave the house?

NEVERMIND. You don't need to know what he said, because I can't believe that these are actually the words that came out of my mouf (Why yes, I was going for that overused Chris Tucker reference! pats you on the head) Further more, I cannot believe I fucking said that! Spring is Sprung! Spring Break is passing me by, yet here I am, sitting diligently in front of my computer, writing motherfucking PAPERS! *sob* It is enough to make my brain explode, and well, we all know that I'm no housewife and that DH would have to clean that up. That might piss him off. Just a LEETLE bit. I mean, can you imagine him scrubbing it out of our Thai Silk slipcovers? Grounds for divorce, I'm sure!

I'm saying this to you: I know what let's do! <--- I cannot stand it when people say this, because for some reason it reminds me of a Shirley Temple movie, so let's just (insert the fake temple smile here) and get this idea on the road.

Let's make a MASTER'S COUNTDOWN CALENDAR. I will be done May 19th, God and Brain willing. I don't even want to think about how many days and papers will be due in between then and now, so you just mark it down, and then throw some confetti at me when I'm done, okay? If I threaten a nervous breakdown, just remind me you've got the MCC all covered and the days...why, they're just flying by! and that I'll be done before I know it!

Yes. I want you to pay attention to me. Shameless self-promotion. I'm an only child. I never get tired of it.

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Posted by Alex at 04:31 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack (1)
Beyond the Black Hole links with: What smells like tuna in here?

April 02, 2004

Style vs. Substance

Note: EEE-UUU I do not like this color. But I am going to use it to prove a point. The name? Indian Red. I'm Indian, and I am certainly not this color. Ahhh, but I'm a quarter-breed you say. Well, tromp on with me over to the Rez, and if you find one fucking Indian that is this color, I'll give you the shirt off my back, and the jeans off my butt. What color is the white on here, anyway? Pasty-boy white? H told me this morning that somebody peed in his milkshake, but I am sourly convinced that they misfired and got mine, because I am all spice and no sugar today.

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April 01, 2004

1:00:01pm. Thursday Afternoon

champ.JPG Do you know where your FELLOW MUNUVANIAN is at 1:00:01? This is where I was. So it's not Dom Perignon, but what can I say? I'm not making that much money. I can't afford it. Korbel has *bubbles*, so I'm not complaining! Shit, lately I haven't been against drinking sprite mixed with beer. (pulls you aside a little too roughly...BUT I will never admit to that in public, so let's just keep that between us? Shall we? lets you go, smooths your shirt, shoots you a smile. Excuse me. Where are my manners?)

I just don't think y'all understand how BAD the kids were today.
(In Unison) How bad, TCWH?
They are so bad, that I have considered inviting all the couples with no children in for a sit down lunch and spiking their drinks with birth control. Any sort will do. Perhaps I will just invite them over for a birthday party and a drink and let the little monsters run around out of control. I love children as much as the next person, but 27 little people (how PC of you, TCWH! Why thank you! Champagne = liquid southern accent and *manners*) 9 of whom need extra help is too much. 15 is an acceptable number. Excuse me. I will step off my teacher's podium. Not that I belong on that damn thing anyway.

Know why I love D.H.? Because he says stuff like this:
About Marky Mark in Rockstar:
DH: So, what, is he trying to be Dirk Diggler in every movie now?
TCWH: What do you mean?
DH: Listen to his intonation. It is all breathy, like he is trying to sound dumb.
TCWH: Like this (insert me doing the Peanuts adult WAH WAH WAH with dadadadda's)?
DH: Exactly.
TCWH: I see what you mean.

All communications between men and women should be this easy. Or should I say painless? In fact, I believe I will start incorporating it into the classroom in the form of a puppet show.

Good LORD I am boring the piss out of myself! Back to my drinking! Simon, I am sorry if I am not living up to your expectations. Worry. Worry. Give me a week. I'll be right as rain. Or right as champagne!

(PSST. What's the spoon in the top of the bottle for, TCWH?) It keeps the bubbles in. And you don't have to pay for one of those expensive thingamajiggy's that I don't know how to say in Japanese.

Champage. M'mmm M'mm Good. Come over and have a glass! Or bottle!

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Posted by Alex at 08:18 AM | Comments (9) | TrackBack (1)
Beyond the Black Hole links with: What smells like tuna in here?