Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Well, I am Irish, you know.

I am officially freaked the freak out.
Today was perfectly gorgeous, what with that Arctic cold front that blew through yesterday and plunged our temperatures down from 100+ ° F. to a bone-chilling 93°. (That’s about 38 C down to 34 C for you metricians.) Naturally, since we hadn’t been able to be in sunlight for the last 6 weeks, I decided to take the boys to the city, to a park on the southwest side, and let them romp & play.
It was all good for about 45 minutes. There were a number of elementary age kids playing and a few older ones sitting around looking tragically criminal. I was helping Littlest Boy in his climbing adventures; really just spotting him for my own peace of mind as the little lemur can climb up a brick wall if I let him.
Bigglest Boy was about 50 yards away climbing a tree, and Middlest Boy was chatting up some little girl (and that kid’s got some game, if I’m any judge of 5-year-olds) and all seemed peaceful.
I was just getting Littlest Boy off of the playscape when I heard something and turned to see five or six of the older kids around Bigglest Boy. One of them, who looked about 16 and quite chunky, turned and punched Bigglest Boy right smack in the face. I yelled “Hey!” as Bigglest Boy went down, screaming and holding his hands over his face. The other kids swarmed over him, looking for all the world like a pack of jackals. I left Littlest Boy, yelling at Middlest Boy to stay with his little brother, and covered the 50 yards to Bigglest Boy in about 5 seconds.
“Get off of him!” I said, pulling on the kid who punched him.
“Fuck you, bitch,” he said, not turning his head around to look at me.
Something red, like a curtain of rage, went over my vision. “Fuck me?” I said, with a little laugh. “I don’t think so. Fuck you!” I took a running leap, and jumped on him, grabbing him by the ears, face, hair, and I think a bit of his nose, twisting his head around and shoving his body into the dirt.
I took a few punches from him, and he probably outweighed me by a good fifty pounds or more, but between my momentum and my hands in the soft fleshy parts of his face, I got him off of Bigglest Boy and pulled him away.
A few moms and a dad came running and got both of us separated and to our feet. Bigglest Boy was screaming with his hands over his eyes. I let them know what I saw; the punk’s nose was bleeding and I had a slight cut on my lip. I got Bigglest Boy out of the way and didn’t really look back to see what damage I might have done.
I was gathering up kids and our supplies when a mom cornered me.
“You hit my kid?” she asked.
“He punched my kid. In the eyes – ” I started.
“That don’t make no difference. You hit my kid and I press charges.”
“Bring it,” I said. “No, wait, let me help.” I dug out my cell phone. “Here. I’ll dial the police for you. You tell them what happened, in your own words. Don’t leave anything out,” I added.
“I don’t need no police,” she said, “you just stay the fuck away from my kid.”
I looked at her. “I bet you don’t,” I said, my voice low. “If a 160 lb teenage kid hits my kid in the eye, I will chew through you, your family, and six cops just to stop him. Not only is your kid bigger and meaner than mine, he’s stupid as you if he thinks I’m scared of either one of you.”
“He ain’t no teenage, he only eleven,” she argued.
“Well, then he’s fat, too.” I turned and immediately got everyone into the van. I was seething. I called Monsieur and he set up for us to meet at the pedi’s office.
Turns out that kid, the eleven-year-old, is on probation. He isn’t allowed in the parks without his mom being there, and she wasn’t even anywhere near him when he punched Bigglest Boy. I should have called the cops.
Bigglest Boy has a patch on his eye and we’ll have to put this anti-biotic cream goo into it twice a day. It’s agony for him, he can’t see or even open the eye because it’s so sensitive to light, but the doctor says he should be okay in a couple of days.
I’m still furious.
I don’t think Bigglest Boy knew what I was capable of. Actually, I don’t think I knew, either. But the kids sure are responsive and obedient tonight.
I have bruises on my arm where someone grabbed me, a cut on my lip and I’m sore as hell. And I am freaking.

Curriculum, fall term

We’ve finally finished with blocking out this stuff on the calendar. Here is our term this fall, like you care:


  • Penmanship
  • Phonics
  • Spelling
  • Math
  • History & Literature*


  • Art
  • History readings co-related with a timeline or century book and map
  • Handicrafts
  • Music Appreciation, including folksongs
  • Nature Study
  • An artist and a composer each term
*Well, history is literature, right?:
A Child’s History of the World
Virgil Hillyer ch 47, ch 49-53 (1000 CE) Charlemagne, Vikings, Peter the Hermit; 800-1100 CE
A Wonder Book
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Abraham Lincoln
Ingri D’Aulaire
Along Came A Dog
Meindert De Jong
An Island Story
ch 22-32 (1066-1189, Harold II Henry II)
Brighty of the Grand Canyon
Marguerite Henry
The Burgess Animal Book for Children
Thornton Burgess
Chanticleer and the Fox
Barbara Cooney
The Story of Doctor Dolittle
Hugh Lofting
The Door in the Wall
Marguerite De Angeli
Farmer Boy
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Five Children and It
Edith Nesbit
Five Little Peppers and How They Grew
Margaret Sidney
Hans Christian Andersen
fairy tales
Joanna Spyri
King James Version
The Little Duke
Charlotte Yonge
Little House on the Prairie
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Marco Polo
Mary Poppins
P.L. Travers
Mr. Popper’s Penguins
Richard Atwater
Otto of the Silver Hand
Howard Pyle
Parables from Nature
Margaret Gatty
Pied Piper of Hamlin
Robert Browning
Pilgrim’s Progress Book 1 (Christian’s Journey)
John Bunyan
Walter De La Mare
Tales from Shakespeare
Charles and Mary Lamb
This Country of Ours
ch. 1 (Vikings)
Understood Betsy
Dorothy Canfield Fisher
Thanks to J-with-2-N’s and Monsieur, I think it’s a wrap. These kids are going to get an education that will stay with them. So will I. And, not a standardized fill-in-the-bubble-with-a-#2-pencil test in sight until they are 15 years old.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

What's a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Blog Like This?

On 8/17/06, a Dear Reader <emailma@sk.ed> wrote:

I have been enjoying your writing lately, you really have been writing some hot stuff. It seems to me that you really know what a guy likes sexually. The shower stuff in particular really turned me on. I have to admit that I was thinking about it the other night during a “solo session.” So tell me, how did such a nice young girl like you figure out what turns us on? My guess is that you must have really good insight to the depraved male mind.

That’s a great question. I have no idea what the answer is. I think it comes from not ever being really, truly hurt by a guy, like some people I know. I like men. As a group, I don’t think they’re really any more “depraved” than I am. (Individually, I have met some sickos.) Most of them are very sweet. I have met some real jerks, but I know that it’s because of them that the rest of you guys get a bad rep. Women meet so many jerks because the jerks are out there trying to meet us. Many of the nice guys are guys we’d never meet, partly because they’re so nice that they never would dream of imposing themselves on us, and partly because there are some females out there who are real jerks, too, and these women have made nice guys especially shy.
Oh right, the original question: How do I know what turns you men on?
The answer is: I don’t! I do what turns me on. For example: I know guys like getting enthusiastic head – but that’s not what makes me enthusiastic about giving it. I’m enthusiastic about it because I like it, and I like the feeling of power over a man. Also, I try to have an open mind. There’s some things I won’t do – but usually because I’ve tried it before and I didn’t like it. I don’t think to myself “gross!” when a guy who likes me wants me to do something I would normally find a little weird. I think to myself, “Well, how much grosser is that than cunnilingus, when you get right down to it?”
I’ve had a few guys who were total zeros in bed, and they were usually selfish and in a hurry to get me there. It’s funny, because they would have this desperate sort of “forced tranquility” about them. The MBA candidate, the Finance/Accounting grad school guy, and the military guy who was rebounding from a bad breakup were the worst. It was so disappointing to find out that, contrary to what I’d read, all the Republicans I’d been with were so lame. No conscience, no give and take, and clumsy wooing. Of course, being a theatre student, it’s hard to attract a representative sample. Hell, it was hard enough to meet a straight guy who wasn’t already hooked up.

The Texas School Book Crisis

I’ve been too busy to write. I spent a bunch of time gathering materials for art, music, and so forth. J-with-2-N’s is priceless help at this, and we spent a few hours tonight and Saturday trying to accomplish this.
I can’t help but think that these kids are incredibly fortunate to have a school run by the parents – parents who really are involved and who really do care about how their kids are taught.
I get comments from quite a few people who say, “A co-op! That’s a great idea to counter all this godless humanism that they’d get in public schools! What denominational is it?”
Once I was even lucky enough to have a book handy - religions of the world, which I opened to a really beautiful painting of a satyr. “Yes, religious instruction is very important to us,” I said.
“That’s the devil!” said my conversant. I thought she was about to shrink back and hold up a garland of garlic cloves.
“No,” I reassured her, smiling, “not the devil. Just a poorly-paid, humble assistant.”

Monday, August 21, 2006

Bruce's German Name

OK. So. OK.
Yes. I had too much to drink. But. I was – are you listening? This is important. I was in town at Special K’s, and you know what? It was her boyfriend’s birthday! Can you believe it? I couldn’t either! I said, “Hey, Special K! When did you get a boyfriend?”
“Oh, a long time ago,” Special K said.
“Did I know about him?” I asked.
“Naw, I don’t take him out.”
So, since her boyfriend was working, I took Special K out and got her drunk, then I drove her back to her place, she introduced me to her boyfriend, who finally got out of work. On his birthday. Isn’t that sad?
“Hullo, K’s Boyfriend,” I said.
“Hi, my name’s actually [something German sounding].”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Peals of immoderate laughter emerged from me and Special K. “You know, I’ve heard so much about you! Do you mind if I call you Bruce?”
More immoderate laughter; I think Special K decided I had far too much to drink and they took me home.
On the doorstep, I think I told Monsieur that I loved him, and asked him did he know she had a boyfriend? Because I didn’t. “Who knew?” I asked. Not Monsieur. I think I did a few lines from my favorite Kate Hepburn movies, too, which isn’t pretty.
OK so here is the thing I really noticed. You know, some people are cool, and some people know cool and think they’re cool, but they’re not cool. It doesn’t matter what Monsieur knows, because he is what he will always be. He’s gonna learn more and all, but it won’t matter because of who he is.
Special K is cool; she knows a lot of hip underground things, majored in garage bands in college, lived among all that all her life. I’ll say some thing sometimes that’s just painfully obvious to someone like her and she’ll make this “Um, hello! Duh? Who does not know that?” observation.
Monsieur wouldn’t say that; he’d let me talk and then he’d bring it out and then observe something else and there’s give and take – even though he’s a million semesters ahead of me in terms of book knowledge.
Plus! Plus! When I come home staggering between two of my ne’er-do-well friends, is there an argument? Or a fight, or sarcastuc reamerks? Nope, says I. He just takes me by my arm and puts me to bed. But first, he lets me do my Kate Hepburn impression, smiling at me indulgently.
“‘But Monsieur,’” I said, “‘There is a leopard on your roof and it’s my leopard and I have to get it and to get it I have to sing.’”
“So, you’re not going to, um, stop her?” says Bruce.
“’Oh Dexter, I’ll be yar now; I promise I’ll be yar,’” I say.
“I can get a bucket of cold water,” suggests Special K.
“No,” says Monsieur, “actually, I like this part. If we are lucky, she may segue into The Wind and the Lion.
Have you ever noticed what a funny word that is? if you type it six times: Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur.
Anyway, it’s many hours later. I woke up to pee, and I thought maybe if I wrote this down, I’d remember Bruce’s real German-sounding name.
It didn’t work.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Oratio Mentha piperita

I know we haven’t talked in a while, and I’m sorry. I have a hard time talking to you sometimes. I know all that stuff had to happen and you did your best. And, if it had to happen, I suppose there’s no good time, so it just happened. Somewhere there’s some good in it. I’m here, aren’t I?
[smiles hopefully]
Well. Anyway.
I can’t get hold of you any other way. It doesn’t seem like you’re picking up. I know you have a lot going on with your projects and everything’s always a crisis. I can just hear you saying, “Look, sister, they’re ALL emergencies, they’re all action items.” But, I know you read this blog and I know you’re been reading it since a long time ago – since I was in college. I know you avoid the hit counters because you’re clever that way, but it seems like whenever I hint for what I want here, or even outright ask for something, you seem to read it and make it happen one way or another.
I remember I asked you to give me the answer to the bonus question in that stupid algebra class in 2nd semester. Do you remember that? Heh. Boy, I do. I’ll never forget it:
A flower pot slips off a window ledge that is 4 meters above a bug sitting below. How much time does the bug have left before it is squashed? G = 9.8 m/s2
I was sitting there, knowing I’d blown that stupid quadratic, and I just was staring at that problem, and you said, “0.90 seconds,” just as plain as anything. I thought the whole class heard you. I worked the problem out backwards from that, and you were right. Well, of course you were right. But I had to show my work.
I, um, need you to do something for me. Ya, I know, I only call you when I want something. But really, it’s not for me, but for the Bigglest Boy. Can you just talk to him? The way you do. I think he might be open to it now. He’s really, really in a lot of pain and I just don’t think I’m going to have the strength to watch him go through what he’s going through. Please. For me.
That’s all I really want.
Oh, and can you help toilet train Littlest Boy?
Ya, that’s all.
Oh wait – what’s with this weather you’ve been sending us? Did you forget how to make it less than 100 degrees outside? Christ on a cr – oh. Sorry. I know you don’t like that. But it’s hot! Can you send us a little thunderstorm? I don’t mean a deluge, no forty-days-and-forty-nights stuff. Two hours, a nice downdraft with a cool rain, and you can go back to what you were doing, confusing the astronomers out there in the Oort Cloud, or planting fake fossils, or whatever you do.
Am I getting snarky? I’m sorry. I’m such an irreverent little brat. Come to think of it, never mind the weather; and Monsieur and I can probably toilet train Littlest Boy. I was just complaining, and I have no right to. But really, about Bigglest Boy, I meant that. When you have time, I mean. I know you have kids, too.
Best friends,

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Dark Passage

I was scrubbing crayon marks off of the kitchen table later last night, when I looked up and saw Monsieur there. “I’m sorry, about the other night,” Monsieur said to me.
“Sorry? About what?” I said, continuing to scrub.
“My cowardly retreat from you when you did nothing but very generously offer me – what you generously offered.”
My stomach did a flip-flop, so I concentrated on a tiny purple mark and scrubbed furiously. “It’s … well, it’s all right,” I said, trying to convince myself. “You’re allowed to want what you want, and not want what you don’t want. It’s not a deal breaker. I’m OK.”
“Well, just because I don’t take you up on your offer, doesn’t mean I don’t find the offer appealing,” he said.
I looked up at him, then continued scrubbing a crayon mark that had vanished long before. “Not appealing enough to take me up on it,” I said, somewhat accusingly.
“I think the table is clean now,” he said, taking my hand and removing the green scouring pad. “You need to get in the shower.”
“I just took a shower. Do I smell?” I asked. My heart was pounding.
“I didn’t say you needed a shower. I said you needed to get in the shower. [Littlest Boy] is in our bed,” he added as he was leading me towards the bedroom door, “so … try to keep your voice down.”
“Um. Oh. All right,” I whispered.
He opened the bedroom door. Of course, it was pitch black in there, as the curtains and blinds were closed. There was no night light, because Littlest Boy tends to wake up if there is any ambient light in the room he’s in. I am completely blind in the dark, and Monsieur knew it. He led me into the bathroom and closed the door.
“Are we going to leave the bathroom light off, too?” I asked.
“Shh,” he whispered, then put a finger on my lips. He put his lips to where they were touching my ear. “He’s sleeping very lightly,” Monsieur whispered. “He’s awakened three times already, and I don’t think you want me to be interrupted.” He lifted up my shirt and slid it off of me, and lowered my shorts. I started to unbutton his shirt but he pulled my hands away, held them over my head and kissed me. I arched my back, kissing him hard and pressing against him. He hadn’t shaved; his beard was rough but his lips were soft and the contrast was very much appreciated.
I tried to pull my hands free to touch him but he held them firmly, so I gave up and yielded to him. He kissed my neck, my shoulders, my chest. I longed to get him naked, but he had his own ideas and I was content to just follow his lead.
He let go of my hands and turned me around. He slipped my panties off and ran his warm, strong hand over my butt. He pressed his lips to my ear and said, “Get in the tub and hold the towel bar.”
I obeyed. He put my hands against the wall, and put my foot on the edge of the tub, so that I was standing on one foot but using the other one for balance. “Hold on,” he whispered. I nodded. He knelt behind me and began to cover my bottom with kisses. The coarseness of his unshaven face felt like the green scouring pad. He exhaled and held my ass in his hands and then spread my bottom, and then pressed his lips to me.
My labia parted slowly with the pressure, and his tongue emerged, making gentle flicks and licks to the edge of my labia. He went in slow circles; his tongue felt like a paintbrush doing a stipple effect to the canvas of my vulva. I gripped the towel bar tighter, and looked over my shoulder. I could hardly see a thing. It was pitch black and I strained to see his face between my ass cheeks. I could make out the shape of his head. In the blackness I heard him inhale through his nose, hold his breath to lick me, and then breathe out again.
I felt him touch me with his hand. I bit my lip as I felt his mouth pull away, his tongue replaced by one finger snaking its way in between my labia. I gasped, then as another finger joined the first my eyes closed and I cried out.
He stopped, then got up and left. I made a whimpering sound, then heard it almost repeated from the bedroom. Littlest Boy was stirring, and his daddy patted him down and held him for a minute, while I caught my breath in the bathroom.
Monsieur returned to the tub. I pressed my lips to his ear. “Is he all right?” I asked, barely letting breath escape my lips.
Monsieur pressed his lips to my ear and replied, “Yes, he’s sleeping very lightly. I suspect it’s his allergy. Do you want to continue?”
“Desperately,” I said, a little too loudly.
He held a finger to my lips. I kissed it. He pressed his lips to my ear. “You must be able to control yourself.” I nodded. I knelt, dropped his shorts and took him into my mouth as fast as I could. I worked the thick knob of his cock with my tongue until he was as hardened as pink steel. I reached to the floor behind me, picked up my panties and stuffed most of them in my mouth. I then stood, turned around, and, sufficiently gagged, took hold of the towel bar again.
He lifted my leg, spreading me, and ran the tip of his cock along my slit. I moaned into my bunched up panties, pushing back against him a little too hard. It wasn’t easy to get into me this time, as I was so swollen that it was almost too much to get me to distend around his thickness. It took some time. The oxen are slow, I thought, but the Earth is patient. I breathed, imagining my vagina opening up and relaxing. He knelt and plunged his tongue into me from behind, causing me to cry out once and again. I was grateful to be gagged by my panties. I didn’t want anything to interrupt us. I wanted only for the room to move. It was so delightful, after waiting for almost a month, to have him ministering to the pleasure which I so fervently desired.
He replaced his tongue with two fingers, which slid slickly into me. He stood up and pressed his wet swollen lips to my ear.
“Clench,” he whispered. My kegels complied without any further instruction from my conscious brain. He moved his fingers, first in, then turning them over and bending them slightly, and withdrew them almost completely. I tried to say “No,” before he left me aching to be filled, but my mouth was stuffed with my panties.
He pressed is lips against my ear again. “Good girl,” he barely whispered. With that, I felt my wetness pooling up within me and when he positioned his cock against me once again, he only had to tilt my hips up before he popped in and brought his body to line up with me. He held my hips and pulled me back to him. I leaned forward and he began to move. I moaned and he held his hand over my stuffed mouth and, using this and his hand on my hips for leverage, started to fuck me.
It was slow at first, but he quickly built up speed. I wanted to let go of the towel bar but it was the only thing keeping me from falling forward. I wanted to touch myself. I had to climax; it was building up almost painfully. I couldn’t even beg him. I gripped the bar tightly, thinking to myself, if only I could let go long enough to ding the bean.
He let go of my hips and curled his body over my back. Keeping his left hand over my mouth, pressing the panties further in, he reached in front of me and bore two of his fingers into my clit, making slow, lazy circles. I moaned, and he held his hand tighter to suppress the noise I made. He pulled up on the skin of my mons and resumed rubbing, not fast, not hard, but deliberately; and my climax hit me so hard my knees went weak. He held me up with one hand around my waist, pounding me like a hammer. I was delirious. My orgasm bubbled up and I heard a noise in my ears like a waterfall; I let go, roaring through the panties, through his hand, through the walls and up into space. I had no thought, my mind was empty; I had become my orgasm and my only thought was, Now. Then there was no thought.
He had stopped, and I came back into my body. I was breathing hard and looked around. Everything was pitch dark, so dark I could see the blood circulating in my eyes, and for a moment I thought oh God, he’s fucked me blind. Then I remembered that the lights were off. He stood up straight, his cock shifted inside me and I closed my eyes.
He pressed his lips to my ear. “If I remove it, will you be quiet?”
I didn’t know if he meant my panties or his cock, but I nodded anyway.
First he pulled out of me, then he removed my panties from my mouth. I had chewed them pretty hard, and they were ruined. He opened them up to see that my teeth had ground them until there were little holes in the crotch. He tossed them into the trash.
I was breathing hard. He held me tightly, and as I hugged him I whispered as quietly as I could and gasping as little as possible, “Are you finished?”
He nodded, but I reached out and stroked him and could tell by the way it felt that he hadn’t.
“Do you want me to … to take care of you?” I whispered.
He shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Soon enough,” he whispered quietly. I wondered what that meant, then I decided not to be so selfish and to be grateful for what I’d received.

Curriculum Change

The co-operative school parents met Monday evening and decided that our Greek course of study should be canceled until further notice.
I felt rather bad about it at the time, as if I had let everyone down. When J-with-two-N’s called me last night about something unrelated, I started to apologize about it.
“Why are you even worried about it?” she asked. “It’s not about you. It’s about the students. They weren’t applying themselves to it; once you got past the Greek alphabet they didn’t really get into it. Greek was taking away from other studies. It took up too much of your time, of the parents’ time, of the kids’ time. We didn’t want it to take away from things like, oh, I dunno, long division and multiplying fractions.”
“Well, I guess I wasn’t into it, either,” I said. “I’m just not … I don’t know …”
“You’re not into learning languages like [Maggie] was. It’s okay,” she whispered, “I’m not either!
“You’re not disappointed?” I asked.
She laughed. “Honey, I’m relieved. Now I don’t have to learn Greek.”
“What about Hebrew, Arabic and Russian? They said they’d look into this later.”
“Ugh. Well, it’s valuable, you know, I agree – but honestly if they need to learn this stuff, one of the parents who has a working knowledge of these languages would be a better choice to explore it. If it was going to be something that we did want but you couldn’t do, well, then one of us has to pitch in. Like [Monsieur]. He’s the one who can read in Russian and Hebrew, and speak Arabic and French and Spanish. Besides, that’s what a co-op is, sweetheart. We are all the faculty. Don’t feel bad.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Of course I’m sure. Didn’t you talk to [Monsieur] about this?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to say to him,” I admitted.
She sighed. “Look. I’ve known him for about ten years, okay? I don’t know how close you two are, but it seems like he loves you deeply. He’s, well, he’s not like any guy I’ve ever met and that’s putting it pretty mildly. He might not be the easiest guy for you to talk to about this stuff but … well… these students, [E (her daughter)], [Bigglest Boy], [Littlest Boy], all of them, they’re your students. They’re our students. They wouldn’t be there if we didn’t want them. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want you.”
“I know. Yes. I know. Thanks,” I was saying to all of this.
“No, wait a second while I finish before you thank me – what I mean is, we wanted you long before [Maggie] left us.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, [E’s dad and a few other parents] and I went to [Maggie] and said, ‘We love her! Can she come work for us till she has to go to grad school?’”
“Really?” I asked. “You didn’t. Did you?”
“We did. Really. [Maggie] didn’t tell you?”
I then had go and break up a sword fight between The Two Littlest Boys and send them into the garage, where they could wale away on each other without worrying about a wild swing breaking a window or a table lamp.
I felt a lot better about Greek being canceled.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Incendiary Attacks

The Art of War
If it is not advantageous, do not move. If objectives cannot be attained, do not employ the army. Unless endangered do not engage in warfare. The ruler cannot mobilize the army out of personal anger. The general cannot engage in battle because of personal frustration. When it is advantageous, move; when not advantageous, stop. Anger can revert to happiness, annoyance can revert to joy, but a vanquished state cannot be revived, the dead cannot be brought back to life.
–“Incendiary Attacks,” Sun-tzu’s the Art of War.
Gosh, what a week.
No yum-yum. I figured that I was throwing myself at him to much, so I tried a completely different tack this time; I spent a week acting as if I didn’t really want sex at all. Nope, not me. Sex? I think not. Ew. Who likes sex? Not the Yearning Heart. Icky. I’m just not like that. I mean, sure, it’s OK for Some People, but I can do without it. See me over here? I’m acting demure and somewhat bored as Monsieur comes out of the shower. I barely even look at the steam rising off of his deliciously wet, lean, well-developed torso; his strong, well-defined legs standing slightly akimbo from beneath a towel that is wrapped around his waist; that towel covering a thick, yummy cock – a towel set off by a proud bulge that suggestes a high-caliber specimen of tempting man-flesh….
Sorry. I was just … just daydreaming. I’m fine. I’m not really interested. I can do without it.
(Psst. It’s called “acting”. And even though I’d have an easier time playing Tommy Chong in the Broadway version of That 70’s Show – the Musical, I figured I could pull off playing a sexless girl for a week. Well, we’ll see how far I got by last [Tuesday] night.)
Bigglest Boy is continuing to act out, in really odd ways. His daddy is worried about him; I’m trying not to lose patience with him.
When he gets in trouble and I put him in a corner he says things like, “Just cut off my foot and I’ll never do it again,” or “Why don’t you call the police and send me to jail?”
He’s eight freaking years old!
I was afraid at first that Monsieur thought it was all just me and not being strict enough with the kids, but after talking to Monsieur last night, I got a nice reassurance that he thinks I’m doing all right.

Yearning Heart: I just get the feeling that you think this is happening because I’m not holding up my end, taking care of him, and he is rebelling against me because he thinks I’m weak.

Monsieur: No. First, of all the things you are, weak is not one of them. I have spent time with him, I have observed him carefully with you and without you, when he is in groups of children and when he is with adults. He is showing symptoms of depression, symptoms of bipolar tendencies, sensory and social disorders. These are things from which Maggie suffered, from which his grandmother on one side suffers, his grandfather on the other side also. The family tendency to this sort of thing is there. He might misbehave with you, but you are a solid foundation and a good role model for him. He needs to know that we are here to take care of him, and that I will always love him, and what is expected of him from me and from society.

Yearning Heart: I love him. I really do. It makes no sense because I’m not his mother; I can’t just tell him “I’m your mother and I’ll always love you.”

Monsieur: You tell him that you love him, yes?

Yearning Heart: Yes.

Monsieur: In time he will know how permanent that might be. Until then, demonstrate love, as you do.

Yearning Heart: You think he wonders why I stay here?

Monsieur: [sighs] He has asked me why you stay here, and I confess I can’t come up with an answer other than you love us.

Yearning Heart: You know that I love you, right?

[a beat]

All of you.

Monsieur: It… amazes me. In trying to explain it, to a boy of eight years of age….

Yearning Heart: Do you really know, deep down there [pointing to his chest], that I’m here to stay as long as you’ll have me? Do you know how permanent that is, how forever it will be?

Monsieur: I am beginning to understand it.

[a long pause]

Yearning Heart: What about you? How are you holding up?

Monsieur: I? [considers it] I am holding up.

Yearning Heart: Are you sure?

Monsieur: I think so.

Yearning Heart: Well, if you should need anything … I mean I know you don’t talk about things, but you know I’d listen, or hold it together if you want to go away for a few days. Or go have your own Sunday off.

[Note: I’ve been taking Sunday afternoons off to go hang out in town with my friend Special K.]

Monsieur: Well, thank you; I –

Yearning Heart: Or a back rub? My hands aren’t as strong as yours, but I’m sure I could.

Monsieur: I’m sure you would –

Yearning Heart: I could model amusing underwear for you, you know, for entertainment purposes only.

Monsieur: [laughs] Well, that’s quite generous –

Yearning Heart: I’m always good for a quick blowjob in the shower.

Monsieur: [blushing most attractively] Yes, I think I see where this is leading.

Yearning Heart: Or whatever. I’m here.

Monsieur: [getting up from the couch, moving away] I understand.

Yearning Heart: I’m only saying.

Monsieur: [over his shoulder] Indeed. Well, I am going to check on the boys and head to bed… [exits]

Yearning Heart: [whispers, to herself] Damn.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

the Last 4 Impertinent Questions

This is a continuation of this post, in which I answer some impertinent but important questions. I answered #1 here. I am actually just getting to this. Such is my life.

  1. What’s your number one sexual turn off?
  2. There are so many – but most are simply personal turn-offs. I really believe that the way someone treats peripheral people can be a turn-off or a turn-on. For example, the way a guy treats a wait person or some other sort of servant is a big window into his personality. If he’s rude, peremptory, or condescending to the waitress, he’s not going to get anywhere with me.
    Another of my turnoffs is bad hygiene. I can’t stand the smell of old body odor. Fresh body odor isn’t so bad, but that old-dog smell is awful – the smell of someone who hasn’t bathed in days.
    Smoking is another. I can’t tell you how many times I would see a really cute, sexy -looking guy (or girl) hanging out somewhere and think, what a cutie! only to have the cutie light up and start smoking. It totally ruins it for me, and I just keep going. The smell of tobacco makes me want to throw up. I worked in cocktail bars where it was permitted, and I would go home and wash my hair in shampoo, lemon juice, and then conditioner just to get the smell out. For some reason, the smell of pot doesn’t make me so nauseated.
    Another turn-off in the past was someone who would rush things. I was with a guy once, on a blind date. It was my first semester away from home, and I was trying to be sophisticated and cool. I was with this guy at a pretty nice place, and it was all going well, and then he mentioned his parents’ lake house on the Lake of the Ozarks. “It’s quiet in the winter there,” he said. “A great place to be alone, and an even better place for a naughty weekend.” Well, that shut it down for me. I didn’t need to hear that from him at that moment. It made me wonder how many other freshman girls he lured to his parents’ lake house.
  3. Number one arousal trigger?
  4. Gosh, it’s not so much a trigger as it is a fuse that will eventually burn down and explode. If I’m in a relationship and if it’s going well, then I will want it within 3 days.
    I used to think just paying attention to me, being funny, and having a nice smile was all I needed. Then I met Monsieur, and then I realized that I really like grown-up men. When Maggie and Monsieur and her whole brood visited me, the contrast between Monsieur and my then-boyfriend SH was really remarkable. Monsieur was a grown-up, and he didn’t really look that much older that SH – in fact he was 8 years older. But such a contrast!
    SH is a guy who never wants more than to work in a bar, have season KU basketball tickets, have a hot girlfriend, and chase women on the side.
    Everything Monsieur wants is tied up in his children. He has turned down work in Europe and elsewhere in the United States because Texas is one of the few places that he can run his children’s school. He doesn’t have to send his kids to the mediocre school systems and their filthy, dangerous campuses, and he doesn’t have to pay some church or private school a ridiculous amount of money to offer his children something better. He and Maggie decided to do it themselves, and to do it better. Every decision he has made from where we live to where he works, all the way down to what kind of lawn mower to buy is hinged on how it will affect his family. But when he turns his attention towards me, I get every fiber of his being focused on me. That turns me on.
  5. Define sexy?
  6. It’s easier to say what it isn’t than what it is – at least when I talk about men. I used to think it was all body and pretty eyes, but it isn’t. Monsieur has gorgeous eyes, and a very nice body, but that’s not what attracted me to him. I think at first it was his voice, and then it was his love for Maggie that I liked. I think I fell for them first when they were playing music in Mademoiselle’s living room. Maggie was on the piano and Monsieur was on guitar, and he sang some song, I don’t know what, but it sounded so smooth, so confident, and so polished that I was hooked immediately. Monsieur would play off of Maggie, with only a nod or a gesture to point the music in the direction it needed to go. It melded so perfectly, so smoothly, that I wondered why they weren’t doing this act on Jay Leno or something. Monsieur had finished his guitar part, and nodded to Maggie, who was looking over her shoulder. He must have made some musical joke or something, because she smiled and bit her lip, and then he winked at her, and she winked back at him, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and went into her solo part. I blushed. I sneezed. I was hooked. It was sexy.
  7. Celebrity you would love to shag right now?
  8. With no strings, no recriminations and no lingering side effects? H’m.
    Can I bring a celebrity back from the grave? If so:
    I can’t think of any more right now.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Literary Devices

I’d been having two problems with the Two Bigglest Boys lately. I don’t like to complain here about them but it sort of relates, as this is a story of my journey from point A to … well, wherever this torpedo takes me, I’m hanging on and I’ll blog it, regardless.
The first problem is that Middlest Boy is becoming a whiny little grumpypants. He’s five and a half. I hope to nip that bud. Lately I’m ignoring it, trying to keep from choosing sides and not allowing any bullying by anybody. Bigglest Boy uses his superior intellect a lot, and not always for the forces of good, and Middlest Boy adores him and idolizes him, so it crushes him emotionally when Bigglest Boy won’t ply with him and is feeling antisocial in general.
The Two Bigglest Boys have not been minding me. That has started with the Bigglest Boy being openly disrespectful, a trend whose bud his father thought nipped but still comes back from time to time. Lately he’s been bad, and Middlest Boy has picked up on it.
When Bigglest Boy was doing it at home it wasn’t so disruptive but when he does it in school I have to come down on him so I did.
He’s been resisting me in very subtle, sly ways. He’s been throwing his socks and underwear on the floor right next to the clothing hamper. He’s been waking up at 2 in the morning to “check the hen yard” as he says, but that gets him in trouble with his daddy who tells him to let the cat out. It’s the cat’s job to deal with front-line chicken security.
Bigglest Boy is 8 years old, very knowledgeable about science and a real challenge. He has been diagnosed with a behavioral and learning disorder that gives him some cognitive awareness issues. He’s also incredibly good looking, which is hard because those issues leave him awkward and shy and not very outgoing. He doesn’t warm up to people immediately and so when people are drawn to him because of his beautiful eyes with thick lashes, he tends to be rather blunt. We’ve been trying to work on that, and he has made great strides but lately it seems as though he’s much nicer to perfect strangers than he is to me.
Lately we had an exchange that sort of cleared some air, We were reading something in school and a character said something that used the expression “You’ll be the death of me.” Bigglest Boy asked why he said that, and I said, “He’s using hyperbole. You know – exaggerating for emphasis or dramatic effect.”
He was quiet while the discussion went on between Show-Off Girl and Boy Cool about the Greek root words ὑπερ- and βαλλειν (hyper- bollein etc. “throwing too far,” correct my elementary Greek in your comments and don’t start laughing at me when this school takes on Russian, Hebrew and Arabic – help.) while Bigglest Boy was brooding away.
Later that night after I finally won the argument about turning off the light, he asked me, “When that guy said, ‘he’ll be the death of me,’ did he know that the other guy was going to end up making the ship sink and killing the first guy?”
“Well,” I explained “That’s an example of foreshadowing, and writers use that to build theme (θέμα: théma) and make the story exciting.
“Mama said that to me.”
“Your mama said you’d be the death of her?” I asked. Thinking back, I said, “She said the same thing to me, a few times. When people say it to each other it’s an expression.”
“I know,” he said.
“They don’t mean anything by it,” I said. “What killed your mama is something that just happens, not very often, and when it does happen it’s terrible.”
“You don’t think she got mad at me for something and it made that blood vessel explode?” he asked. “She got mad at me, the night before –” he began.
“Nope,” I said simply. “Didn’t happen that way. I remember. She came home with a headache. She was already sick. You were being noisy and jumping on the furniture. She got mad at you for that and she was especially sharp with you, probably because she was having a very bad headache. But her getting mad at you didn’t kill your mama. She already had that thing before she came home.”
“What about when she said that you made her crazy?” he asked.
“She said that?” I asked.
He nodded. “You called and she talked to you and then she told daddy it was you and she said, ‘I don’t know, she makes me crazy.’”
I laughed. “Just another expression.”
He was sketching in his sketchbook, and it was way after “lights out”. I was indulging him these minutes while we talked.
“What are you drawing?” I asked him.
“Solid-fuel booster assembly,” he said, the way I would have said, “space ship” as a kid.
“Cool,” I said. “Lights out, Rocket Scientist. We lift off at zero seven thirty.”