Friday, March 31, 2006

A Schism in Her Realism

From a chat conversation with a friend, who (I am thankful) doesn’t read this blog (or does she? better check the hits log):
Misty: You can’t tell me atheism isn’t a religion. There’s doctrine, faith in that doctrine without scientific proof, and a cause, principle, and system of beliefs held to with ardor and faith. It’s a religion – and so is communism and all the other -isms I can think of.
Never thought of that. So, after taking a few minutes to check my lucky Merriam Webster’s Used Student Dictionary (and the online version) and finding that definition #4 supporting her claim, I replied:
Yearning Heart: This concept that, not just atheism, transcendentalism, and communism, but all other -isms are religion is quite audacious and I would not dispute it; let’s just call it a truism, admire its heroism, and leave it at that. After all, your major was in journalism – who am I to argue as I am one who merely studied dramatism? – and so I suspect that “religion” for you is merely a euphemism. Anyway, it’s time for my jism prayer meeting, so I’ll sign off now.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Getting there

I didn’t mention it but a few weeks ago I sold my Saturn to pay off a credit card. I felt like it was the smartest financial move I have made in a while. After all, I’m always hauling 3 kids around so I might as well use the family minivan. I don’t go into town to work at the restaurant job anymore, right? And it makes me feel close to Maggie – it was her van.
But yesterday the oil seal on Monsieur’s car melted/vaporized as he was doing 75 mph on the highway, (why do they still use oil seals? why can’t they use a more reliable sea mammal?) spraying oil into a fine mist all over the inside of his engine compartment, and causing the engine to “throw a rod,” whatever that means. Monsieur found out about it tonight from the mechanic.
He told me about it after kids’ bedtime, and said that it will be a hardship. Maggie – well I don’t want to dwell on it but she was manic depressive. When she was manic, she didn’t choose wisely in her spending decisions. When she was depressive, she didn’t want to be around the world and (I say this with all the love for her I have) the world didn’t want to be around her either.
The short story is that when she passed away, she left over $28,000 in consumer debt.
Monsieur’s primary goal right now is to get out from under that, and he sat me down at the living room table with his bills and my bills and we basically figured out that there is no room for a car payment right now. We’re going to be a one-car family out in the country for a while. His look of utter embarrassment confused me, but I think he really thought I would freak out or there would be pouting or an argument or something. And there wasn’t. I said, “well, you take me and the kids to school, and I teach and you pick us up as soon as you can. We get up a little earlier. We plan trips carefully. And, oh yeah,” I remembered, then I picked up my VISA card and a pair of scissors and cut it in two, “we all do our part.”
There was a bit of a pause and he said, “I really was more concerned with my financial situation than yours – although that is often a wise thing to do.”
“My financial situation is intertwined with yours, “ I said, thinking, Shouldn’t this be obvious? “Monsieur, I don’t want to be at this table looking at a similar mess this time next year.”
We talked a bit and he admitted to feeling bad about being under this mountain of debt, and told me of his troubles looking for additional contract work, attempting debt consolidation, talking to neighbors to see if they would be willing to take parcels of his property (they aren’t; these “gentleman ranchers” are about as cash poor as it comes).
“Don’t sell the farm,” I said, remembering my daddy’s troubles back during the 90s farm crisis.
“Oh, cherie, it is hardly a farm.”
“It’s your kids’ house. They got to live somewhere.” He looked at me. I nodded. “We’ll work it out. It’s what we do best.”
I think the thing that was really making me feel good about it all was the fact that he was not just telling me about it, but including me in on it. I was in the loop. I was part of the family, and not just a live-in nanny-with-benefits. He was looking at my bills, too, as part of the family debt. I felt like, well, like a domestic partner.
I put my hand on his knee. He looked at my hand for a minute, and then he covered my hand in his. “I have somehow felt … not as romantic … partly because of this worry,” he said.
“I can understand that. But you know, if you had no house, and no car, and you lived in a tar-paper shack out on the prairie, you’d still have me trying to put my hand on your knee.” He looked at me for a minute, and I said, “maybe even further up.” I smiled, sliding my hand even further up his leg, then resting it there.
“Are you quite sure of this whole situation?” he asked, so softly I could barely hear him.
“This whole situation?” I asked. “Well, no, I’m not sure of everything. Not the whole situation. But I’m pretty sure I’m here to stay.”
“Of that particular situation, I would be in agreement.” He moved my hand even further up. “In this particular situation, I am also … in agreement.” I smiled. I leaned over, kissed him slowly, and thus emboldened, I slid my hand up and in my hand, I cupped the thickest, fattest hard-on that my hand had ever cupped.
“Is that for me?” I said after the kiss.
Mais oui,” he replied, “if you would deign to have it.”
I unzipped him and got him undressed, then I pulled my jammies off and straddled his waist, before he could change his mind. Kissing him sweetly, tenderly, I lowered myself onto his thick cock and made gentle love to him, muffling my moans by biting his shoulder.
So, I lost one ride. But the one I got was all good.

The Melting Grill

Breakfast tacos.
We don’t have them in eastern Sedgwick County, and you gotta go quite a ways – at least a mile – to get them if you live in ultra-hipster Westport, Kansas City.

It’s not free enterprise, but it’s reasonable priced.
However, in what the clueless ditto-heads of this red state refer to as the People’s Republic of Austin, one can find that capitalism is alive and well in the form of breakfast tacos made, one at a time, if not lovingly, by small brown hands attached to that great symbol of free enterprise, the undocumented business owner in a small trailer on the side of the road. Back during the heyday of the free enterprise system in the late 1600s, the ancestors of this proud population created a concoction based on the most universal of foodstuffs, the flat grilled bread known as a tortilla. While the Cornish have their pasty, and the Irish have their soda cracker, the mighty mestizos of Vespucciland are prepared to bring the 2006 election cycle of the United States to a tizzy fed largely on what they call el breakfast taco. Stuffed with egg and potato, or bacon and cheese, or barbacoa which is, I assume, some form of native marsupial[1], these fat little mothers are what I like about the local cuisine.
I stopped in a “panaderia”[2] known as “El Churro”[3] and waited in line as everyone ordered in Spanish. There was actually no line; one simply elbowed one’s way up to the counter through the comfortably dressed. Not unlike many college age touring shows, but in this instance one was looking for breakfast, not beer or frottage with a hottie. Fat people, by their sheer ballast, had priority. I was squeezed into place before the counter almost by default, sort of a Brownian[4] motion of bodies that moved me in the direction I needed to go. Other customers were greeted at the counter with a pleasant “bueno?” but I accepted the wordless nod of the proprietress as a sign of respect for my pasty lack of melanin and my vivid freckles.
“I’d like two, potato egg and cheese, and a barbaquaw[5] please,” I said.
¿Quieres tortillas de harine ó masa?” she queried.

I am Taco. I am one with everything.
De farine, s’il vous plaît,” I replied, reasoning that, if one is addressed in a language one can speak but replies in another, then the instigator of the conversation can justifiably assume that all linguistic bets are off and may now speak Esperanto, Polish or Urdu, to the level of one’s own whim and ability.
De farine,” I repeated.
“No, I said ju wann flour tortillas or corn?” she probed.
“A-ha! Caught you!” I said, with triumph. “Yes, please, flour tortillas.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits as she rang up my purchase, but there was a tacit understanding between us now. I knew, she knew, and I knew that she knew that I knew. There would not be another attempt on each other’s culture. From then on she would speak to me in clumsy English, and I would reply in even more atrocious Spanish. It was, after all, how it should be. De colores, and so forth.

[1] I think it’s a member of the “critter” family.

[2] “Place where they cook with pans”.

[3] “The Churlish One”.

[4] Named for its inventor, James Brown, who discovered it in a super-heated crack pipe 50 years ago and based an entire religion on its principles. This religion has many practitioners to this day.

[5] The closest my Irish tongue can approximate barbacoa.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Blog me, blog me, blog me harder

Freaking freak fork flick fling finger food.
I’m horney again. I swear, the more I get, the more I want – and it’s not like I’m getting enough. Monsieur and I are supposed to talk about this soon. Hmppf. I can’t wait.
Meanwhile I get these dreams…
…like the one where there’s a Hot Blogger convention in San Francisco, and in one seminar, I’m being held down by Venting Housewife while her randy husband bangs me like a screen door slammin’. Or the one where I’m getting blowjob lessons from Desireous, who lets me practice on Sir (“that’s not right, honey, tilt your head back a little – Sir, can you hold her by the head and just fuck her face real steady? Mmm, that-a-girl – get to know it!”). Or how about the Introspectral Spank-You-Very-Much-Workshop, where you get your Continuing Education Certification in Applied Paddle … I’m face down gritting my teeth, ass in the air as Jack applies the paddle in an endless round of smacks hitting my naughty upturned butt … “I can’t take it,” I protest, then Jill gives me a deep kiss that melts me and gives me the strength to handle another ten, twenty, fifty smacks … then I’m being taken by Passionate Man as he vents every frustration he has on me, naked from the waist up and his fatigue pants around his ankles, my legs locked around his waist – but wait, it’s a hotel room and I’m pulling a train – I see Figleaf and Shyrocket are next in line, and the line goes out the door and down the hall, as my stats counter clicks over, another one joins the line … I wake up, soaking, look at the clock, 4 AM. Shaking my head, then spoon my soaking crotch into a sleeping Monsieur’s, praying that I’ll get some this morning. Jay-Sue, PMS is a bitch.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Tonic review

A while back I got a gift from a reader who checked my wish list, sending me a CD and only asked that I give an honest review of it. He’s a sweetie and kinda stuck in a bad situation. I hadn’t had time until now to sit down and write the damn thing, so with apologies for another obligation that zoomed by, here we go:

Tonic Vintage Vocals

[2004] released on the SKM label
Put on a slinky cocktail dress, mix up a pitcher of martinis and prepared to let Tonic hep ya to some jive: this CD is as smooth as baby’s feet and you better be ready to swing. Tonic is a vocal quartet – imagine Manhattan Transfer if they were packing heat – and the melody rules the show. Rigorous attention to detail and perfection in rhythm and harmony both make this a great cocktail party tape. I wouldn’t know – but I love playing it good & loud while picking up the clutter after a busy weekend with the boys. My favorites: “Sammy Slick”, the story of a hard-drinkin’ private eye on the trail of a femme fatale; “Lemon Twist” for a bit of vitamin C; and “Hepster’s Jive”, with a nod of the fedora to Cab Calloway. These all are originals, but they have that authentic flavor of a corrupt Prohibition Era Chicago – sweet horns, tasty arrangements, and sax solos that are so decadent that they make you want to be the kind of woman your mom warned your brother about. I defy you to not get up and dance a lindy hop to the infectious “Second Date Stomp”. The Yearning Heart says, check it out.
And private to PM; thanks again.

Where the apple falls

I never have any doubts that these are Maggie’s kids.
Scene: Exterior - Day - Playground
Curly Blonde Girl and Bigglest Boy (7 and 8 years of age, respectively) are playing in the sand box. Bigglest Boy is trying to built a sandcastle, using sticks to support the walls around the castle keep. He inverts a bucket of wet sand and lifts it up to make a tower, which crumbles. He tries again; the sand crumbles away as he pulls the bucket off.
Bigglest Boy: [frustrated] Stupid!!!
Curly Blonde Girl: I’m not stupid.
Bigglest Boy: No! This sand is stupid.
Curly Blonde Girl: Jesus doesn’t want you to say “stupid”.
Bigglest Boy: Jesus never says what I want him to say, either.

Civil Disobedience

Fortunately I don’t get mail asking for money from any political parties. At least, I don’t here in Texas. In KC I got them from the Republicans; I eventually stopped them by sending them a check for three cents. They spent more money trying to extract money from me than I ever could have hoped; I finally got a call from one of their telemarketers, who had an obviously rural Midwestern accent and called me“hon". I told her that the three cents was to ensure that I would stay on their list of contributors and force them to spend even more money - to handle the check, to add me to their database, and to pay her to call me right now. I figured that they spent at least $20 on that endeavor, and that my money was well-spent.
“Oh, then,” she replied, dropping the accent and sounding more like the Yankee that my Caller ID indicated that she likely was.“Well, if you’re not going to help, then why did you send that check in?”
“Money well spent,” I repeated.“It was a check for three cents.”
She hung up on me without a “thank you”. I have not heard from them again.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Didja miss me?

Since my last post about an hour ago? Ya, sure, you betcha.
I just checked my e-mail, catching up with people I went to UMKC with; some of whom went on to grad school and some went back home to lay around and feel sorry for themselves. A “bunch of stuff has been going on” and yet it’s much the same. I feel like I’m the only one who grew up since high school.
Someone e-mailed me and asked if I totally forgot Monsieur’s birthday last February; answer is no: I made the boys carrot cake[1] and poured Monsieur[2] a cup of tea. He didn’t want any presents but I found this history of the French and British navies from 1790 to 1830 with a great collection of drawings[3]. I think it’s interesting too and while I found that, I saw a great book on women who disguised themselves as men to fight in the British Navy. Now that’s a part I could play in a movie. I always figured I knew my way around the cox.
I didn’t mention that I also offered him sex, to which he had smiled and said that would not be an appropriate thing at present. Maybe not for him – but my birthday is coming up in May and by golly, I know what I want and it ain’t socks – it sounds like socks but it has a different vowel.
Mostly, said I, I’m caring for and teaching the kids. My days are full of dental appointments and homework, naptimes, snacks, crayons and puppet shows. I do history, math, science, social studies, and civics – in the mornings. Then I do art, music, English grammar and PE in the afternoons. And, of course, it alternates – and the children are self-directed, or they wouldn’t be there. Co-operative schooling is so wonderful – you can kick a kid out for being a problem. In public schools here in the U.S. you’d pretty much have to be convicted of a felony to get kicked out for good. Even then, that’s not always enough. But in my school, the parents run the show. Most parents elsewhere don’t seem to want that kind of responsibility.
K is coming over for a visit, and I told her to remember her camera phone – so with any luck and courage, I’ll see you (or vice versa) on Thursday. No promises. Kiss kiss.
[1] Delicious; I use half the sugar, though.
[2] Also delicious.
[3] OK, shameless plug again: The Encyclopedia of Ships. Because, he’s that kind of geek.
Edit: (6 pm) not only K is coming over, Monsieur’s friend (and drummer and hunk o’ yummy goodness) Tom-Tom, Skip the Gay Rancher, Kimberly, and some piano playing guy named Lloyd are also going to come, too. Monsieur is cooking, thanks be to the goodness, so I will not have to worry about that. There will be music (and laughter and wonderful times); I plan to put on a tight pair of jeans and look my best – also I plan to get K to stay late so we can stay up and dish. Maybe she will tease Monsieur enough so that he will be randy and fuck me! (Dare I yearn? It could happen.)

Business Reply Mail

Recently I got this incredibly brilliant idea from Monsieur. Because I am a “young borrower” meaning I haven’t (yet) defaulted on my student loans or had any late payments, I get about 20 “special offers” per week to incur even more debt at a “Special One-Time Introductory Rate”. I complained about them as if there weren’t much I could do about it except shred the offers and toss them into the recycle bin.
“Why don’t you just send them to them?” Monsieur suggested.
“Because I don’t want the credit cards! I have enough debt as it is,” I protested.
“No,” he said, pouring two cups of tea, “you should shred them first, then stuff them into their Business Reply envelopes. The recipient must then pay the postage on the garbage that they have generated, and then they must pay to have them thrown away. If more people did that, perhaps the marketing geniuses would figure out that people don’t need credit until they ask for it – and even then, probably not.”
Now, I’m quite sure that sending in my twelve envelopes of shredded confetti per week to Chase, Washington Mutual, and MBNA won’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things, but I do know that putting them into the outgoing letter box and hearing them drop brought a certain serenity to my mind that simply can’t be bought at any price, at any annual percentage rate. And there’s no annual fee!

Friday, March 24, 2006

Long Black Veil

Hajib, by Harriet Jameson Pellizzari
Hajib, by Harriet Jameson Pellizzari
Hajib? Babydoll?
Each kinda alluring in it’s own way…

I notice that Monsieur pays more attention to me when I don’t dress all “skimpy/sexy”. Anyone else ever notice this? When I wear a baby doll or chemise he doesn’t really look at me so much, but in flannel pajamas or a long nightgown, he always gives me a hug or the goodbye kisses last a little longer.

I asked him about that last night. “You don’t like my chemise?”

“Of course, I do,” he said.

“Why don’t you ever touch me when I wear it?”

He told me, in effect, that I was “imagining things.”

I wonder if he thinks I’m too skinny or flat-chested or something. I wonder if I’m really his type. I mean, he gives it to me good and hard when he gives it to me – so I know he likes girls! Maybe it’s my body. Maybe these moles on my tummy turn him off. I don’t know.

I know when he was younger and touring around the world he knew a lot of Muslim women – although he doesn’t say so, I know he was doing them, at least some of them. Maybe I should veil myself by wearing a niqab once in a while.

I think I’m not alone in thinking that the veil is somewhat sexy. Don’t get me wrong; I am not in favor of forcing women or anyone else to completely cover the body. I know there are plenty of people debating this – I’ve talked to Muslim women who find it liberating not to have their face and bodies on display for others. I don’t think I’m all that but I like wearing t-shirts and jeans. Then I some pretty pair of eyes behind a thin dark veil and I think … Hmm. I could look like that – but only in private for Monsieur. Isn’t that a weird thing? The hajib is supposed to, among other things, keep men from staring and to keep women from being stared at but I think I’d be too self-conscious – like people would stare at me.

I doubt that Monsieur would find it all that appealing. I’ll stick with my flannel jammies or long nightgown, I guess.

Or I could just bend over on the bed and wiggle the booty at him. Not much of a booty as far as they go but from what I hear, it’s all in the wiggle.

Thursday, March 23, 2006


I just looked in my e-mail and saw that the Word of the Day was:
aubade \oh-BAHD\, noun:
A song or poem greeting the dawn; also, a composition suggestive of morning.
How very appropriate.
He knelt down at her feet, until she laid
Her hand upon him, like a naked blade,
And whispered in his ear: “Arise, Sir Knight,
To my heart’s level, O my heart’s delight.”

And there he lingered till the crowing cock,
The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock,
Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear…
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Emma and Eginhard
I woke up early this morning; Monsieur had been out taking care of the animals and came in to shower and get ready for work. For some reason, even though I was up until 2 AM last night chatting online, I was wide awake when I heard him come in.
When he got out of the shower, I had already slipped out of my jammies and was there to greet him, naked, with a towel.
“Are you going to take a shower?” he asked as I toweled him dry.
“After a bit,” I replied, “right now you’ve got something to attend to.” I smiled sweetly and put my hands on his shoulders. “Down, and kneel, good Sir Knight,” I giggled.
He looked at me, and surrendering to the inevitable, knelt. I put one leg up on the bathroom counter and, I must say, did his duty with a certain gusto that I truly appreciated. What is it about the French tongue?
After a time, or a few times, anyway, I pulled him up, turned around, grasped him firmly by the part of a man’s body that thinks more clearly in such situations, and bent over. He inched his way in and finished me off (again) quickly, then he slid out and I turned around.
“My turn,” I smiled, and knelt and took him. Hands, tongue, lips, all went to work on him with a passion. When I sensed that he was getting close, I held his hips so that he wouldn’t try to pull away. I needed this. He was gasping and started to move his hips, and with his size it was very difficult to keep him in, so I pulled off and held him against my lips and worked him, wetly, with my hands as I laved and kissed. I didn’t wait long, and he was soaking my face, neck and chest within seconds. Just then I heard Littlest Boy singing as he came down the stairs:
Itsy mitzi pyder
Up a wanna pout
Down in the train
And watch a pyder out
Up in a sun
And tried out on a train
And an itsy mitzi pyder
Want up a pout again.
Again! (repeat for 30 minutes)

Wednesday, March 22, 2006


I took a tip from Jill at Introspectre.
Sitting on the couch, arms folded, staring at the TV and watching nothing in particular, one could easily tell I was … miffed. I was grim, with my mouth set in a line. I looked pissed off.
Monsieur was working in the study; he had a pile of work from a client who dumped it on him and insisted that he get this huge project out in a month, and it was something that would normally take a team of specialists at least three months. It has to do with making sure all their data policies were in “compliance”; making sure that customers’ private information stays private, procedures are in place, and all asses are covered. Monsieur had to read policies, fix, re-do, and make sure everything was legal. He was on the phone a lot, and it didn’t help that the lawyer that he is working with is a total bigot who hates all Europeans.
For three days, Monsieur would come home, help with dinner, put the kids to bed, and disappear into that damned office. So, at 10:30 PM last night, I was tired of it. I missed him. He hadn’t spent any time with me and I was turning into a shrew. I resented it, I resented his client, and I wanted to stop the whole cycle before I started to resent Monsieur.
“Another problem you have,”
“Another problem you have,” I continued, sliding his glasses off of his face and setting them aside, “is that you talk too much about meaningless B.S.”
But I couldn’t; I just sat there, on the couch, watching some stupid re-run, and I finally thought to myself, “What would Jill do?”
Well, that was easy. She’d throw a tantrum.
I turned off the TV, got up, and knocked on the door to the office. Without waiting for an answer, I stuck my head in the door. “Do you need anything?” I asked.
He shook his head without looking up.
“Well, I do,” I said, snappish. I came into the office and took off my T-shirt.
“[Yearning Heart],” he said with a sigh, “really – you know what kind of pressure I’m under.” He looked at me, tenderly, and then he held my hand. “I promise I will spend more time with you, once I get done with this–”
“You’re damn right you will. And you’re going to take…” I looked at the clock “about five minutes right now, and you’re going to take care of another little chore that you keep neglecting.”
“It’s not a chore,” he protested.
“It better not be,” I said, pulling off my pajama bottoms and tossing them aside. “If it is, though, well, that’s your problem. It’s high time you started pulling your own sexual weight around here.”
He looked at me, shook his head and said, “That’s really not an appropriate way to go about–”
“Save it,” I snapped, interrupting him. “Use that mouth for something useful.” I turned off the computer monitor.
“You’re being rude,” he said.
“I won’t argue with you,” I said, gently, and I leaned over him and kissed him. “I’m sorry, love, but it’s come to this.”
“What do you want me to do?” he said, almost helpless.
“I want you … to redeem your coupon.” He blushed. I knelt at his feet. He winced. “Oh, c’mon; is it really that bad?”
“Well, of course not,” he said, “it’s just that–”
“Right, a lot of work to do, not enough time to do it, blah, blah, blah. Your biggest problem is that you kill yourself fulfilling promises that other people make on your behalf.” I unzipped him.
“That’s not true,” he said. “In this instance, the client has until the end of the month to comply with a court order–”
“Another problem you have,” I continued, sliding his glasses off of his face and setting them aside, “is that you talk too much about meaningless B.S. You have another client who will absolutely not take no for an answer. And, it just so happens, Monsieur, that this other client is kneeling between your legs right now. I think even a lawyer might be able to divine the implications of that.” He smiled. I didn’t. I was being bratty, testy, and firm. I tugged his pants down, and felt a rush of triumph when he lifted his hips to help me get them off.
He wasn’t fully hard yet but I knew I could fix that. I licked my lips, getting them nice and wet, and then, holding him in one hand, I lowered my head to his lap.
His hands were on the arms of the chair, so I took them and put them on my head. His fingers gently entwined in my hair and I closed my eyes, feeling him harden.
Bobbing, licking, sucking and kissing until my jaw fairly ached, I could tell he was close. He pulled me off of him and lifted me up. I made a pouty noise, and tried to get him to let me suck him more, but he was insistent. He lifted me up and held me by my hips as he lowered me down to it. I whimpered, feeling him enter me with a sticky, slurpy slish. He was going so slow that I didn’t think that we were even moving for a second; then I felt him shift and he impaled me delightfully.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered in my ear.
“No,” I lied, “but it’ll do.”
He wrapped my legs around himself, lifted me up, and carried me to the wall, where he pinned me against it and ensued to pound me, like the slutty brat that I was acting like.
In five minutes, we were disentangling ourselves, and I wobbled my way to bed. He tucked me in and kissed me, asked me if I was all right. I nodded.
“You don’t need to be so ill-mannered, next time,” he said. “I would have come around to it.”
“I don’t have that sort of patience,” I said, closing my eyes. “If you neglect me that long again, I promise you I will be just as rude.” I held his hand. “Please, Monsieur, for my sake, for your sake, and for the sake of peace in the family, don’t neglect me again.”
“You’re spoiled,” he said.
I agreed. “I need a spanking, too.”
He sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
“You’re going to make me happy,” I replied. “A couple of times a week, or every chance you get.”

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

And now, for the weather...

Huge, freakish and violent storm Sunday night. Tornadoes were reported all around us here in the Texas Hills between Blanco, Uvalde and Austin. We had some sheet metal blown through our yard, ripping down some fences and tearing the shingles off of the henhouse.
I had no idea it was coming, since I hadn’t seen the news. It was 10:30 PM and I was folding laundry; Monsieur was doing something or another in the basement, when he came into the living room, pulled out the television (normally we keep it facing the wall, to avoid tempting the children) and turned it on.
“Television?” I asked, wondering; he doesn’t watch much.
“Weather,” he said, and finally found a channel with a weather report. The weather radar was a circle of red, yellow and orange with a little amoeba-like glob of purple in one spot. That one spot was the leading edge of a storm, and he pointed it out to me.
“Watch that,” Monsieur said, “and also they will be mentioning some vectors; pay attention to that while I get some rain gear and set up a radio and flashlights. We may lose power, or worse.”
“Victors?” I asked; when he is disturbed his accent is strong and I can’t always follow it.
“Vectors,” he repeated, “the direction and speed the storm is probably going. They will attempt to estimate its direction and the approximate time the storm will strike each town.” He was putting flashlights, a big sheet of plastic, pillows and the big camping pad into a box; then he took the box into the basement.
I looked back at the screen. The weather map was basically a computer monitor, and the weather lady was using a mouse and pointing to that purple amoeba and saying, “this is the area that we’re worried about, this circular motion in the crook of the storm. Our friends out in Fitzhugh, Henly, and Round Mountain had better start finding shelter in the interior of the house, away from windows, with a battery-operated radio and flashlights….”
I swallowed hard, noting that Round Mountain is visible from the upstairs bedroom on a clear day. The night sky was suddenly punctuated in the west with flashes of brilliant lightning.
“This is it,” Monsieur said. “This is when we find out if it will twist or not.”
Jeez and tarnation, I thought, then got dressed and put my shoes on. I went upstairs to check on the boys. I was closing all the windows when I could hear the squall line, roaring through the valley to the west of us and charging up the hill. I looked out the west window and the sky looked like something out of a Tolkien novel. Jeez and tarnation.
Monsieur came upstairs. “I have three pads made up in the basement,” he was saying; then I couldn’t hear him as the house shook from the near miss of a lightning strike. He leaned over and shouted, “Downstairs. Get the baby. Go to the basement.”
I ran downstairs to the bedroom and, carefully picking up the sleeping Littlest Boy, I wrapped him up in the blankets and took him to the basement. I just got him settled and covered without waking him up. Monsieur came in with Middlest Boy under one arm, and Bigglest Boy was stumbling his way down the stairs, carrying his shoes. Monsieur had another flashlight in one hand and a box of supplies.
“What do we do now?” asked Bigglest Boy as Middlest Boy got tucked in.
“We wait here,” said Monsieur, “until the first storm cell passes.” There was some whimpering of protest from Bigglest Boy, which was shot down by a stern look from his daddy.
I held him for a second and said, “This is the safest place, sweetheart. A storm like this could break the windows upstairs; we don’t want you to get cut by broken glass.”
Bigglest Boy pulled away; then he leaned up against me. “What about tornadoes?” he asked.
“They’re very dangerous, too,” I said, somewhat evading the point of his question.
“Is this a tornado, Peppermint[1]?” Bigglest Boy asked, persistent as usual. Monsieur was going through the dirty laundry in the basement.
I held him tighter. “We’ll find out when it’s over, okay? The only way to know is to go outside, and that’s even more dangerous than being upstairs right now.”
“What about the animals? The chickens? Mister Frank[2]?” asked Bigglest Boy.
“They know what to do,” I replied, hoping to sound convincing.
“I’ll get Frank,” said Monsieur, pulling a dirty pair of jeans on and putting on heavy lace-up work boots. “I am going out to pull the van into the garage. Mister Frank will, sans doute, run into the house and hide under the furniture as soon as I will open the door, I would allow.”
I bit my lip, trying not to argue with him[3]. “Be careful,” I said, and then immediately regretted it because it sounded so ridiculously melodramatic.
“Good idea,” he replied, damn him; then the basement door closed and he was gone.
I told Bigglest Boy the story of how I used to play in our storm cellar back in Kansas and get in trouble for it; I didn’t tell him that the storm cellar was where I first kissed a boy. Rather, the boy kissed me. The boy in question practiced a form of kissing that seemed like he was trying to catch flies in my mouth with his tongue. I was repulsed at the time, but didn’t know enough to know he was a clumsy idiot. I really thought that’s what “deep kissing” was at the time.
I heard a “thump” that startled me, but then I realized it was only the garage door closing on the other side of the wall next to us. A few moments later Monsieur was coming down the basement stairs.
“Crisis is over, unless I am very much mistaken,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Bien, it looks like the rotation never really formed. Come, boy, to help me put the shoes and clothes away. Aunt Peppermint will replace the other ones in their beds.”
“Yes, papa.” “Yes, Monsieur.”
I was upstairs putting Middlest Boy back in his bed[4] when I heard the hail coming down. I looked out the window, but could only see a little of it. It was pea-sized and sounded like popcorn kernels were being poured on the roof of the henhouse.

Back downstairs, I was getting undressed and was going to rinse off in the shower. The thunder was still rolling in the distance, rather like a dog with relationship issues that didn’t want to lose a barking argument. “And another thing…” it seemed to rumble.
A sudden >Boom< and I damn near leapt right out of my socks. The lights flickered out and came back on. I forwent the shower, slipping naked into bed, waiting for Monsieur so I could plead with him for sex.

[1] The boys call me by my nickname, Peppermint.

[2] The cat.

[3] What is it about dangerous, freakish weather – blizzards, ice storms, pea-soup fog, hail, locust infestations, plagues, tornadoes, or hurricanes – that makes men want to Go Outside and Run Errands?

[4] Who hadn’t even open his eyes the whole time; that kid could sleep through the bombing of Dresden and wake up at dawn wanting breakfast.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Plus, it's not the size that matters

I have a very difficult time remembering which French nouns are masculine and which are feminine, since I am a native English speaker (well, some would argue that). But some nouns are easy to remember. For example, in French “computer” is masculine; l’ordinateur. This should be obvious to anyone who has ever worked with both of them (thanks to KK for pointing this out) :
  1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on.
  2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves.
  3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they are the problem.
  4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have got a better model.
In the interest of objectivity, I must point out the arguments for “l’ordinateur” being a feminine noun:
  1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic.
  2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
  3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval.
  4. As soon as you commit to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Carnal Knowledge

It’s the most wonderful time
Of the year…
There’ll be steaks marinating
And women fellating
And plenty of beer…
It’s the hap- happiest time
Of the year!
SXSW Film + Music + Media + Throat Lozenge Industrial Festival is in town, and traffic is a bitch. When I was downtown the other night, there was your typical Schizophrenic-Sounding Raving Lunatic on the corner, raving at random passersby….
Schizo Guy: Yo, you from here? Fuck no, you ain’t. Foreigners, ‘n’ shit. Where you from? Colombia?
Girl: Laredo. What the fuck? [walks faster]
Schizo: Rodéo? Where’s that, Vancouver? Bad-dad? Who’s yo’ Vice President? Yo, girl, where you from?
Me: Kansas.
Schizo: No shit? Straight up, my momma from Kansas.
Me: Is that right?
Schizo: I don’t shit a homegirl. All dese is foreigners, where dey comin’ from?
Me: [walking] I’m not sure.
Schizo: Not me neither – I tell you dis, dey Vice President ain’t shit. We gots a Vice President, you fuck up, he shoot you in da face. Know’m sayin’? Right in da motha-fuckin’ face. Like havin’ a Corleone in tha house, yo.
Me: Word.
Schizo: Right. In. Tha. Motha. Fuckin. [makes a pistol with his hand] Face.
Me: Well, we better watch out.
Schizo: True dat. We better not cry, we better not pout, and I’m sayin’ why – fuckin’ Vice President is comin’ to town, and mothafucka shoot you right in tha face.

The KC Strip. If you want some serious carnal knowledge, wait tables in a Kansas City steak house. You’ll know all you need to know about meat.
I was in town at the local meat counter today, and I suddenly had this unnatural craving for a KC Strip steak … and I normally am not much of an eater of anything. I got two of them, since the boys are really not much into steak either. I didn’t know if Monsieur was; I didn’t care. Two steaks, about 8 oz. each, and well marbled. I don’t know that much about cooking steak, but I figured Monsieur would know, since he’s a guy, has lived in Texas for more than ten years. How hard could it be? How much is it to ask to cook a girl a KC Strip?
When I got home I found out it was Steak and Blowjob Day: March 14. The holiest night of the year! and me with this sore throat.
Damn, damn, damn.
Well, I made a little card that said:
“Happy Steak and Blowjob Day! This Coupon Good for ONE Free Blowjob from – ”
signed it, and put it in an envelope. Then, after we put the kids to bed, I mentioned to Monsieur how hungry I was, which he knew was somewhat unusual for me since I don’t get that hungry much. “Can you cook the steaks now?”
“How do you like it?”
“Medium rare – just to the pink.”
Mmm. Ya, I know that Yankees say it’s really a New York Strip steak. Well, whatever. It’s also a porterhouse without the loin and the bone. I can maybe down 2/3 of an 8 oz. steak on a good night. It was a good night. I even had a little wine with it; some of Monsieur’s brother’s home vintage, from Gascony. It was strong. It made me brave enough to give him the envelope with the card in it.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Um, for the occasion,” I blushed, smiling. He opened it. Then he blushed.
Guys who blush are hot. I made him promise to redeem it, as the offer expires in 14 days.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Sick Day

(Warning: do not read further if you have not ever cared for children. It’s not good.)
I have three sick boys and I am not feeling too well myself after wiping three butts (four, counting mine). Middlest Boy had the Mother of All Poops all over the downstairs bathroom. While cleaning up Middlest Boy I went upstairs to find clothes for him and discovered Bigglest Boy sitting on the toilet and throwing up into the bathtub. Uggh. Monsieur is holding Littlest Boy in the rocking chair now, Middlest Boy is (mercifully) engrossed in the TV and Bigglest Boy fell asleep on the couch.
Dear goodness, I just felt the beginnings of a sore throat. Make it stop.
I want my mommy.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

The Google Fun

I didn’t get a lot of hits on this blog when it was on Live Journal, and I hardly got any before that when it was on the UMKC web servers, but now I get maybe a hundred hits a week or so. I’m glad, since I like the nice intimacy of it, and when I don’t have time to update I don’t worry about whether people wonder where I am – almost everyone who has conversed with me can contact me by e-mail or something if they’re really worried about me. I like seeing how people connect to me in what’s called a “referral report” in my web hit counter. Most people seem to find me via another blog that’s linked to me, like the BlogRoll at Venting Housewife, Desireous or the links from Introspectre. But sometimes, I get a hit from someone who has found me via Google, MSN, Technorati or other search engines – and I actually get to see what they were searching for. For example, this week’s search page referrals:
  • pumping my crotch
  • my heart yearns for his love
  • “bedtime is at 8”
  • love & yearning
  • roximoon
  • hung like Louisiana Purchase
Love, nannying, sex, big cocks. It’s what shapes your world – it’s what brought you here. Welcome.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Catching Up

OK, it’s been a while, but not my longest absence from this journal. I tend to move away from it when I’m busy, and come back when I have a minute to breathe. I’ll catch you up, dear bloggites.
the One-Room Schoolhouse
the One-Room Schoolhouse
My student teaching is going pretty good. I have a handle on most of the classes and study sets, and I can almost, ok, I can deal with the kids in a big group all together, all ages. It’s basically a one-room schoolhouse, like you would have seen on Dr. Quinn, Frontier Quack or whatever that dumb show with Jane Seymour was called. (Yes, I watched it every week. Shut up; I was like, 13 years old.) The teaching methods aren’t much more modern than what you’d see on Dr. Quinn, either. But, they work. We get great results. It really helps that all the kids are totally brilliant. The main difference that I can see is that nobody gets their mouths washed out with soap, and no paddlings[1]. Oh, and they’re not all white kids.
I also finally quit that stupid DE job, and now I do follow-up surveys for a “residential service” company[2]. I don’t have to ask any questions; all I need to do is enter the answers in a grid and also log the ones that don’t want to respond. It pays ok, thanks. I’ll look forward to starting to teach, full-time, this summer.
Birthday season has come and is almost gone. Littlest Boy got a pull-toy, Middlest Boy got a new sword (!) and Bigglest Boy got a science kit.
Middlest Boy discovered – or reacquainted himself – with the pain of love. The Valentine’s card he gave to the girl who is a year and a half older was received, but there was none in return. I don’t think the poor girl even considered the idea that she’d get one, and certainly not one from someone in kindergarten.
Bigglest Boy has started getting into fights – which scares me. It’s always at the park, it’s always kids he knows, and it’s almost always – at least as far as I can tell – his fault. I don’t know what to do about it, since often I’m not on the scene; I’m off coaching the soccer team. Bigglest Boy would be perfectly capable of defending himself – except that he won’t. He antagonizes these other kids with clever insinuations and nonsense, and won’t even put up his hands when one of them punches him in the jaw. I don’t understand why he’s doing it – and after it’s all over, and everything is cleaned up and we have gone home, I will put the suggestion that we go to another park. He doesn’t like that idea. “But… all my friends are there!” With friends like these…. Anyway, I don’t know what to do. Monsieur is concerned but not terribly; I did some rough-and-tumble play in my tomboy youth but if I ever had been punched in the face, I would have run all the way home, crying. I don’t think getting beaten up is getting through to him.
Meanwhile, Monsieur is quite wonderful to me.
I’ll try not to disappear so much from now on.

[1] If you want that kind of action, get a ticket for Gitmo.

[2] (Actually, they’re general contractors: Because we greatly value your feedback, we would appreciate it if you would take a few minutes of your time to complete our follow-up survey. We thank you in advance for your honest appraisal of the way we ruined your home improvement project.)