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

May 11, 2004

TCWH Pointers: 3943

Just because I care?

Pointer # 3943. If you slice your finger open peeling the foil off a cheap bottle of wine because you can't pour yourself a glass fast enough after attending a high school art show where HORNY! LITTLE! GIRLS! with pussy galore (Thank you, James Bond!) and cleavage abound! stare at your husband and lick their chops, drive your ass over to the Betty Ford, baby, GOD/ALLAH/THE CREATOR/THE DALAI LAMA (insert your supreme being here) is telling you not to drink. I've got a room. (Insert bad singing here.) Just the two of us. Building castles in the sky. Just the two of us, we can make it if we try! Just the two of and I!

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May 10, 2004

Don't Touch ME

I got a phone call from my friend today. Seems her childcare provider felt it necessary to hit her four year old son in the face with a paddle because he did not close his eyes during nap time. I hope Jessica of Yokota Air Force Base, Japan, gets her license yanked faster than she can say "Domo Arigato." Pending investigation, my ass. There was a welt on his happy little face. The police took pictures of it. Not your child, not your right.

The bizarre thing about this whole event is that one of our other friends saw her hit him in the face in the community center. The kid? He denied it, but he never wanted to go there. Jessica was upset that someone would tell lies about her. They were speaking the truth. What's wrong with you lady? You DO NOT hit other people's kids.

Jessica hits children in the face with paddles.
Do not let her watch your children.

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May 09, 2004

Sunday Night After I Poured My First Glass of Wine at 10:30 am

Listy listy, let's go listy.

1.) It's a bizarre feeling really.

2.) My husband is only home for the blink of an eye. I thought I would be all right until I broke into hysterical sobs today after I woke up, which, if you know me, I hated. ARGH, sometimes I'd rather be a guy and just manifest emotion in complete and utter assholeness. Whoever said God is a woman was wrong. There is no voice for my fear, uncertainty.

3.) I have no work tomorrow. No work tomorrow. No. Work. Tomorrow. NO MOTHERFUCKING WORK TOMORROW! No nose picking, no songs about farting and very farting, no dirty hands, no copped feels. Just me and the glorious hours of the day. Happy, happy, joy, joy. *ahem* Thank you, Ren and Stimpy.

4.) I am 10 days away from finishing my Master's Program. Something I have done since we got over here. I just keep wondering what the hell I'll do with myself. Think I blog too much now? Just you wait! Yippee! Although, Momma's a little territorial with her computer. Wanna stop by? To get me high?

5.) I don't want to be one of those blogs. I started out reading all these blogs, and honestly they just infuriate me and piss me off. I just want to yell, "Say something nice today! Something erudite!" I don't want you to quote some motherfucking Shakespeare. I just want you to revel in something. I don't care if it's a fucking Brazilian bikini wax. Just enjoy your fucking life. For once. Wah, wah, wah, me. Allow. Me. To. Reiterate. Don't want to be that whiny bitch blog. Although I suppose by admitting this, I am a whiny bitch?

6.) I love: stepping off the plane in Saipan and sucking the air into my lungs. It's almost water. Diving off the boat in Palau into the clear blue. Warmth, wholeness of floating upside down and backwards. I felt untouched. Burying my head in the crook of DH's neck. When Pearl Jam sang, "I swear, I recognize your breath..." I was so taken by that lyric, but didn't know why. Every time he exhales over my neck, it smells like home. Without the picket fence and two kids and dog. It smells like skin. Like safe. Stoned afternoons with Jason Cuevas in New Orleans. They were rare, like finding those flat smooth rocks. A past life for me, teacher that I am now, role model, but those 2 afternoons, that couch, those cushions, that shotgun house. The chips. MMMMM. The comfortable silences with my friends. Most recently observed with CT over airport food. Slurping noodles, sipping beer and coke (him AND me). *DING* United...ensconced in our own bubble of quiet and comfort. There aren't many like that out there. Sharing dinner at Red Lobster with Momma. The whitest trash of white trash restaurants in Upstate New York, but we roll in the lobster, the shrimp, the crab. I watch her lick her fingers out of the corner of my eye and stifle a gurgle of happiness in my throat as I jump into my own entree. She catches my eye and gleams. I grin back, mouth full of food. She is my mom. My Dad's e-mails. The steady voice over the miles reminding me that just because I can't see it, doesn't mean it is not there.

7.) I went to dinner on Friday. I tried to take a picture of the menu, but the flash whited out the picture. My entree? Drunken shameless shrimp in brazen sauce. Best damn thing I've ever tasted. Well, pretty damn close, anyway.

8.) Driving to the airport? CT and I saw a car. It was white, kind of family wagonish shapey. We drove up and I read the print. SWEET CAMEL. In big red letters. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I thought. "CT, speed up, speed up! I have to read the fine print!" And as we whizzed by the car, we both caught the slogan in entirety:

Jeans for the agressive young woman.

The implications of which are just simply too much to explore. If I could find a pair of those jeans here, you know I'd wear the hell ouf of them. Just for shits and giggles. Maybe I could start a trend like Nelly's Applebottoms. Subtlety is overrated.

9.) I received a violet from a student. I am afraid I will kill it. Please don't make me post pictures of our dying Christmas Tree. I am a murderer. Is it worse to kill it slowly at a time, or do I just stop watering all together? I can't bear to do that. I almost talked to it.

10.) I want to laugh so hard that I feel like I'm going to pee in my pants. Or I feel like my face is going to break.

11.) Is it a Monday if you don't have to work?

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May 08, 2004


Today is the day! Today is the day! Today is AIRPORT DAY!
In light of such happy (oh frabjous day!) events, I have decided to tell each one of you, whether you know who the damn hell I am or not, WHY I LIKE YOU. I got the most amazing pat on the back from a parent the other day in the form of this comment "Thank you, thank you so very much for taking care of the children so wonderfully! You have this calm attitude, that is so amazing! You are a wonderful teacher!" For someone to notice that about me amidst a roomfull of 27 vibrant *ahem* children, I was truly tickled. I'm not all piss and vinegar. Sometimes I'm sugary and sweet. I wanted to pass on the favor, because I was thinking that sometimes I like you all more than people that I interact with daily and in person, and GOSH DARN IT, I like you. (Pointing finger at you. Yes. YOU.) Read More "TODAY! is! THE! DAY!"サ

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May 05, 2004

May 5, 2004

Did I tell you I had 14 days left in my Master's Program?
It has been consuming my entire life, which accounts for boring posts, exhausted Alex, and boring posts.
What the hell does a girl have to do to get some comments around here, anyway?
It frustrates me that people involved in ongoing flame wars get readership and comments galore.
Instead of sleeping with someone, looks like I should piss someone off...Like I can see that happening, the blogsphere Passive Agressive. Guess I'll just keep groveling.

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May 04, 2004

Hurried Haiku from a Harried Hore

I cannot type fast
Synapses fire bullshit
Cup with lots of holes

My stomach grumbles
Peeps mixed with Rice Krispies Treats
move internally

Quandaries have me in knots
Will this ever end?

Oh stinky neighbor
how I long for your kitchen
to explode quickly

Computer sexy
Why can't you do it for me?
Clone my husband please.

Little picked noses
make fingerprints on my brain
Sneezingly disappear.

On paper! On references! On header! On footer!
On APA! On Format! On page numbers and indentations!
On 1050 words on the US Constitution!
On Bullshit! On Waxing Philosophic!
On Brain! On Don't give up! On Don't stew in your own juices!
Although a tasty treat you might make for some starving cannibals, I need you.'s all folks! I am not responsible for this post.

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Posted by Alex at 06:39 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack (1)
Simon World links with: Asia by blog

May 03, 2004

If it so pleases you, my king and queen.

Dear Neighbors,

By all means, don't take out your trash in my concern! Please leave it camped outside your door blocking the entire hallway aromatizing our entire floor for as many days as you please! I love walking out of the elevator and getting smacked in the face with the appetizing aroma of rotting food and diapers. Quel Refreshing! I also love it when you drag it to the elevator, leaving a drippy, glistening trail of what I can only describe as abstract ingenuity! Which, I might add, is a complete pleasure to slip and fall in when I stumble home arms full of groceries! And, if you would leave it in the elevator to ride up and down and decompose in the summer humidity, until some good Samaritan places it in the trash receptacle for you, I would consider it a personal favor! After all, I wouldn't want you or your family to get too much exercise in the 10 or so steps from your door to the elevator, than having to push the button, wait *heavens no!*, and then have to ride the elevator down and actually deposit your bag. That would be expecting way too much on behalf of the people who placed you in your free house with free utilities and free trash pick up and free furniture. For free.

Live long and prosper! Oh, and if you need to wipe your asses later? Just ring the bell! I'll come running!

TCWH in 4F

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May 02, 2004

Beer. It's What's for Dinner

Beer. It's the manly-man drink. Adam Carolla and Jimmy Kimmel said so. Frat boys chug it, girls stomach it (because it's free) , and my Uncle claims it is all four good groups. You can have a smooth lager, a hearty stout. A tangy Sierra Nevada. A rollicking good Knock You on Your Ass BEER. A mysterious homebrew. (Yes, I realize I went from types to brands. Are you still questioning me?) Really. When it comes to beer, there are no limitations. We are limited only by our imaginations, the teacher in me (Where the hell did she come from? GETEROUTGETEROUTGETEROUT!!!) likes to say. However, never have I thought of a beer as cute. Not until last night, anyway. I went out to dinner with CT, and as we were walking back to retrieve my car I was treated to this delight:

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Posted by Alex at 09:57 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack (1)
Note-It Posts links with: Redneck Woman

May 01, 2004

Things That Make You Go "Sluttiness. It's Making a Comeback!"

As y'all can see, I am completely procrastinating again. Jumping from blog to blog versus doing my US Constitution reading. It really is fascinating stuff, but when it is 70' outside, I'd rather be inside at the computer, hunched in the dark. Just kidding. I just came in to turn the music down and check something out.

And I stumbled upon, via Dana, this little gem . From what I could stomach, it is a bunch of women who are going out to bars, and if they feel a spark (but seriously, folks, who doesn't feel a little spark after the 3rd cocktail? You'll never know whether it was the rancid cheese sticks or that shot of tequila, but damnit! You'll have another notch in your bepost!) , *ahem* servicing our G.I's who are about to be deployed under the clever name of Operation: Take One For the Country.

What I love about this:
1.) How many times have men been asked to "jump on the grenade", or "take one for the team", insinuating that they shag the ugly chick so that the rest of their buddies can get laid? Never in my life have I seen this attitude so prominently displayed so proudly than on a military base. And let's face it, just because you are a G.I. does not mean that you have the physique or facial features of your hero and mine, G.I. Joe. Or Goose or Maverick. (Tangent! Tangent! At Happy Hour at the Officer's Club last night, we encountered a gaggle of F-16 fighter pilots, with their call signals on their uniforms. For your perusal...RAM, SQUAWK, JINX, and SHOCK. I remarked to DH that none of them appeared to be married as they didn't have rings on, and he scoffed and said, "They're TDY. They're on the prowl. No rings." They looked and carried themselves as if they were the high school equivalent of the football team. They struck me as rather arrogant. Although, if I could do shit like that, I suppose I'd be a little arrogant, too. BUT, bar etiquette? No points for you, gentlemen, unzipping your flight suits and coyly sniffing your armpits did not win any points with the men, women, or children present at Happy Hour) I like that an organization of primarily women is dedicated to this. Publicly.

What I abhor about this:
1.) These women are NOT JOKING. They are very serious about sending these men off with smiles on their faces and boosts on their egos. This is fucking ridiculous. How long have women fought to appear as more than sexual objects in the public eye? FOR FUCKING EVER. When faced with accusations that they are prostituting themselves, they responded by calling the accusatory women "femi-nazi's" and some ridiculous slang for bitch, reducing the entire argument to a drunken fingernail scratching, hair pulling chick fight in the girl's bathroom at INSERT BAR WHERE YOUNG HORNY PEOPLE HANG OUT HERE, without the jello. That's right. Unite the rest of our country by pointing fingers and calling them names. I AM all about supporting our troops, but if the most effective thing that you can think of doing is spreading your legs and letting him blow his load (because what is it really after a drunken night in the bar? *True Love* ?!) albeit safely (because we should always practice safe sex!) before smacking him on the ass and saying, "Good LUCK over There!" well, then, I am baffled. Let's analyze this. How long does a man stay sexually satisfied, anyway? Men? I'd say about 10 minutes, if that. He'll be thinking about the next time he's gonna hit it before he gets on the damn plane! Want to make a more effective statement? Send him a sexy picture for him to use as um...*stimulation*. Send him a package of food! I know for certain they get tired of the same ol' same ol' at the chow hall (Yes. I realize this would be a most fortuitous place for a wonderful PUN, but alas, I am blank. I'll leave y'all the honors) . These women also assume that a little nookie is going to boost these men's egos. Why? Is everyone in your "battalion" Carmen Electra Double D worthy? I know that all. most. all. most. all. no, most. no, all men want to get some, but isn't that stereotyping men, as well? Even if it isn't, I just had to put it out there, for the sensitive ones.

Additionally, what if the poor guy is so stressed out about going to WAR that he can't get it up? What'll that do to his ego?

BLEAGH. Back to my Constitutional reading. Just some Saturday Thoughts for y'all! You know, because I really, really care.

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Your absence wears on me
An itchy green sweater
That looks better than it feels
Gets under my skin
Like fear.
Creeps up on me
In the night
Edited to Add: (Like cheap underwear)

Apparently, I've taken to writing lame ass poetry. You can say it's lame ass, because if there's anything that annoys me, it's when people put their SHITTASTIC poetry on the web and say LOOK! AT! ME! THIS! IS! GREAT! Being the horrible bitch that I have been as of late, I really want to write back and say, "Your poetry? It sucks. I'm just telling you." While I have been known to make exceptions for angst-ridden teens and those of you standing there with your hearts in millions of tiny pieces, I'm over it. In my mind, it's the literary equivalent of having a booger in your nose. Here's a motherfucking tissue. Now blow, damn you, blow!

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Posted by Alex at 09:06 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack (1)
rachel links with: FRIIIIIIDAY!