Monday, February 28, 2005

Deprived already

My children are already disadvantaged. I feel sorry for them and they haven’t even been born yet. I’m contemplating making some major changes in our lives to make up for how far off course things have gotten.

For one, they’ll each have their own room. Not right away, but that’s for our convenience while they’re toddlers. Eventually they’ll each have a bedroom. My sister and I shared a room through elementary school and then a storage room was converted to a bedroom for me. The house didn’t have central air or heat and that storage room wasn’t insulated like the rest of the house was. Not to mention the house was on blocks so the cold hair practically enveloped that room. Fucker was 40 degrees in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Didn’t help either that the washer and dryer were in that room and there was no adequate ventilation so the place was always filled with lint when Mom did the laundry. My old man shit a brick every time he got his hands on the gas bill and for a few weeks afterwards each time he’d do the laundry himself when he got home. 11pm at night and his ass was outside hanging wet jeans on the clothes line. When it got so cold outside they wouldn’t line dry he built a clothesline inside the house above the gas heater. That’s where the clothes were hung during winter and rains.

I can remember being whipped for forgetting to turn the light off when I left the room. Electricity ain’t free, boy. Also remember getting lectured when I walked from bedroom to bathroom to bedroom to bathroom, turning each light on and off every time I entered and exited. Apparently I was supposed to apply common sense in that case and know NOT to turn the light off. That’s the kind of fucked up mentality my kids need to be exposed to.

Money is also a problem for my kids. They’ll have it. I was pretty damn old by the time I realized everybody else did NOT stand in line Saturday mornings to get their allotment of cheese, butter and powdered milk. God, that powdered milk was awful. Mom ended up buying real milk at the store and just getting the cheese and huge bricks of government butter. For all you taxpaying folks out there, thanks for the meals. We appreciated them. That’s the kind of shit my kids need to experience.

Free lunches in the school system. Boy was that shit great. Momma would give me my form and I’d stand in the ticket line in the mornings. She was always so nice to me, the cafeteria lady. She had brown hair and wore a hair net and I never knew her name. She was probably younger than I am now. She’d smile real big and count out my free lunch tickets faster than I knew any human being could count and she’d hand me my pile of yellow tickets, not green like everyone else’s. But I was too young to know the difference. Hell, Jasmine will probably pack our little shits lunches every day in designer lunch boxes. I hated those kids in school. Fucking Star Wars and Scooby –Doo lunch kits with twinkies and ho-ho’s and shit inside and not one slice of government cheese to be found.

Because we owned so much land we had a riding tractor to cut the grass. For our riding pleasure, my old man replaced the standard seat with the front bucket seat from an old Dodge van he got for $300. The van, not the seat. It was white and huge and folks laughed, but damn it was a nice ride for the 4 hours it took to do the lawn. The dog used to sit on the hood because he liked the vibration under his ass. I used to put it in “Rabbit” gear and chase Julie with the dog on top because she thought it was disgusting when the dog’s one-eyed weasel would jut out from the enjoyable ride. Yeah, it was nasty, but it was funnier watching Julie run in fear as I chased her down with the dog’s hard-on. Ain’t no tractors needed to mow this 1/8 acre I got going on now. Guess that means no wet dog willies for the kiddos either. Pity.

Vehicles are another perk for the twins. I can remember many a journey on the back of my mom’s bike pedaling down the interstate. Later, we had the one car, a red Volkswagen Beetle. We parked it on blocks when it rained because the housing edition we lived in at the time for the sailors families flooded in the slightest rain. The seatbelt was my Mom’s right arm. Every time she hit the brake, she simultaneously slapped that arm across my chest and kept me from being thrown into the windshield. Ah, the good ole days. Fuck child safety seats, we were living on the edge.

My kids won’t be responsible for feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs, picking pecans, cleaning trailer homes for sale, riding a horny dog around on a vibrating tractor, swimming in the bayou, or struggling to take a shit in an outhouse when the government cheese has stopped everything up. Poor kids. I hope they still manage to turn out all right.

Friday, February 25, 2005

I'm special. Special-Ed

Our next door neighbor mentioned to us yesterday that they learned their daughter, Juicy’s little sister, has ADD. It doesn’t surprise me. I could see the signs. What surprised me was Susan’s behavior when she said it. She whispered it. It’s not herpes for fuck’s sake, it’s ADD.

I asked her if she had started Miranda on Ritalin yet. Oh, hell no! Ritalin? Put my child on drugs? No way, Mister! My daughter’s not doing that. We’ll handle it through diet.

Jesus Christ. You fucking nut job. So yeah, cut back on the sugar which is good because Miranda’s about as juicy as her older brother and could probably benefit from a less sugary diet. But swearing off ADD medication because you don’t want your school nurse to know? Because you don’t want your family to find out your child isn’t cerebrally perfect? Give me a fucking break.

I have ADD. It ain’t no big thang. I don’t take Ritalin, but mine is mild and can be controlled through caffeine alone. My grandma figured that out early on, way before it was vogue to diagnose a special attention deficit disorder. She called it “milk coffee” and she fixed me a cup every time I came over. The milk was to disguise the flavor that naturally repulsed the normal 7 year old kid, but after a cup I was mellow, more patient and focused. Mom didn’t drink coffee and my old man worked so damn much the last thing he wanted when he got home was a jolt of caffeine. She compensated with diet soft drinks. No sugar, but plenty of caffeine. We didn’t even know it had a name, we just knew I was better after a can or cup of the big C-word. Grandma said my uncle, her son, was the same way. Of course he was. ADD is genetic.

I’ve written several posts at the end of the day when the coffee has worn off, such as A-D-D, and this one which I didn't even realize was so multi-directional until the next day. For me, it feels like someone has jumped behind the wheel of my brain and shoved the gas pedal through the floor. Everything whizzes by at mach speed and I never fully wrap my mind around something before it’s a thing of the past and I’m on to something else. I’m not a slob, but my place was never what you’d call kempt prior to Jasmine moving in. I’d fix a sandwich and forget to put the knife away because my mind had moved on to something else while I went through the motions. I’d put a load of laundry in the washer and not remember it until two days later. Unfinished tasks became my trademark. I’m not unwilling to finish what I start, just forget that I started it because something else came along. Without my caffeine fix it’s impossible for me to see something through to the end. I lose focus. And it’s not multitasking either because I don’t complete anything at all.

ADD affects the right side of the brain, the creative side. It intensifies it. This list here distinguishes those who showed clear indications of having it, Mozart, Beethoven, Picaso, Frost. To me, it’s cool. I’m naturally analytical and logical which are left-brained tendencies. But then I have sparks flying on the right side that, without coffee, can be pretty entertaining when I sit down to write something. That’s why ADD is more often diagnosed in males than females, in my opinion. I suspect it displays equally, but women’s ability to multitask and their natural lean to the right side of the brain masks it. It’s very easy, very easy to recognize. Does speed relax you? ADD is chemical, not mental. You can’t control it with your mind if it’s your mind that’s out of control. And unlike the rest of the pathetically bland, normal population out there, we don’t get hooked on speed. It’s entirely non-addictive for us because the chemical that creates a dependency on it is missing in our brains or so low it can’t impact it. That’s what makes us ADD. It's not the same as being scatter-brained. If caffeine wakes you up or makes you jittery, this is not your problem.

The way I see it, Miranda’s lucky. It’s her mother that has the problem.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

See ya later, buddy

My blogroll is short and yeah, I’ve caught some hell for that at times. Zelda posts regularly, Jack every few days, and Trashman whenever he fucking feels like it. On my toolbar I have my own blog, then Savannah’s, then Angi’s.

Any time I log on I check Savannah’s blog first, then mine, Angi’s, Jack’s, Zelda’s and Trashman’s. That’s my routine. Every time.

So when Jack suddenly pulled his blog offline, I was floored by the absence. It fucked up my whole routine. Not only that, his is one of those that I read out loud to Jasmine. If my marriage suffers, it’ll be Jack’s fault.

I found Jack’s Texas Music in June of ’04. He’d commented at the Former Life at TJ’s Place with something almost as witty as something I’d say. I believe he was preparing to go skydiving at that time. Shortly after he posted a story about Seth. I haven’t read it in 8 months but I remember it damn well. The pacing was incredibly smooth and I had to admit I was impressed.

Then, of course, there was the bullshit I somehow managed to find myself in the middle of when Vader and I weren’t seeing eye to eye on an insensitive phrasing of a delicate question I posted over at Sloth’s. I found myself before the firing squad and if you ask me I think Jack was quietly laughing his ass off out in Somewhere, TX. That’s when he devised the plan to stage yet another fight, only this one was to be between us. Little fucker was trying to muscle in on my shit storm.

So we did, we staged a fight. It was fucking great. Every time he posted a pissed off comment on my site I cracked up. I would come back with something witty and brilliant and that motherfucker would one up me every time. Then I got him good. I posted the pic of the dog with a dildo in his mouth. I caught some hell from the readers on that one. Calling me names and shit, immature asshole, childish prick and what-not. Funny thing was Jack loved it. He just sat back watching the sea of people turn on me and run to him. Bastard. I think he set me up.

When I recall Jack’s post about his dad and the TV antenna I have to ask myself if that was his or mine. I’m sure that’s his memory, but damn it’s a helluva lot like my own. The post with the wire while inside making a buy was pretty heart pounding. Especially when the ambulance drove by and the siren could be heard on the tape. I thought the dealer was gonna cap his ass right then and there.

I greatly enjoyed the glossary of cop terms he posted, as several of you might remember. Of course, now that he’s removed his archives I’ll have a broken link in that post from July. I hate when he only thinks of himself. He also swore my post about how much I hate Wal-Mart was directly stolen from his blog, but I swear to you he never wrote a post about Wal-Mart. And nobody can prove otherwise now. I also enjoyed his S&M posts because he was into that kinky shit. You might have missed them, but they were pretty fucked up. He was all about some nipple clamps and size 12 clear platform heels. I’d put a link, but as you already know they’re all gone now. Pity. It was some freaky shit.

The recent one about being pulled over was funny as hell. I read that one several times, laughing in the same spots over and over again like a retard. Rolling probable cause. I also enjoyed the one weekend a month posts as well as the one about the soldier wannabe trying to scam free drinks with his mismatched “fruit salad” and all that other shit he said that I couldn’t understand. Jack earned my respect on that one. Not because he called the man down, but because someone commented that he was a jerk for trying to intimidate the young prick. I called the anonymous commenter a flag burning coward for hiding behind anonymity to insult someone standing up for our military. Jack didn’t just set the record straight with the Anonymous one, who was later discovered to be a commenter by the name of “KC,” but he got onto me for jumping his shit. That was the part I respected.

The Michael Moore post was great. I really enjoyed the one comparing Kerry to Bush. I found it to be as close to objective as humanly possible. I learned a lot from the Assault Weapon Ban post. I began to understand the hard work, low pay, emotional stress and driven need to be a part of the Task Force despite all of that. I also recall one paragraph from a particular post that hit too close to home. It was the one about scorpions a few days after his dad died. The one where he got stung and had salve below his eye when he decided his dog Alex looked like he needed a hug. It reminded me of the week after Mom died and I knew the feeling. And lest we not forget The House That Jack Threw Up In.

I don’t pretend to know Jack personally. Hell, I don’t even know his fucking name. But I suspect that’s a technicality that won’t stand forever. Now that he’s AWOL maybe I’ll throw some old emails up here where he goes into detail about his bunions and hemorrhoids. Don’t know why he always shared that shit with me. Also, I'm 80% sure he was in love with me in a weird hetero kind of way. Yeah, you take that shit to dinner and chew on it for awhile.

The slaughtering of Jayday

I finally got my hands on a copy of Collateral which I’d been wanting to see. I missed it at the theaters. But apparently fondling the jacket was about as far as I was going to get. I was plagued with intruders.

Me: Hello?
Julie: What are you doing?
Me: Having sex.
Julie: Must be by yourself. Your wife just called me from her cell phone.
Me: Doesn’t change the facts. What do you want?
Julie: Can you watch Katy Saturday?
Me: No.
Julie: Good. I’ll bring her over about 10.
Me: I’m busy.
Julie: That’s not what your wife said.
Me: She’s a pathological liar.
Julie: Fine by me. See you Saturday.
Me: Later.

I open the DVD case. Phone rings again.

Me: Hello?
Dad: What’s up?
Me: Trying to watch a movie before Jasmine gets home.
Dad: Porn?
Me: I wish. Collateral.
Dad: It was shit.
Me: Great, thanks. What do you want?
Dad: Just called to shoot the shit.
Me: Seriously, you need to get out of that cast.
Dad: Why?
Me: You’re calling too often. Get back to work, you lazy sack of shit.
Dad: (Laughs) We’re going up to the sticks Saturday. Wanna go?
Me: Damn, wish I could. I’m watching Katy.
Dad: (Laughs again) Your sister’s going.
Me: Get the fuck out!
Dad: Get back to your porn.
Me: Later.

I put the DVD into the player and changed the TV to video. I got almost to the menu when the phone rang again. Motherfuck!

Jason: Damn, bro, what crawled up your ass?
Me: I’m trying to watch a movie before Jasmine gets home.
Jason: Porn?
Me: What do you want?
Jason: Wanna go kick the rock?
Me: Nah, man. I gotta return this by noon tomorrow. How about Thursday?
Jason: No good. Saturday?
Me: Babysitting. Sunday?
Jason: That’s cool. Don’t grab my ass again.
Me: How can I resist?

I hit play, tossed the phone down to the other end of the sofa, kicked back and settled in to finally watch my movie. That’s when the front door opened.

“Hi, honey. Can you help me bring all this stuff in? I can’t wait to show you all the cute little outfits!”

Just. Fucking. Great.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Gimme my damn miracle, beeyotch

My mom’s mom was very religious. I’m talking Oral Roberts, singing the praises in the street, visualizing the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich, the whole nine yards. Even at 10 years old I thought it was ridiculous to tell a good man who’d lived his life dedicated to helping others that because he didn’t accept Jesus that he was doomed to burn for eternity. Seemed like a technicality to me.

I’m not saying one thing or another about what’s true and what isn’t. I’m really just slamming Baptists here, just so we’re on the same page through this journey.

My grandma had asked us to go to church with her. I remember sitting in the pew as the slick haired man yelled at us, threatening us to be better Christians or face an eternity in hell. Worthless sacks of shit, we apparently were. Then he said it was time for the healing to begin.

All those wanting their miracles tonight were to line up down the center of the church where the bride would traditionally take her last few steps as a free-thinking woman. Each person in line was to ask for a miracle and he, Preacher Boy, would grant our miracle through God’s powers. My grandmother insisted I get in line. What the hell for? Go, go, go. Get your miracle. Yes ma’am.

I got in line and spent my 15 minutes trying to think up what miracle I would ask for. Preacher Boy would announce everyone’s miracle, then he’d say it was so and all was granted. Abracadabra. Who needs a genie?

So while I’m standing in line I start thinking. I’d like a new skateboard, but that’s not really a gift from God. More like a gift from Dad. No, it should be something money can’t buy. Like to be taller. Yeah, that would be cool. It sucked being the shortest boy in my class. But what if I walked out of here as short as I walked in? Then I’d be the only one who didn’t get my miracle and grandma would fuss at me for asking for something ungrantable. Or worse, I would get taller and I’d have to listen to her tell me repeatedly it was due to my miracle and not my pituitary. Not surprisingly, a glance into the future would show I grew another 16 inches over the next couple of years. Good thing I didn’t waste it.

When my turn came Preacher Boy asked me in his loud better-than-thou voice what miracle I wanted from God this day. I took off my glasses and told him I wanted to see clearly. Fix that shit, motherfucker. Make it 20/20.

Had the man possessed an inkling of conscience he would have refused. But then, he was already up there offering people miracles simply for asking. To hell with conscience, that dipshit didn’t even have common sense on his side.

He placed his palm on my forehead and prayed to Jesus that my eyes would be healed. He was so sure of himself, so confident in his ability to pass along the ability to heal the terminally nearsighted, that for just a second I believed he just might do it. He gave me a push after his loud request for help to save my soul from my optical dysfunctionalism and he asked me in a voice everyone could hear:


Well, fuck, dude, don’t put me on the spot or anything. Everyone turned to me as I stood there with my glasses in my hand and my short bangs standing upright from his sweaty palm. Now what? I glanced behind him at the clock a half a football field away and stared at it. Was it possible? Was it actually clearer?

“Yes. Yes!” I could see!! Praise the Lord, Jesus Christ our Savior, thank you God! I could see! All this time I wore those glasses, put up with the name calling and hassles when all I had to do was ask Preacher Boy to deliver me my miracle. Wow! I turned around to share the wondrous news with my grandma and ran smack into a woman wearing a dress the same color as the carpet.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Stubborn is as stubborn does

I sat down at my desk tonight to find this shit on my desktop. My wife is not funny.

Sometimes my old man gets exactly what he deserves and other times he deserved worse than he got. He spent 30 years either taking care of the three of us or just Mom, but either way it’s been hard on him to suddenly have nobody depending on him financially. To make up for it, he’s made a few poor choices as he’s eased back into the dating pool. He informed me tonight of something he’d kept quiet since it happened in November.

See, Dad still has Mom’s car. He bought it for her in ’85 and since it was nicer than the pickup he’s been driving since ‘82 he’s kept them both. Back in November he was getting his feet wet again with some needy chic looking for a sugar daddy. The woman, Gimme, was having car problems and rather than get hers fixed she asked to borrow my Dad’s. Or rather, my Mom’s. He agreed. After a reasonable amount of time passed he asked for the car back. She refused.

My old man got in his pickup, which burns a quart of oil on a good day for every tank of gas, and drove the 45 miles to Gimme’s house. She’d hidden the car somewhere nearby and refused to hand over the keys. He stood on her doorstep and phoned 911 to report a car theft. Gimme opened the door, threw the keys at him, and slammed it shut again. The cops gave my old man a ride around the area to find Mom’s car parked a few blocks away. He dropped the charge, the cops left, and now my old man discovered he was in one hell of a predicament. He was 45 miles from home with two vehicles. And did I mention too fucking proud to call Julie or myself or even Cuz to ask for help? He got himself into it, he was gonna get himself out of it.

He drove the car about a half mile, then ran back to where he’d left the truck. He drove the truck a half mile past the car, parked and ran back to the car. He did that for about 3 miles before he figured out he’d never get home before Christmas, so in a wave of genius he parked the car in a safe location then drove home and borrowed the 8 year old neighbor’s pink bicycle. Over the next several days my father could be seen along the shoulder of IH-10 westbound from Louisiana to Texas, pedaling furiously with his ass up in the air like the wicked witch of the west on a little pink Huffy with streamers in the handlebars. With less than an hour of daylight after work each day it took him nearly all week to get both vehicles home. And this whole time he said not one damn word to any of us.

Stubborn son of a bitch.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Need I say more?

Those are the sexiest monkey PJ's I've ever seen.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Me eyes!

I discovered a while back the 'Next Blog' button usually lead nowhere worth traveling. This confirmed it. I knew something was awry in the first photo, but I could not conceive what I discovered.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Valentine's Day

We had another ultrasound last week. Sonographer said she couldn’t tell yet about the sex but she made a guess based on heart rate. Wouldn’t you like to know…

The little shits are wearing me out and they haven’t even left the womb yet. I had the whole house painted less than three years ago, but silly me I had it done in beige throughout. Children need color, don’t you know? And I’m too fucking cheap to bring in yet another painter for a single room so I spent my first healthy weekend in a while taping off the molding, baseboards and doorways. After I moved everything out of the room into the other bedroom/attic/closets/garage. Fortunately, I had Jasmine there to point me in the right direction as I stumbled by with a futon on my back. What would I do without her?

Did I mention my wife is pregnant? Holyshit. She’s 17 weeks now and can I say DAMN? No stretch marks yet. I should know. I’ve been put in charge of staving them off with gallons of cocoa butter. She admitted stretch marks are purely genetic and no amount of cocoa butter can prevent them, but decided to put me in charge making sure that’s not a medical misstatement. What are the chances they’ll appear and I’ll be accused of slacking nonetheless? I smear that shit up to her earlobes and down to her knees just to be safe. Unless those kids drop to her ankles I’ve got it covered.

I have been excused from my voluntary coffee ban. She couldn’t take it anymore. I was drinking Red Bull to get the caffeine but at a buck and a quarter a pop she got tired of listening to me complain. Now I get a $3 coffee instead. Sucker. I also successfully defended coffee as a form of medication. It was brilliant. I’m sorry you missed it.

I had a dozen roses sent to the office for Valentine’s. She loves white roses. I know that isn’t the color of love, but since I waited until Monday morning to order them pickin's were slim. I made it up in creativity though. Only 10 of the roses were white. Two were pink. One for each baby. They didn’t have any blue roses so don’t read anything into the pink. Or do. The fact that I asked should tell you something. Unless I’m lying.

Our next ultrasound is next month some time. She told us without a doubt, assuming good positioning, she’ll be able to tell us the sex if we want to know it. You bet your ass I do. Jasmine is torn between learning the surprise now and learning it later. They’ve got suspicions based on heart rates but specifically told us that was unreliable and not to be counted on.

Kadybug spent the night the weekend before last when I was sick. I was sleeping in the other room to avoid getting Jazz sick and had crashed early on, before 9pm. About an hour later I woke myself coughing, rolled over, and in the shadows I saw the silhouette of someone standing 6 inches from my face. I screamed in a totally manly way and jumped to my feet in the darkness just to hear, “Hee hee, I ‘care you, Uncle Day. You ‘cream.” My pregnant wife came running to my rescue/humiliation.

Jasmine snickered. I wish boys upon her. Come on, chromosomes, don’t let me down.

Monday, February 14, 2005


I was up watching Best of Autopsy on HBO tonight. I hate shows like that, and yet I watched it. I knew it was gonna be bad when the words “corpse” and “vaginal tube” were used in the same sentence. Some people are just fucked up. Then I completely freaked out when a mug shot was shown and the city and state was the very same small city I was living in at the time of his arrest. Population 12,000 which included me and the murdering, corpse-fucker.

My cell phone just beeped and scared the shit out of me. I don’t do scary movies and that includes gruesome autopsies. Jasmine wants to see White Noise where they record the voices of people after they’re dead. That Jason and Freddy crap bores me. The Hollywood gore festivals are stupid. You got Hannibal chowing down on Peggy Sue? Yuck, but whatever. But you go and throw a fucking ghost up into the mix and you’ll hear my little bitch scream for miles. M. Night Shyamalan can kiss my motherfucking ass. I ain’t sticking around. That scene in the Sixth Sense where the kid is taking a leak and the dead housewife walks past, damn man, it was weeks before I could piss again without watching the doorway. I sprayed down so many urinals, toilets and floors it wasn't even funny.

Jasmine is in the bedroom alone. I better go in there in case she wakes up and needs comforting.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Miss me?

Weddings are stupid. Especially long drawn out weddings with singers and guitarists and poetry and shit all crammed into the ceremony stretching it from 10 minutes to 45. That’s bullshit. “Do you?” “Yep. What about you?” “Sure.” Done. That’s what it ought to be. There is no rule book somewhere that says the more money you drop, the more agonizingly, mind-numbingly boring the procedure is, the more likely it will last. Putting someone, 200 someones, through that crap on Super Bowl Sunday is cruel and unusual punishment.

Due to an unforeseen illness, lucky bastard, one of the groomsmen had to cancel a few days before the wedding. To compensate for the lop-sided bridesmaids to groomsmen ratio, Jasmine agreed to step down as maid/matron of honor. She didn’t fit into her dress anymore, didn’t want to do it anyway, and third, Ivy suggested it. Blood might be thicker than water, but it’s a liquid that pours nonetheless.

When the music started up and the parade down the aisle began we all waited with bated breath, oh yes, to catch the first glimpse of the bride in her gown. Even I was eager to once again see the love dress. Once Ivy finally appeared with her father at her side, I was greatly disappointed.

“It doesn’t look the same,” I whispered.

Jasmine shushed me. Oh, I see. She can do the deed in her sister's gown, but she can't talk about the deed among 200 of her closest family and friends. Hipocrit.

Ivy came closer and I could see the dress was the same one, but obviously longed for the voluptuous curves Jasmine had lent it.

After my eyes rolled back down out of my head at the end of the excruciatingly long ceremony, we all got to watch them run out of the church together, hand in hand, like innocent babes eager to start their lives together as if they hadn’t already been shacking up like the rest of us these last few months. We made our way to the reception site where the ritual of dancing and eating took place. Bride with groom, bride with father, groom with his mom, groom with Aunt Dinky, best man with drunken bridesmaid.

Ivy came around to pay homage to her loyal followers, inquiring as to whether we were all having a good time, did we get enough to eat, were we enjoying ourselves, had we pulled the sharp pins from our eyeballs yet, the usual pleasantries. Jasmine suggested, in front of everyone I might add, that I dance with Ivy. An awkward moment passed as we each thought of the many live arachnids we would rather ingest than have to willing come in physical contact with one another.

“I don’t know how to dance.”

Jasmine likes to entertain herself with me at times. She knew damn well I had no interest in touching her little serpent sister. “He’s an excellent dancer. Go.”

The surrounding folks got involved, blissfully unaware of mine and Ivy’s hate-you/hate-you-more relationship. It was uncomfortable and tense for a few moments until I buckled and held my hand out to her. If she declines, she’ll be the ass and not me.

Little shit took my hand. Dammit.

I shot Jasmine a look I hope she took to heart because I damn well meant it, then led her snippy little sister out onto the dance floor. (For the record, that is not me in the photo with her.) Neither of us even looked at each other the first half of the song until I thought about the dress. Under no circumstances was I trying to check her out, but she happened to look up at me just as I was looking down at the dress.

“Keep your eyes to yourself.”

I was so fucking pissed. I looked back toward Jasmine and I knew she could tell something was wrong, she had that “Oh shit” look on her face as she watched us.

I swore not to make an ass of myself in front of Jasmine’s parents. “I was admiring your gown.”

“Like you would notice.”

I clenched my jaw tighter than a homophobic’s ass cheeks in the middle of San Francisco. I wanted to snap her fucking head off. “You added those straps. Jazz showed me the gown when she picked it up. It didn’t have straps.”

Ha! Fork tongued fucker! Take that shit to the bank, why don’t you. Don’t fucking tell me what I was looking at.

But instead of apologizing like she damn well should have she copped an even bigger attitude. “I had them added because I thought they looked nice. Not that you really noticed.”

I could hear the song about to end. It couldn’t have come soon enough. “Yeah. That, and you don't have any tiddies to hold it up otherwise.”

I finished her off with a whirl, bowed, and handed her off to the next poor sap in line for a turn.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Temporarily out of service

I came down with the flu last Friday. I'll post soon.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

The Boogey Man

I scared the piss out of Jasmine today. I never laughed so hard. The OnStar system doubles as a satellite phone. It’s actually really handy. If you can see the sky, you’ve got a signal. To activate it you hit a button on the rear view mirror. The odometer display changes to “PHONE” and the radio automatically shuts off since the car speakers double as a giant in-stereo speakerphone. To dial out you say, “Dial” and speak the person’s name you want to call from your speed dial list. A very pleasant sounding woman replies with “Dialing” and you’re hooked up. Other than pressing the first button, it’s entirely hands free.

Since I park on the third floor of the parking garage, I usually go out first after work and drive back down to get Jasmine at the front door when it’s really cold. She was taking unnecessarily long today so in my boredom I rang up Jason who was still at work.

Jason: This is Jason.
Me: Hey, man, do me a favor.
Jason: Another hooker?
Me: Not this time. Fuck with Jasmine.
Jason (laughing): Love to. How?

Just as I was wrapping up my instructions to Jason I saw Jasmine walk out, Sarah yapping away at her. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, then looked back at Sarah and brushed her off somehow.

She got in the car and immediately started in on work.

“…so, she went through the things on my desk like I had it and was hiding it from her. Has she lost her mind? If I step foot in her office when she’s not around it’s time to request video footage. And why would I lie about not having it? I swear, I come home so worked up sometimes because of that woman. You wanna know why I’m hardly ever in the mood for sex anymore it’s probably because of that wom-”

“Woah, woah, there, honey! Hard right, hang on. I need a coke.” I whipped into the driveway of the Stop & Rob and parked out front. “Want anything?”

“Her head on a platter.”

I winked at her. “So a Yoohoo, then?” I’ve never seen a woman so crazy about chocolate flavored water.

I ran to the door and once inside quickly grabbed two drinks out of the case and got in line. Outside, I could see Jasmine sitting peacefully in the truck, her head back against the headrest and her eyes closed. I couldn’t help but snicker.

Suddenly she screamed, bolted upright, ducked, spun around to look in the back seat, then jumped out of the truck and ran 10 feet away from it, panicked with eyes as big as dinner plates and her chest heaving beneath her hands. I dropped my coke I was laughing so hard. I couldn’t even stand up straight. My face was red and I couldn’t breathe, doubled over and pointing at her. She finally looked inside the store, gulping big breaths, and put it together.

I paid the clerk and walked outside. “What’s the matter, honey? Something startle you?”

“You sorry pile of shit! Was he listening the whole time?”

Ah, yes, that’s my lovely wife. What a lady, huh? I gave her a big hug and a kiss and we got back in the truck.

“Jason, you still there?”

His laugh resonated from the doors and dashboard. “Yeah. Hey, Jasmine, it was his idea. I’m sorry if I scared you too bad.”

She forgave him, but backhanded me in the gut.

“Man, don’t apologize to her. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Glad I could help. And hey, what was she saying about your sex life? You told me-”

“OnStar, disconnect.”

¿Cómo se dice "get off my ass" en español?

My gray matter checked out hours ago and what little white matter I have left is vanishing quickly. I have a meeting in the morning I’ve been prepping for all week. Dude’s from Madrid. He speaks English but he’s only been speaking it a few years so as a courtesy I subject him to my back alley, “learned it from a hood rat named Juan,” Spanish. Lucky him.

We’ve talked on the phone several times and I’m having a hard time adjusting to his accent. Spaniards near Madrid speak Castilian which sounds different from the Tex-Mex bullshit I use. Not only do they use the “vosotros” form of the verb, which is all but gone from Latin America, not to mention my pea-sized brain, but they speak with what sounds like a lisp.

“¡Hola, amigo! ¿Qué patha?” or “Tengo thinco dolareth.”

I went over everything tonight that I will present to him and jotted down notes in Spanish. This way if I have a brain fart during the meeting and suddenly can’t remember the Spanish translation for “thank you for trusting in me” or “lick my nut you cross-eyed immigrant” I can refer to my pad. It’s all there.

By the way, did anyone else know that amniotic fluid completely recycles itself every three hours? You should check with me more often. I’m a fucking fountain of knowledge over here, just waiting to spew shit all over the front of your blue dress so you can share it with the world. And let’s not forget about the cheesy coating which can be located within the folds, cracks and crevices of a newborn infant. Yum. Got milk?

Back to the Spanish, because I wasn’t fucking finished before you distracted me with the baby bullshit, it’s a state of mind. It’s not just a different vocabulary, but an entirely different way of looking, thinking and understanding. If you are lucky, like Jasmine, you say “tengo suerte” which translates as “I have luck.” Once I get into that frame of mind, I’m good to go without a lot of thought. It just falls out naturally. I even think in Spanish. I’ve dreamed in Spanish before. I dreamed I was in Mexico trying to barter with a local man, my burro for his daughter. One nice ass for another. He wasn’t going for it.

Back to my point and quit with the fucking topic changes. I’ve got a moral. Note, I didn’t say morals. Totally different. In any language.

So I’m sitting in my office this evening, alone. Jasmine and I took separate cars because we knew I’d be late working on this meeting. I’d been thinking in Spanish for about three hours and was armpit deep in the language when something appeared in my doorway.

I looked up and saw the cleaning lady standing there in her yellow smock with her hand on the handle of a vacuum cleaner.

“Do you mind if I vacuum now?”

I just stared. ¿Qué?

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

David Fucking Copperfield

I asked Jasmine to give me some loving in the truck in the parking garage this morning. Surprisingly, she declined. It’s not like more than a dozen people might have seen us or anything. I then tried to negotiate a hummer. Nada. All that crazy monkey love from the beginning is long gone, I see.

In my sexual frustration, I dropped the keys into the cup holder to grab my briefcase from the back and check inside to make sure I’d brought back the files I’d taken home to look over. All was in good order. I hopped out and we headed in. Fifteen feet away I remembered the keys.

Shit. “Hang on.”

When I got back to the truck the doors were locked.

“Jay, what are you doing?”

Dammit. She’s always telling me to quit dropping the keys in the cup holder. “I left the keys in the truck and now the doors are locked.”

“How did you lock the doors without the keys?”

“I’m David Fucking Copperfield. Go inside!”

I’ll call OnStar. They’ll unlock it. How did I lock the doors without the keys? But when I pulled out my cell phone I couldn’t get a signal deep inside the garage. Fuck. Bet the satellite won’t be able to find the truck, either. It was too dark to see inside, but I remember dropping them in the one on the right. Damn dim ass garage lights. Plus it was raining so there was no sunshine at all. I knew from the snugness my balls were smarter than I was and had already gone inside.

To hell with it. I’ll deal with it later. I walked to the office and got inside to find Jasmine in the kitchen making her daily cup of wannabe coffee.

“Hey, I locked the keys in the truck somehow. I’ll take care of it at lunch.”

I knew when she glared at me that I was in trouble. “Your keys are on your desk. I grabbed them out of the cup holder and locked it as we were walking off.”

Son of a… “Why didn’t you say that?”

“Because you’re David Fucking Copperfield.”

Ah, shit. I didn't mean it that way. She was obviously irritated. I took a deep breath and looked at her for a long moment. I shouldn’t have yelled and she knew that, she was waiting to hear it. “I’m sorry.”

She didn't smile, but her face relaxed and she looked down at her coffee. She doesn’t get touchy feely at the office, but when she walked behind me to leave and said “It’s okay” she grazed her hand over my ass.

Fucking flirt. Maybe I’ll forget the keys in the truck again tomorrow.