matters of the heart(less)

The fine art of bashing people about the head with a Nerf bat

2005-07-21T11:50:00.000-07:00

Greetings dear readers! (by readers, I mean Lou, who must be the only being on Earth who still checks this site regularly. Including me. Onward!)

Did I tell you that someone actually gave me a blogroll cutoff notice? Of course not, this is only the second sentence in this post. Anyhoo, they did. Can you imagine? “Ms. Lovely, you are required to indicate your express intent to post within ___days, or your name will be deleted from my blogroll.” Of course I indicated my intent. I always intend to post.

Well, many of you might not know this, but I often find myself overcome with the compelling inclination to beat people about the head with a Nerf bat. It is important to note here that I do not actually own a Nerf bat. I am afraid to. I fear that I might not be able to control the urge to don colorful long johns and a ski-mask, fashioning myself into some sort of off-brand superhero, Nerfette- the Avenger. Mostly I fear that you can’t be a very good superhero if your name ends in -ette. That is why I do not own a Nerf bat.

So anyway, I often have these urges, and I recently made the unwise decision to share this with a member off the public, who quickly exchanged her seat. I don’t know about you, but when a person chooses to sit next to the lady with the two sticky toddlers that smell like Cheetos rather than me, I am personally offended. It caused me to question myself. Why DO I want to beat people about the head with a Nerf bat? I have come up with a list of reasons, which I will now share with you, dear readers (Lou).

1. Nerf bats are soft. While I might want to beat you about the head with some other object, I wouldn’t want to hurt you badly. Because if I noticed you hurt, I’d want to help, which would cancel out my urge to beat you, and I would stop beating you, thereby reducing the pleasure of administering said beating. I’m really just a softie at heart.

2. Using a Nerf bat reduces the chance of litigation. Who wants to file a police report about being beaten with a Nerf bat? Can you imagine the snide tone of the officer who took your information? Nobody needs that kind of embarrassment. I get off scot-free!

3. If by chance you DO prosecute, it will very likely be pleaded down to a misdemeanor, and I could quite possibly work that off in community service. I actually LIKE doing community service. I do it even when it’s not been ordered by a court of law. Take THAT!!

4. Have you met people? People are idiots. Never underestimate the stupidity of the general public. But it’s not stupid people that I want to beat. Stupid people who think they’re smart are the ones I want to beat. Especially those that look at you like YOU are the idiot.

These are all of the reasons that I can come up with. I hope you have enjoyed this little glimpse at my slow descent into insanity. Please come again.

P.S. That whole story about the lady changing seats was made up just so I’d have a reason to share with you my penchant for Nerf-bat beating. How else do you work that into a conversation? No really... how? I’ve been dying to share it with others. Hey! Where are you going? Those kids have crabs.

Gettin' some stuff off my chest

2005-06-24T06:37:00.000-07:00

I almost feel as if I should post some sort of disclaimer, lest anyone be offended by my list. BUT I WON'T. That's okay, I really didn't want to come to your sleepover anyway. Go to hell. I'll just be back here behind the band hall. Y'all won't like me when I'm angry...

1. Brooke Valentine-- she should maybe die a little bit. Y'all know I don't listen to the radio, right? Okay, so I've HEARD that there was this song out there called "Girlfight" and whatever, but ya know, I just shrugged it off. Until my ears were accosted with this lyrical travesty on yesterevening. First of all, I don't think that one should attempt to be taken seriously when one's name sounds like that of the sweet but street-wise hooker in a gritty paperback novel from the early 70's. Secondly, "Y'all can't never take me and insinuate me." I'm sorry, "insinuate me?" WHAT. THE. HELL. DOES. THAT. EVEN. MEAN?! Huh? Listen Ms. Babbling Stream, I know that you were all proud of yourself for making the words rhyme just like the Phonics Game, but yeah. Grab a Webster's sometime.

Furthermore, Babbles? If you could beat her, you wouldn't need a bottle, or a car-full of your girls. Scary azz.

2. Guess what, world? Dave Chappelle is not God. Nor is he God's gift to comedy. (Gasp! Shock! Awe! *thud*) He makes me chuckle every once in a while, but he is far from the funniest man I've ever heard...or even the funniest one out today. Yeah, I said it.

I know that it's totally trendy to LOOOVE Dave and quote all of his skits verbatim and pretend that each one doubles you over in laughter, or the cool kids won't like you...but COME ON! I like Dave. But some of y'all are riding him so hard that I'm afraid you'll get chafed. He ain't all that. Hell, even HE knows he ain't all that. So y'all should chill.

3. I'm pissed off about the fact that 20 US senators didn't feel the need to apologize on behalf of their predecessors for not enacting anti-lynching legislation before. I am even more pissed that those senators voted on behalf of their constituency. They had no fear of a public outcry in their home states. Basically, they rested assured that their votes represented large numbers of people who implicitly supported the practice. TODAY.

4. I hate the Whisper song. I don't subscribe to the idea that all rap and hip hop is sexist and degrading to women. I've even been known to let questionable lyrics slide off my back like so much water. It's all in the name of music, right? But this? It's getting to the point where we'll accept anything as long as it's accompanied with a catchy hook and a lukewarm beat. This song is unacceptable.

Okay. I think I'm out of stuff for the moment. I'll be happier on Monday. I might not post, but you can rest assured that in all probability I am in a much better mood. Thanks.

Labels

2005-06-01T06:31:00.000-07:00

When the Spawn was a toddler, her favorite game was Hide and Seek. She didn’t exactly grasp the concept, but this was her favorite game. To initiate the game, she’d toddle over, give you a full left hook to the head, arm, or whatever part of your anatomy was readily available (tag, Spawn, tag.), skitter two feet away and cover her eyes. She was “hiding,” see. I’d clomp around, pretending to look for her, all the while she’s giggling so hard she turns pink and topples over. But her eyes stayed covered. Finally, I’d swoop down and lift her into the air, shouting “I found you!!” But the game wasn’t over, as far as she was concerned, because her eyes where still covered. She wouldn’t concede that she’d been found until you finally somehow tricked her into dropping her hands. In her mind, if she couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see her…despite all evidence to the contrary.

I tell that story because I’ve noticed a correlation in her perception of hiding and the startling yet prevailing perception of relationships. People, a rose by any other name…is still a freaking rose. Lately I’ve noticed people making comments that reveal that they’ve either lost their Webster’s --or their grasp on reality. I’ve heard people speak of “undefined” romantic situations so much that I want to scream. Some of y’all don’t seem to know when you are in a relationship--or out of one, for that matter. Some of y’all seem to think that as long as you don’t CALL a spade a spade, it’ll somehow be the king of hearts until you say otherwise.

Case 1: Bonita Alvarez

Bonita is a commitment-phobe, but not in the traditional sense. She’s ready to be in a long-term, or even terminal, relationship. But what she’s not ready to do is admit it. At least, not to anyone with whom she’s likely to establish said relationship. Bonita is not comfortable showing any affection at all until her mate is practically willing to cough up major organs to be with her. Then, she’ll maybe smile at him. Meanwhile, she’s hailing his praises to any one who’ll listen. That is, as long as that person can be trusted not to relay that information to him. The last thing she wants is for the man to think she likes him, or anything.

Somehow, despite all this, Chuckie Sanchez has withstood. He’s determined to have Bonita for his very own, and deep down…he knows she likes him. They’ve talked about everything from sharing toothbrushes to naming their children. Chuckie has begun to drastically reorganize his finances, to better accommodate her on a long term basis. Bonita knows, and accepts that this is all for her. She encourages it. She wants to be with Chuckie, too. For this, he gets a kiss on the cheek.

Now, months down the line, Bonita has met the family, Chuckie has liquidated major assets, and the couple is going house hunting this weekend. Bonita is happy. By this time, she’s finally told Chuckie that she thinks he’s kinda cute, a little bit. She excitedly calls me with news.

“Guess what?” she says. “Chuckie and I are officially girlfriend and boyfriend.”

Excuse me???? I’m sorry, but Bonita has a classic case of relationship denial. She’s been in a relationship for months now, but she’s convinced herself that until she calls it so, it isn’t so. I call bull. Boyfriends don’t sell their trucks and look for houses in good school districts. When you have reached the point where this person is the ONLY person you are -or even care to be- dating, when other people are pretty much irrelevant, when you’re invited to a “couples” event and you don’t even consider taking someone else…then he/she’s pretty much your significant other. By definition, actually. This usually happens long before the house shopping stage of your involvement, is all I’m saying. I don’t care what you call each other. You’re TOGETHER, period.

There’s another side to this denial coin, too-- and it’s not nearly as pretty.

Case Two-- Erin Miller

Erin is a late bloomer. She wasn’t particularly attractive throughout school, so she’s come a little late onto the romantic forum. Somewhere between prom and Psych 1, Erin hit a growth spurt. Now, she has curves where there were only angles, and somebody’s figured out that she has pretty eyes, too. She looks a bit like Beyonce, everybody says so. Anyhoo, Erin has landed herself her very first real, adult boyfriend. They’ve “done it” and everything, and that’s means a relationship, right?

We are at a party, and Erin is having a great time. We’ve been there for a couple of hours, and it’s about time to take it to the next venue. We’re partnering up for carpools, etc. I go to find Erin, who is sitting on the sofa in the corner, with a guy behind her, stroking her hair, and another stretched across her lap. She’s telling one of them “I can’t. I have a boyfriend.” Yeah, speaking of…where is he? We’re trying to see who’s riding with who (m). “Oh, he’s over there…but I need a ride, too, ‘cause we didn’t come together.” Lap dude: “You can ride with me.”

Meanwhile, the boyfriend was busy on the dancefloor being the meat in a skank sandwhich. No, I mean he was ON THE FLOOR. Grinding. So let’s get this straight…they didn’t come together, they’re not leaving together, as far as I could tell, they had yet to acknowledge each other’s presence, and from the looks of things, they would not be spending the night in each other’s company. And no, they weren’t fighting. That’s just how they did things. But they were boyfriend and girlfriend, right (that sounds so juvenile)? Because they said they were. Sigh.

Erin’s thing was she had been single so long, she relished the concept of having somebody. She couldn’t see the value in being single for herself, she saw it as failure. Therefore, she got herself a title that carried no weight, and carried on as she saw fit. Again, this is relationship denial. If you don’t really care to be in each other’s company, rarely call, go days without speaking, and generally seek out the companionship of other’s instead of your mate…y’all are not together. In fact, you just might actually hate each other. Or be married. Get that checked.

There are many, many examples that I could give you of people who are in relationship denial. Some of you are even reading this post. Ahem. But the bottom line is, being “together” isn’t defined by your language, it is defined by your feelings. You can crawl under that table and cover your eyes, but I still see you. Whether you choose to acknowledge your situation for what it is or not, it still IS. It’s not gonna hurt any less if it ends…just because you never said it started. Likewise, it’s not going to feel any better when it starts…just because you’ve given it permission. Just let it be, and accept what you are.

Do not ask me what kind of drugs I was on Friday, for I do not know.

2005-05-30T06:58:00.000-07:00

Hey, y'all!!

Okay...so. I shall post today. About very postworthy things. Things which inspire much of the posting, for they are worthy. Of the posting. So very worthy, to be sure. And if I just keep typing, I'm sure they will come to me. That's the plan...just keep typing. Ahem.

Oh! I know one! Kias!

Dear Kia,

I hate your cars. All of them. They are Hyundais, Kia! Just admit it!!! Why are you trying to hide behind the snazzy name?! I am not fooled by your tomfoolery, Kia! Those are Hyundais, and your whole model was made up as an attempt to evade the reputation for utter crapery that Hyundai has built for itself. Were I of a nature desire a Lexus, do you really think I'd change my mind and settle for your cheapo Hyundai equivalent? The answer is NO, Kia. Your car is like the equivalent of those knock-off body sprays that are at the gas station checkout counter, the one's that have names like "If you like Giorgio...you'll love Primo!"

You know what, Kia? If I like Giorgio, I will think that Primo is a cheap knock-off vial of crap, which it is. No one is actually fooled by Primo. There has never once in the history of Primo been a person that said "Wait. That's Primo?! Dude! My nostrils were totally fooled! It defies the olfactory senses, it does!" Likewise, there will never be a person who says "Look at that Lex--wait, no! THAT'S a KIA!! My nostrils were totally fooled!"

You should be ashamed of yourself.

niki-- not crazy, just differently saned.

Don't bifurcate the baby!!

2005-05-27T12:09:00.000-07:00

Hee!!

That title has nothing to do with anything, I just remembered the word, and it reminded me of King Solomon and I thought it might be cool to write a play about that biblical story and title it thus. But maybe not, so I'd settle for one of the mothers to scream that out, please. No? It was worth a shot, anyway. C'mon! It'd be funny. Damn y'all, you never join in any of my reindeer games.

See, I really wanted to do a real post today, but blogger is on that trip trip. Dadgum it.

Y'ALL!

2005-05-26T14:45:00.000-07:00

This was an actual advertisement. No, really. "So that's why Dick has been so cool to me!" ROFLMBAO.

Not the mama!

2005-05-26T14:38:00.000-07:00

Can somebody please send me a pic file of Not the Mama? I need to prove to her friend that her son to be stepson was aptly nicknamed by me. I can not find a file. Shoot.

'Sup?

I'm posting tommorrow. A real one. Really.

The Epilogue: Chickens Coming Home to Roost

2005-05-25T06:18:00.000-07:00

Of course, I was angry beyond belief. After his grand revelation, I asked if she even knew that I didn't know he was married. He said no, and refused to tell her. You see, he was playing on all of this extra attention she was lavishing on him, thinking that someone was trying to steal her husband. I hung up on him, and cried tequila-soaked tears for about 2 hours straight. I'll spare you the details, but just know that it got so bad at one point that my friends stopped trying to comfort me and be empathetic and began filming the moment for future posterity. I do have the BEST friends, ya know. I cried so hard that I laughed, and that's a pleasant twist on that old adage. It's nice when it works the other way around.

So anyway, that night got me over the hurdle. I wasn't sad anymore. I WAS PISSED. He called me at work the next morning.

"He-y. You wanna talk?"

"Nope. I want you dead."

Click.

I started gathering up information that I could use to make his life hell. I could have, too...but a funny thing started to happen. I realized that I just didn't care that much. I realized that I was more hurt by the way the situation was handled than I was about the situation itself. Meanwhile, I got a couple of calls from the wife. The bastard was still calling me, and she called because she saw my number on his phone.

Her: Um, hi? Who is this? This is _______. Um, I have this phone sometimes, and I noticed a few calls from this number...

Him, in the background: _______, whatchu doing? Who is that?

Me: Sweetpea, I think you know exactly who this is, and that is why you've called. But if you'd check the arrows, you would see that when my number shows up, it's an outgoing call. I'm not calling him, he's calling me. As a matter of fact, is he available?

Her: DJ...it's Niki. (aww! she sounds so sad! I feel bad for her.)

He: Hello?

Me: If either of you ever contacts me again, I will come to (reveal that I've found her address) and personally tell your wife EVERYTHING, do you get me? Stay the ____ out of my life.

Click.

I'll fast forward to two weeks later. The Tuesday (I think) after Mother's Day, I got a call from him. By this time, I was over it. I was no longer sad, or even angry. I still had all of the information that I gathered, but I'd long since decided not to do anything with it. Karma, you see...she's better at this revenge thing than we are. Anyway, he called, sounding all pitiful.

"Can you meet me at the lake, at that place we went to that time? I've been sitting here since about 2 o'clock...I just want to talk to you."

Now, I know that the mature thing to do would have been to politely decline and go on with my life. But I'm not that mature. I could tell in his voice that he was suffering, and I wanted to watch.

"Hmm...okay. I'll be there in an hour or so, I'll see you at 7-ish."

I went home, showered and freshened up the Mac, and put on the cute butt jeans. I was ready.
When I got there, I saw him sitting in his car, but I parked and walked down to the water's edge without acknowledging him. He waited for a moment then came to join me.

"Can I get a hug?"

What he got was a look that could cut glass.

"Damn. Well, anyway, I called you to try to work things out. It's over, Niki. I can't stop thinking about you, and all we do is argue about you. Thursday, I called her Niki for like the second or third-- I say second, she says third--time, and she put me out. I didn't even care. That was the worst mistake I ever made, and I'm go'n try my damndest to make it right. She just ain't it for me, Niki. You are, yadda yadda yadda (for like 10 minutes straight.)"

"Bwahahahaaaaaaaa! LOL!!!!! ROFL!! Oh, my god! Oh, crap, I gotta watch my step before I fall! Bwahahaaaa! "

"(shouting) So you're just gonna sit there and LAUGH in my face?!!"

The first set of fishermen leave...

"YES. I'm gonna laugh because I'm done crying! Bwahahaaaaaaa! OMG. I really couldn't have hoped for better! LOL!!!!! So, how long did this reconsiliation last, anyway?"

"Man, about 2 weeks...but I'm telling you, all I could think about was you, and she didn't make it no better. Everytime we talked, she had to bring it up."

"Giggle. Snort. GUFFAW!"

At this point, the mom called, to "see how things were going." (You know, she's far too involved in his life.)

"Hello? No...nuh-uh. You talk to her, mama. She won't believe me. "

He hands me the phone, and I listen respecfully to her spiell.

"Yadda, yadda, yadda...he was happier with you than he's ever been with her, and I was JUST telling him, blah blah blaaaaah. That girl knowed (no, she really said that) where his heart was, and wasn't nothing she could do about it! Hmph. I know you hurt, honey. But listen to that man, he luhs you."

"You know, Mrs. _____, I hear you. But quite frankly, I'm not really any more inclined to believe you as I am him, since both of you conspired to have me believe that he wasn't married."

"I TOLD him to tell you! I told him you can't build nothing good on no lies!"

"Yes, ma'am. But you knew that he hadn't told me, too. And you could've told me."

"Well, I don't be all in this business like that. Well, alright, I'll let y'all go. " WTF?!?!?!

We hung up and I passed his phone back to him. I listened to his drivel for another 5 minutes or so before I made my grand exit. By this time, he had run off all but 2 of the fisherman, including the ones that were in their boat, some 30 or so yards from shore. But the best part of the whole evening, the part that will be burned forever in my Hall of Happy Memories, was me speeding off in the Honda, looking at him in the rearview screaming "Niki!! I F**KED Up!!! I'm trying to fix it! Let me fix it!"

So, yeah. He's still calling, trying to get back into my good graces. The wife called at one point, to tell me that I could HAVE him, because she don't have to be with NOBODY that ain't putting her first. Whatever to them both. His story is done.

The End.

Lessee if we can wrap this up.

2005-05-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

Okay, now...where were we?

After the big revelation and the paper showing, we were good for a couple days...but my spidey senses were tingling. We had a big fight about his insane jealousy, and about him looking at my saved online conversations and reading where some people had urged me to dump him due to said jealousy. So he demanded that I cut off my relations with those (read: that) people (read: person). Of course, I refused. I listed many reasons for my refusal, and the transcript of my entire side of the conversation can be neatly tucked away in a letter-sized manila envelope labeled "What you absolutely should NOT say when you're trying to appease a jealous boyfriend. No, really. Just stop talking now." I won't bore you with the details, but the coup de grace was "He was here before you, he'll be here after you. In fact, if it wasn't for him, there would be no you. So you should thank him, really." Yes, I know, I know. But it honestly made sense at the time.

So a couple of days after this, I decide to take a breather. Actually, my girl Nina pulled an intervention on my ass and told me to take a few days off. No contact with him at all. On the second day, he called me crying because of some child-related mess. Apparently, the little girl was crying because she really wanted to live with him, yadda yadda DRAMA. So anyway. He asked to see me, because he really needed somebody to talk to, etc. Whatever. I had plans, so I told him to come by afterward, at about 9:30. He doesn't show, and at 10 or so I go to bed. At one thirty in the goddamned morning, I hear pebbles being thrown at my window, and some idiot calling my name. For some reason, I actually go downstairs and open the door. I don't know what I planned to do...I was sleepy. But whatever it was, I didn't get the chance because he pushed past me and up the stairs to my room, taking his shirt off on the way. Say it with me girls...OH HELL NO!!!!!! Of course, I completely go off. I continue to go off as I look at him, with this completely confused look on his face like he couldn't fathom why I might be upset. Supposedly, I'm supposed to believe that "he went over to his brother's and lost track of time, so he went home to shower and come over, but then he went to play basketball, so he needed another shower" and EXCUSE ME, MF, but WHY in the jeminy F**K are you sitting on my bed?! GET OUT. He did. That was on a Wednesday.

I didn't talk to him on Thursday, and Friday he called me to go to lunch, because I was scheduled to go to Houston that night, and he wouldn't see me until Tuesday, at the earliest. He also told me that I'd injured his thumb by slamming it in the door. Oops. We talked a bit, and we made plans to sit down and have a long discussion when I returned. Gravy, right?

Nope.

While I was in Houston, my big mouthed big sis mentioned my new guy in the midst of a large gathering of extended family. My family knows of the aversion to dating steadily. It is well-documented and oft-commented on. So, of course, it became a thing. So finally, I let my cousin call him. A female answers. His cell. At 12:30. DRAMA. It ends up with her cussing him out, royally. Under the guise of being me. During the course of this conversation, it is revealed that he is at the daughter's mom's house, supposedly installing a medicing cabinet. He was there so late because, and I quote "we got a baby together." She responded with "Are you trying to make another one?!" ZING!! Good one, cuz!! So anyhoo...yeah. That went well. And with the whole family to witness, too! Added bonus!! Can't wait until this story gets retold at Christmas! Thanks, bastard!

So anyhoo...needless to say, our talk was off. Or maybe I DID need to say it, since he tried to call me playing it cool. He was all supposedly pissed that "I" had cursed him out. Silly rabbit. I don't only use those kinds of words in print. Actually, I don't use those kinds of words at all (think cringing sailors). He should know better. Anyway, about three minutes into that conversation, I noticed his carefully chosen words and inquired as the reason.

"Where are you?"

silence

"Bastard? Hello?"

"I'm sitting next to my wife. She's right here."

"WIFE?!!! As in current?!"

"Yeah..."

Apparently, the filed divorce was never finalized. They were separated for over a year. She came back to him trying to work things out because she heard that I was in the picture. After our last big fight, he agreed. Yadda, yadda, yadda and they lived happily ever after right? Right?

Nope.

(If it's any consolation, at this point we are SO over. The rest is just the epilogue, to be filed under "Chickens Coming Home to Roost. Bwahahahahaaa!")

The Unwilling--oh hell. Let's just say Part III.

2005-05-23T08:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it's all gravy for a while. Y'all know that I have issues with relationships, and this seemed to be heading that way --fairly quickly, I might add. My spidey senses are going off like crazy, but I'm chalking it up to my aversion to intimacy. (I broke into a sweat the first time he grabbed my hand. Seriously.) I'm trying to find reasons to back out of this thing. Over the next few weeks, I get daily pep talks from my friends, and we get closer.

He tells me about his little girl, and shows me pictures. I won't say anything...but when he showed those same pictures to my friend Nina, all she could come up with was "you have really strong genes. Ahem." Somewhere about this time he starts introducing me to family members at warp speed. All seem extremely pleased that he's with me, especially the mom and the female cousin/best friend. But not the sisters. They were very standoffish, and I wrote it off at first. Females are strange creatures. Some of them I meet, and they dislike me on sight. It used to hurt my feelings, but now I let it roll off my back. So anyhoo, I just figured that the sisters were in that pack. The moms certainly had no trouble with me. The dad asked (well, no. Mentioned and assumed is more like it.) me to cook him food. Hugs, smiles, and come back soon. A lot of supposed "jokes" about in-lawing and welcome to the family, etc. I leave feeling warm and fuzzy and stuff, despite the stank sisters. A few days later he tells me that he and his younger sis had a falling out because she went to the daughter's mom and reported all details about me. So chickie was giving him drama behind it. She started calling his cell during hours that she imagined he'd be with me. She was usually right, because we were starting to spend a lot of time together. He'd always get right off the phone, or not answer. He told me how they'd had an on again, off again relationship for 3 years or so, and somehow got "on again" long enough to have a kid. He said that they got back together through the pregnancy and the kid, but hadn't been together for over a year.

One night he does the Thing That Amazes Me Still and Completely Blew My Mind. Yeah, that was good. (For four hours, is all I'm saying.) Two days later, we did the deed. I was very upset with myself, because that just goes to show how VERY fast this all went. We'd known each other for only about a month, and had only been dating 3 weeks or so. Ah well. That was good, too, and I can't honestly say that I regret it. I realize that I probably should, but I just don't. So there. (ahem. FOUR.)

Then one day the following week we're in my kitchen, the very picture of domesticity. There's music playing, I'm cooking, he's cleaning...it's bliss. So a song comes on...I don't even remember which one, now. But anyway, this song was really old, and I liked it a lot. I said something like "I love this song, I remember my dad playing this song when I was little. Dang, my parents were still together then, I know this song is old." There I was, wrapped in nostalgia and my newfound Crockeresque, and this BASTARD says "Yeah, it seems like people only get married for the kids these days. It was like that when I did it." Brakes.

Numero Uno: This did NOT fit into the conversation. It was so OBVIOUSLY contrived.
Numero Dos: The fact that he looked so closely at my face, while trying to seem all nonchalant, infuriated me even more. Do NOT try to play this isht off!!

At this point, I am not angry. I calmly say, "when you did what? Oh, you have been married? But you explicitly told me that you had not. It wouldn't have even been a big deal. Now it is, because you have lied."

Then he told me that the period in which he and the daughter's mom "got back together" was actually a marriage. They got married because she got pregnant, then separated a year later.

"How long have you been divorced?"
"Oh, we've BEEN divorced. We've been divorced since like a year after we got separated. Sometimes I forget we were even married."
"I wanna see the papers."
"Sure. They're at my mom's house."

Then the mom calls. It's important to note that mom obviously serves as is Jeminy Cricket, because she was calling to "see how everything went." I'm still pissed, but I'm calming down. You see, I believed him. And I'm writing this off as one of those cases where people lie when they first meet, then once an actual relationship begins to form, they try to come clean. It had obviously bothered him enough to discuss it with the parentals. I'm upset, but not livid. Still, he's not getting off the hook that easy. I'm not even all that mad anymore, but I go off.

"Marriage, children, jail sentences, and...and...DISEASE are things that are properly disclosed at the beginning of the damned realtionship! If I was sitting here with the freaking...I dunno -- African Sleeping Sickness or some isht, prone to falling the f**k out on your ass, wouldn't you wanna know?! This is some bull!"

Silence.

"Wouldn't you wanna know, huh? Don't you think that'd be some pretty pertinent information to have? Huh? HUH?!"

"I've never been to jail."

"SO?!"

"I have epilepsy."

Collectively, now...AWWWWWWWW DAYUM!!!!!

Took the wind right out of my sails. Can't break up with a man that just revealed that, you know. There's just no way to effectively do that without coming off as a really bad person.

Oh, and those papers? He showed them to me. Yep. Divorce filed on such and such day, yadda yadda. Ok, then. It was a bad setback, but we're good. Right? RIGHT?!

Nope. Wrong as hell.

Stay tuned.

Unwilling Mistress: The Nikilovely Story, pt. II (or actually pt.1, cuz I never really told the story. I should probably name this something else.)

2005-05-19T08:04:00.000-07:00

Okay. So you want details, huh? Perhaps I should establish a timeline….except no, because I don’t really remember when this stuff happened. How about a list?

First: I went to a “ball” that was more like a junior high school dance, if your daddy picked the music, and he was a Southern Baptist deacon. Lot of “Hole in the Wall” type songs. This was fun in itself, except for the fact that I had been marathon shopping for the perfect dress for a week, when I totally could’ve worn something out of my closet and been the best dressed woman there. (Well, me and the State Representative’s wife. She’s really pretty, and she liked my dress.) Ah well. Anyway, I had a date to said event, but we were meeting there. It was a blind date (UGH), and we weren’t allowed to talk prior to the event because he has a smart mouth and I have a penchant for ripping people new ones. Anyway. He told me through a third party that he would be a little late, but ended up being like 2 and a half hours late. That’s why it was a bad idea to not let us speak to each other. Because had he spent 10 minutes in conversation with me prior to this night, he would’ve known that this was a BAD idea. Anyway, I don’t know if he thought that I’d spend those two hours crying at the table, but whatev. I wasted no time in establishing steady flirtation with the DJ. This is easily done when you’re the first one on the dance floor. The DJ was about 6’5”, broad shouldered, rough handed, deep voiced, and cute. I introduced myself to my date, danced one song and promptly dismissed him. “Don’t feel obligated to spend what remains of the night over here,” I told him. “I’m quite successful at keeping myself entertained —by all means— go join your friends.” This story is about the DJ.

Next night: Rolling over to check my voice mail (I’m as bad about that as I am about posting.)…I have 19 messages?! Granted, these accumulated over a week, but still. Everybody that knows me knows that it’s worthless to leave me voice messages. Seven of them are from him. Within a 24 hour period. I debate returning his call, because—hello? Bug me much?—but I did anyway. What the hell.

The day after that, but irrelevant and only in here because it’s funny. The date calls me, and we have the following conversation…

D: Hi, I just called to say hey and that I had a good time yesterday.
NL: (thinking) Me, too…just not with you. Wait, how did you get my number?
D: Hello?
NL: …oh, yeah, thanks.
D: Yeah, you were wearing that dress.
NL: Thanks.
D: So, what’re you doing? Why do you sound like that?
NL: Well, I’m watching this documentary on the Holocaust. (which would kind of answer both questions, no?)
D: What, that thing about the dog? Yeah, I think my brother n’ nem are in there watching that.
NL: …
NL: (thinking) No, not ‘that thing about the dog.’ Rather, that thing about the millions of Jews that were systematically murdered during one of the most catastrophic historical periods in recent history. Specifically, about the families that were separated and destroyed, and their attempts to piece together any shred of information they can verify, almost six decades later. Please go die now.

NL: Well, thanks for the date and all…it was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime. Bye.

Switch hook: CLICK.

Now, I’m realizing that this is getting incredibly long, and may need to be done in 2 or 3 parts. I’ll just end it with this conversation between myself and the DJ, about a week later.

DJ: Blah, blah, blah…wanna get to know you, blah, blah, blah, ask me stuff.
NL: Yeah, that’s great. Blah, blah, flirty, blah.
DJ: No, really. What do you want to know about me?
NJ: Well, okay. Are you from here, blah blah?
DJ: Yes. (WARNING SIGN) My parents blah, blah, my family for years, blah.
NJ: Oh, cool. So you’re very family oriented, huh? Have you ever been married? (The DJ is 10 years my senior.)
DJ: No.

That’s where we’ll end it for today, boys and girls. Join us tomorrow as we fall farther and farther into the Pit of Lies.

Unwilling Mistress: The Nikilovely Story

2005-05-13T06:57:00.000-07:00

Egads! It's alive!

Yeah, so....what's good? You know, for a while there, I was under the impression that I quit blogging. But as I came here to delete this blog for like the 5th time, and couldn't do it, I figured that somebody was deluding herself. Alas! I could not stay away. So here I sit...
What's good?

I’ve noticed that many of you still have me linked on your sites. Aw, thanks guys! I’m gonna say that it’s not, in fact, due to laziness, but instead as a show of good faith…an absentminded vigil, of sorts. A quiet protest of my silence, a small demonstration of your hopes that I would soon return. And return, I have! Triumphantly! Bearing gifts! (Well, not really. But I totally would’ve if I’d thought of it.)

Well, I suppose I could get you up to speed on my antics of late, but I think the title tells the story. Yeah, so…that ended well. I could rehash all the sordid details, but unless you show an interest, I’d honestly rather not drudge all that up again. Of course, there are sordid details to be had, and they are yours for the asking, friend! But I ain't volunteering. Did you ever notice that when something cruddy happens, the worst part is how many times you have to tell the SAME story? After a while it becomes therapeutic, and you just get over it already.

This post sucks. I’m gonna put it out of its misery. Just dropping a line to say I’m back, I think.

--Nikilovely, still heartless, now justified!

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

2005-04-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

shoo.............
zzzzzzzzz......
shooooooooooo..........
zz--smgf! cplt! huh? wha? It's April? Oh. Heh.

Sorry about that.

Didja want to know about me?

2005-03-15T08:28:00.000-08:00

100 of Those Things About Me that I’m Willing to Release to the Internet

1. I’m 25 years old, but I feel and act much older lots of times. People are often surprised at my age. I’m told that I’m a sixty year old biddy trapped in a young woman’s body.
2. My answer to that is…meh. Pass me my needlepoint.
3. I took up needlepoint one weekend instead of going to the Dr. Pepper museum. Seriously. We had been planning for a week to go to the museum, then on Saturday I was like “You know what’d be fun? Needlepoint. That’d be great.” And the Spawn was all like “smh.” And D was all like “YEAH!” (and that, folks, is why I keep her around.)
4. Then, because we didn’t want to ruin the historic value of the weekend, we told ourselves that what we were truly doing was carrying on a nearly lost art form that dates back thousands of years before Dr. Pepper. Or so we imagined. And we were right. Did you read number 17?
5. I’ve gone back and moved things, and I realize that it is highly unlikely that you’d have read #17 by #4. I’m going to leave it there anyway.
6. Oh, yeah. I have a little girl. I think she’s rather cute. She tends to agree.
7. My sister is trying to brainwash her into pledging AKA when she goes to college.
8. Make that my sister, all of her friends and two of mine. Did I mention that my sister HAS a daughter of her own to brainwash?
9. I have a Shih-Tzu. He’s spoiled unbelievably rotten. That’s a trait of his species (Shih-Tzus, not males. Although…heh.), and I wish I’d believed it when Pedigree warned me of that.
10. He owns a tux. And a top hat. He sure does look snazzy in them.
11. Despite the aforementioned, I am not one of those dog people.
12. There are a few people who owe me their first born children. They can keep them; I have all the kids I want.
13. I am totally the kind of girl who’ll spend an idyllic evening with cheese, wine, my fondue pot and old Audrey Hepburn movie on DVD.
14. I am totally the kind of girl who’ll spend an idyllic evening with hot wings, some Kool-Aid, my boys, a Spades tournament, and an Earth, Wind, and Fire compilation on CD.
15. My dog is named after a revolutionary.
16. His hair will dread if I let it. Sometimes I let it. Shut up! It’s SO cute.
17. My daughter’s name is a variation of a French one, but even with the addition it has a French translation. I didn’t know that when I named her.
18. I obsessively research things, down to the most mundane detail.
19. I know the five recurrent themes of Macbeth by heart. (Try as I might to forget.)
20. Blood, night, water, fear, and restlessness, if you were wondering.
21. You probably weren’t.
22. 20 and 21 weren’t about me; but let’s pretend they were.
23. I have anal tendencies.
24. I’m not a neat freak, but I like my things to stay where I put them. (Like, I know there was a safety pin was next to this rubber band in the medicine cabinet. Who moved it? If I’d wanted it in the sewing box with the others, that’s where I would’ve PUT it!!)
25. Ask me for anything in my parent’s house, and I can direct you to it. Precisely. Down to the direction it is facing and neighboring objects. Anything. From memory. From right where I sit, 180 miles away. Paper clip? Phone cord? Kleenex? That glitter card the Spawn made in Kindergarten? Check, check, check, and depends upon the season. Are you getting an idea of exactly how anal these people are? I know from anal. I am not anal.
26. I wuv they.
27. I’ve grown bored with this list and will return to it tomorrow with a fresh perspective. (Yep, it’s two days later. Nothing yet. Gimme another day.)
28. Okay, I’m back.
29. I love The Color Purple. No, really. I love it like your granny loves cheesecake. Like, if they ever made a Color Purple Trivial Pursuit, you are toast. Guaranteed.
30. Wait. Have they made a Color Purple Trivial Pursuit? Because if they have, can you please let me know? Immediately? Because I will gladly spend the next two month’s lunch money for its purchase, and then I will love it and hold it and squeeze it forever and ever. Thx.
31. Besides The Color Purple (because it is in a class by itself), my favorite movies are…um…Rosewood, Mommie Dearest, Arsenic and Old Lace, Man in the Iron Mask, and Coming to America. So far. [Ed. Note: and Man on Fire, and Set it Off.] I like movies.
32. I hated both Napoleon Dynamite and The Royal Tenenbaums. I’m sure it’s for the same reason, although I haven’t quite put my finger on it.
33. Every time I watch Coming to America, I work “That’ll be eight dolla’s” into as many conversations as possible for the next week or so. It cracks me up and I don’t know why.
34. I love French fries, but I hate the pointy ones. I think everybody hates the pointy ones, they just don’t notice. But the next time you get some fries, notice which ones you pick first. Once those are gone, look at what’s left. Uh-huh. Thought so.
35. Pointy French fries suck for real. They scratch my gums like Popeye’s chicken skin.
36. I love my IM buddy list (?). It is there that I turn for advice, a laugh, or a listening ear. It very often makes my day.
37. I refer to IM conversations as if they were phone conversations. I’ve tried to break myself of the habit, but it hasn’t worked. I don’t know why.
38. I refuse to spell sexy with 2 x’s.
39. I think it’s unfortunate that there are people named Dorcas.
40. I read To Kill a Mockingbird just about every year, although I typically hate to reread books. Please do not debate the merits of Harper Lee or her unquestionable masterpiece with me. I get far too emotional.
41. When I find a new site I really like, I sit down and read all of the archives. Daily, if necessary.
42. I use the words wait, really, and seriously way too much. I almost typed both really and seriously behind that statement; I had to catch myself.
43. I was a debutante.
44. I am the least likely debutante you’ll ever meet. (That may be a slight exaggeration, but not much.)
45. I think Michael Jackson should be committed.
46. Scratch that. He should’ve been committed just after Bad.
47. I went to approximately 23 schools over the course of my primary and secondary education.
48. I am still discovering behavioral quirks that can be traced to that instability.
49. I prefer a standard shift automobile.
50. I hate cruise control.
51. I love trail mix.
52. I don’t think I’ll live in the U.S. my whole life.
53. I can do weird things with my toes like throw stuff and strum them all together as if I’m in deep thought. (cracks me up)
54. I am addicted to Noggin.
55. I just might cry at the final episode of RFR.
56. I am aware that 97% of you have no idea what the last two were about.
57. I have two hermit crabs.
58. I love blue.
59. My mother just might be insane.
60. I quit perming my hair in September of 2004.
61. My hair grows faster than I knew.
62. I learned to shoot (a gun, not a basket. I still can’t do that) at 7 years old.
63. I like to say the word svelte.
64. I am currently grieving a very great loss that I try not to think about.
65. I have gotten very good at seeming perfectly fine when in truth I’m quite the opposite.
66. I should right a book about the year I was fifteen. It would probably be a bestselling gritty teen drama.
67. I don’t think I’ve ever watched one episode of NYPD Blue, but whenever I hear the words “grit” and “drama” used together, that’s what I think of.
68. I was sorely ticked off at what they did to New York Undercover.
69. I used to have the biggest crush on Kirk Cameron.
70. It was second only to the one I later developed on Tevin Campbell.
71. Once, TC was at the McDonald’s near my house doing promo.
72. My best friend and I heard this and devised an elaborate plan to sneak up behind him and cut his hair. No, really. We practiced and everything. (I hated his new long hairstyle. Men should not have hairstyles.)
73. We were sorely disappointed when traffic was so backed up that we never got within a block of him.
74. I prefer biographies to fiction.
75. I have not since becoming an adult referred to anyone as “my boyfriend.”
76. I like to fight for the little guy, I should be an ombudsman.
77. (I don’t particularly care for lawyers, the legal system, or lawyers.)
78. I never went to senior prom.
79. I just laughed entirely too hard at an article about mating ducks.
80. I just asked somebody else to finish this list for me, because that’d be funny. And because I am lazy.
81. Still awaiting his reply…
82. “umm...no” was his reply to my very politely worded request.
83. Maybe my IM buddies are not the gems I’ve said they are.
84. I am taking applications for new IM buddies.
85. Atheists annoy me.
86. People who refer to God as a woman cause me to look at them crossways and squinty eyed.
87. I hate bold color on my nails or lips. Usually I’m wearing clear polish and gloss.
88. I collect albums.
89. I love old music, from baroque to Motown.
90. I don’t work well with others.
91. Stupid people annoy me.
92. I don’t believe stupidity has anything to do with intelligence.
93. Some people think that I try to force “deep” conversations. The truth is, I just suck at small talk. I badly suck at small talk.
94. Casinos bore me to tears. I might like Vegas, but I’d be going for the shows and cheap steak.
95. Not really. I don’t much care for steak. I love seafood, though.
96. I don’t understand people who are apathetic about seafood. Hate it, okay…maybe it’s an acquired taste. But to just be all...meh? I don’t get it.
97. I don’t think peeves make very good pets, but many things consistently get me steamed.
98. I love to laugh, but have a strange sense of humor. It’s dry at times, silly at others, and can be a little bit crude. (Y’all. That mating duck article? HILARIOUS)
99. Materialism annoys me. I’m of the belief that I only need enough fashion to keep cute. Cute and comfortable, with emphasis on the latter.
100. If my life were an 80’s movie, I’d pick the best friend over the quarterback every time. Just not a flashy guy kinda girl.

I’m done. This took about 2 months to complete. I’ve done about 20 revisions. Finally, here it is. Hope you enjoyed it.

7th grade teachers

2005-03-03T13:58:00.000-08:00

I had four 7th grade teachers who literally changed my life. Three of them changed it for the better. One got me into writing, the other into logic, and the third taught me many intangible lessons about being a woman. She taught by example. (Luv you, Mrs. C!) This post isn't about those three.

It's about you, Mrs. D. Ashworth. I say D because I don't remember your first name (I think it was Diane) but if I did I'd surely put you on blast for all of the internet to see, for you are most foul. Why? You ask? Because you hated the fact that I was an A student. All the rest of your star pupils (save Bich, the Chinese girl) were the apple of your eye, but me? You hated me. You sent me to intervention for walking into class as the bell rang, when you sat there and watched me limp down the hall, returning from the nurse after having sprained my ankle in P.E. You spent abnormal amounts of effort looking for an excuse to flunk me on something...anything. You gave me my first and only F on a major project, because I created a 3d model of my island and did a virtual tour rather than the cardboard brochures that everyone else turned in. Yes, you did specify that brochures should have a table of contents, but A) It wasn't that kind of brochure, B) That was only 25% of the grade, and C) MOST educators would encourage that kind of creativity. But it is not for those reasons that I write today.

I didn't know at the time what you were, as your actions were far out of my realm of experience up to that point. But I know that everything you said directly to me, everything you did to me, was designed to make me feel somehow inferior...to take me down a peg. But not even that inspired my post today. Mrs. Ashworth, I just looked at my calendar, and realized that today is or near the anniversary of the day you sent me home in tears. You never knew that, and probably never will, but today I can tell you that I credit you for being the first to begin molding me into the angry black woman typing this today.

It was a few days after Black History Month had ended. I remember, because that's how you started the lesson, saying "We should have gotten to this last month, but we're behind. Better late than never..." Then you introduced the topic of American Slavery. I don't even remember the lesson; it's all obliterated by the comment you made toward the made toward the end. We were reading from the textbook, and exclaiming over the conditions it described. You stood with a questioning look on your face, and said "Well, a lot of people think it was hard, but when slavery was over, many of them chose to stay. I mean, why wouldn't they? They had guaranteed food, clothing, and housing. Why would you give all that up?" It wasn't so much the comment (actually, yes it was) as it was the attitude that you delivered it with. As if the runaways and those that chose to leave after emancipation were somehow ingrates for rejecting the 400 years of hospitality they and their ancestors experienced. At that moment, all the pieces fell into place.

I knew why you treated me the way you did. I knew why, in your only known instance of rejecting school policy, you allowed us to choose our own seating on the first day, and made it the official seating chart. I saw how by doing that, you effectively sanctioned a segregated classroom. In the next unit, we learned about the Civil War, and I got to listen to you tell me about why we should reject the notion that the Confederate flag is racist, and respect it for the rich history and solidarity it represents. But by then, I'd long stopped letting myself feel your words.

I don't know if the State of Louisiana is still allowing you to warp and scar children at your whim, but I hope not. Thirteen years ago, you broke my heart. I thank you for it now, but don't think it's okay. If I could have one wish for this post, it's that it's being read to you right now, as you sit in a window at a rest home, ridden by bed sores and stinking with neglect. I hope it's being read by a tattoed orderly on work release, who sometimes pees in your denture water for kicks. I hope you sit there everyday wondering if you've been abandoned by all but God. And I hope you're happy with your guaranteed food, clothing, and shelter.

Hey, y'all!

2005-03-03T07:34:00.000-08:00

Well!

I guess when I'm not being attacked by animals I just have nothing to say, huh? Ah, well. You should know that I'm still, yes STILL composing my 100 things list. I've spent about 2 hours on it, total, but those 2 hours have been dispersed in increments over the last month, so I get to call it a month long project. That's how that works. It's still not done yet, though. I guess that's okay because it seems that list fever has overtaken us of late and I'm sure you could do without learning 100 things about yet another blogger. So there.

You know, I don't like apple or watermelon flavored Jolly Ranchers. This revelation struck me recently, and I was nearly floored. I have been conditioned to believe that apple and watermelon were THE flavors of Jolly Ranchers, and all those other flavors are just there for aesthetic purposes. So ingrained was this belief that I'd never really considered the flavors on merit, they just WERE. So imagine my suprise when my candy dish was filled with Jolly Ranchers by some anonymous person (thanks, person!) this past week, and I gravitated toward the grape ones. Bypassed the watermelon, turned up my nose at the apple. Thought to myself that the flavors of the apple and watermelon were quite overwhelming to my palate, I'd much prefer the grape. For a bit of variety, I chose lemon or cherry. That's that goody, right there.

While having dinner with the most pretentious ugly man I've ever had the displeasure of knowing (Ugly people, as a rule, do not get to be pretentious. They just don't. Especially if they have dred bangs.), which coincided with having the best stuffed shrimp EVER (if there is no Cheddar's near you, crawl into a hole and expire, for your life is worthless, I swear.), anyway, while all this was going on, our very cute (but gay, ALAS!) waiter brought over two shots of tequila. He set one in front of me and TOOK the other. (Cheddars, I'm telling you.) Then I ordered one of his "special" margaritas. Wooohoooooooo! I loosened up. Just for future reference, remember this equation.

Niki(known to be tactless when sober, even)
+[<2 shots of 1800 x any frozen mixed mysery drink
+funny as hell gay waiter/bartender (aka enabler)
___________________________________________

One very pissed off "poet"

Then, at the end of the night, DW (drunk waiter) was trying to tell me I was very vivacious, but the tequila made it keep coming out "bibacious" until finally I realized that it didn't matter. At that moment, both were true. And then we laughed some more.

I just stepped on a dead bat.

2005-02-23T11:43:00.000-08:00

There are remnants of sundried bat carcass sticking to the bottom of my boot right now. Do you people KNOW how I feel about bats?? Who decided bats were a good idea, anyway? Like, who sat up and said, "hmm...rats and birds are loathsome creatures on their own, but what if I combined the two?? One big birdrat, just for kicks. Yes, yes. I think I will. "
Well, whomever you are, you should just know that I AM SO PISSED. I bet you're also the one that decided that grape Skittles should be in existence. Jerkoff.

I don't even remember what I was going to post about. I just stepped on a BAT. IN THE DAYTIME. Of course, he's probably been dead since night time, but still. Oh my GAWD. A bat. Eek. Like, I can hardly concentrate, because my poor foot is trembling from the thought of being separated from bat carcass remnants by only a few centimenters of rubber. Really. It's quaking in its...well, um...boot.

I promise that the next post won't be about animals.

No words

2005-02-21T12:43:00.000-08:00

Ok, this is a somewhat serious post. A lot of really messed up crap has been happening to my fellow bloggers lately, and they might have noticed the absence of my name among the list of well wishers. For that, I feel I owe an explanation. You see, it's not that I am a cold and heartless git that can not empathize with your situation. If anything, it's that I empathize too much. I do this both online and offline acquaintances...and friends...and family.

You see, sometimes there is just nothing I can say. I hate, loathe, detest, and any other verb that expresses extreme distaste...platitudes. (And sometimes Beatitudes...but that's another post.) Seriously. When someone is going through an extreme emotional upheaval, do you really think that hearing yet another dozen people say "my thoughts are with you and your family" or any other of the trite and meaningless phrases that we've trained ourselves to say. Yes, people come back and say thanks for all the "warm wishes" and such, but that's just being polite. You have to ask yourself how much it really helped. I mean, if someone has just lost or is in the process of losing a loved one, do you really think they need your permission to grieve? "Just let it out..." "It's important that you start the grieving process..." No, it's important that you hop your happy behind up out of my face (yes, I said up out) and be about your merry way before I board the express train to stage two and give all these lovely grievers one more tragedy to cry about. And the absolute worst one..."I'll pray for you." I swear, let me just tell you right now. If you ever hear about some horrible tragedy that has befallen me, that is just about the worst thing to say to me. I truly believe that the people that really trust in prayer would spend time actually praying rather than informing me of their intent to do so. More succinctly, I think that those inclined to pray would have done so already... half of the people that go around saying that never give another thought to the situation they declared they'd pray about. It's just another way to end the conversation. But again, that's another post.

This post is about me and why you might not hear from me in the event of a tragedy. Plainly stated, I have no words. I'd prefer to keep silent than to stream out another of those senseless banalities designed more for the comfort of the speaker than the spoken to. I also hate cards, so I probably won't be sending one of those, either. Especially one of those beautifully scripted yet bland Hallmark cards that proclaim in silver italics, "Our Deepest Sympathy" on the front.
Because really. Is it your deepest sympathy? I mean, until today I was just the girl that made your copies. I'd doubt that somehow between the hours of 5pm yesterday and 8 this morning that I've managed to ingrain myself in your heart. But that's just me.

My response to a tragedy is somewhat different. When there are no words, I don't force any. More than likely, I'll just send a blank card, with my number at the bottom. So, internet, if you know that I read your site and you are going through something awful, don't think I don't care. Because I do. This goes out to all of you...I care, and I'm here if you need me. That's all I can say, because sometimes there just aren't words.

recycling...again. Shut up, Kajuana

2005-02-18T09:25:00.000-08:00

Hey, did you guys know that I once had another site?? Well, I did. But then I started this one. So anyway. I'm thinking that whenever I don't feel like posting, I'll just go and grab a post from there to recycle. Do you ever read your old stuff and wonder how you have escaped committment this long? Not committment as in romance...committment as in padded rooms and shock treatments and orderlies who slip you knockout drugs so they can sneak a peak at your hoo-ha as you're sleeping. Bastards. But yeah...ever do that?

Well, anyway. I'm gonna go select one and post the link here. That way you can still get your daily (bwah!) dose of Niki.

Ok, this just made me chuckle.
"Hey, random passers by? Read my archives, 'k? Because I'm lazy today. Or, you can just ask me in the comments and I'll answer and realize that there was need for an actual link, and while I still won't provide one, I will feel really bad about it. Actually, not really bad. But there will be a definite fleeting pang of regret. Maybe not a whole pang. Just a ping. Yes, that's it, a fleeting ping of regret for lacking the appropriate link." Hee! I'm such a smart ass.

Ok, off to scour my old site for humor, I am.

Oh, here's a good one!!

"Dear Thursday"

I hate you, you have no friends. Please go away NOW. As of the time of this writing, I have been awake for 3 hours. Would you like to know how it went?

6:30 am-- We have officially overslept. But that's okay, because luckily all hair was done and all clothing laid out last night. As long as nothing goes wrong, we can still make it on time.

6:32 am-- "Uh, mama? My head scarf came off during the night." (insert 5th symphony type bodings of doom, for The Puff has been released.)

6:33 am-- Realize that Cousin Itt (does not begin to do justice to the poofiness of The Puff) has not broken into my home, and this four-foot Koosh Ball is actually my child, sans said scarf. "Oh, no." Yep. The Puff. In full force. I feel the need to interject here that The Puff is a beast so unwieldy that it takes no less than one hour, an exorcism, anointing oils, and the sacrifice of a small mammal to tame it. I was fresh out of squirrels, and we had approximately 10 minutes. I'm up a creek. Paddle, anyone? Yeah, me neither.

6:34 am--After taking a few seconds to fight back the tears, I went for a closer look. Ponytail it is. (You must know that single ponytails irritate The Puff to the degree that you are promised at least a two hour taming session to appease its fury.)

6:36 am--Every. Single. Rubber band. I put on her hair. Pops. Every one. The Puff is angry, and it is letting me know in no uncertain terms. Feel the fury of The Puff. Bring it the heads of young virgins.

6:39 am-- Did you know that pipe cleaners are excellent reinforcements for rubber bands? And the black ones camoflauge nicely in puffy hair. Not that I did exactly this in my desperation, though. Not that at all. I knew I'd pay gravely for my sins tonight, but for now The Puff was bound.6:40 am-- Wow, we got dressed in a flash! Man! I feel like we should be wearing red tights and a cape! We have five minutes, we're team brushing today! (We have to spend exactly two minutes brushing our teeth. The Spawn takes her oral hygiene very seriously. She has a timer and everything. We didn't have time to take turns, so team brushing means we share the sink. Which we hate. Because other people's toothpaste spit. Mingling with our own. Ew.)

6:42 am-- We're dressed, we're brushed, we're gonna make it! Yay!
6:42:17 am-- "Where are your shoes?" Oh, good. There they are.
6:43 am--"Where are your socks?"

" No, you can't wear those. "

"Because they don't match your clothes. "

"Yes, they are pink, but they also have fluffy chiffon ruffles, so YOU CAN NOT WEAR THOSE SO PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GO GET SOME SOCKS."

6:45 am-- "Mama? There's something in my shoe." She takes shoe off to remove offensive object.

6:46 am-- "Ok? Great, let's go." We open the front door.

6:46:07am-- WOOOOOSHHHH. "I'm not going to look. Please tell me that was not the bus."

6:46:08am--"Mama..."

"No."
"Mama..."
'NO."
"Mom...that was th--
"NO. NONONONONONO. NO."
"Mama, you can't "practice avoidance (said as if it is one word)." You have to face the problem first, then deal with it. "

"I've got to get you out of that freakin' school. But first, I have to get you to that freakin' school." We interrupt regularly scheduled programming to mention that my Launch radio is playing The Shirrelles "Mama Said." Shut up, Yahoo.

7:02 am-- "Ok. I've worked it out. You're carpooling to school today. They should be here at
7:30, which gives me plenty of time to catch the next bus and make it to work on time. Off to a rocky start, but it's working out. We can handle this. Let's watch some Lifetime. Ooh! Designing Women!"

7:46 am--"Huh. Guess they're running late. Open the front door so we can be sure to hear the horn.

7:47 am-- WOOOOOSHHHH. "Darn it!!!!"

7:48 am-- Horn beeps. Remind self that one can not shoot laser eyes at people doing you a favor. Even if they aren't there when they said they'd be, so now your kid will be late to school, and you will be late to work. Had you known that they would be late, you could have made arrangements for you both to be there on time. Still, no evil eyes. Placid eyes? Check. (insert fake smile) "Thanks so much! I don't know what we'd have done without you! [except I totally do.]"

7:50 am-- Go to ATM for cash for cab, get a little extra so that I can treat myself to lunch or a pedicure. Call cab.

8:03 am-- Hear strange loud thump next door. Next door where NOBODY LIVES!!!!

8:04 am-- Go to investigate, but cab pulls up. Greet strange man coming from next door as he gets into his maroon Plymouth, licence plate number [deleted] {in case no one hears from me in the next few days.}

8:07 am--Apprehensively give my address to cab driver, wondering if I should stay home. Figuring that it'll be safer to be at work, I don't.

8:24 am-- Get to work, on time. Breathe sigh of relief.

8:27 am-- Go to log in to my... "Where is my computer?!!"

8:27:30 am-- Call cab company to see if I left laptop in cab. I hadn't. Tell laughing operator to send cab back, so that I can go pick up my computer, then ride back to work. Luckily, he's right down the street.

8:46 am-- Strange man in Plymouth is back. I confront him, and find out that my landlord is having work done next door, which will require them to enter my house, too. So he's "hid" keys to both places. In the mailbox next door (because no one will think to look there, right?). Make mental note to shoot landlord or break lease.

8:50 am-- Retrieve laptop, return to work.

9:17 am-- Log in. Hold back tears. Post.

So, how was your morning?

Man. I am so glad I have a car now.

Vanity

2005-02-17T13:13:00.000-08:00

You know what vanity is? Vanity is what will make you go right ahead and put placenta in your hair, even though it says RIGHT THERE ON THE BOX that it is placenta, and you know that placenta is, like, gross, and also, ew! But it'll make your hair shiny! See, it says so right there on the pack! Shiny! And manageable! So you'll go right ahead and apply 4 ounces of afterbirth from an unidentified mammal onto your hair.

That's What I Hate about Texas!

2005-02-14T14:22:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I have a couple of posts that I'm batting around, but meanwhile I would like for you to know that I was accosted by not one, but two forms of wildlife IN MY APARTMENT COMPLEX this weekend. (well, accosted might be too strong a word. but still.)

Saturday, I was getting ready for bed, gazing out of my window. Lo and behold, I HAVE A VISITOR. Can you say EEK?! And I don't know what the hell all this cutesy crap is that they're talking about on this site, this was NOT CUTE. It was HUGE. Like the size of 3 cats. And it strolled leisurely away, slightly huffy, as if I had disturbed it. As if it was somehow upset with ME.

Okay, that took some getting over. But I'm in Texas. I can dig it.

Then, Saturday, I go outside to take a call on my cell and WHAT, pray tell is on my patio? A FREAKING RACCOON, that's what. Excuse me, but WHAT IN THE JIMINY HELL?!

Now, I'm from Texas, and I've spent a considerable portion of my time in rural Lousiana. But still. Sitting on my granny's porch, seeing an opossum is a HELL OF A LOT different from sitting in MY BEDROOM seeing an opossum.

What the hell is it with me and animals lately?

That's What I Like About Texas!

2005-02-11T06:22:00.000-08:00

Okay, I was supposed to post this on Monday or Tuesday, but oh well. I even had pictures that I took with my phone, but they came out really crappy, so nevermind. I'll tell the story anyway, only now it has that not so fresh feeling, so it might be slightly malodorous and in need of tactful guidance and correction from the lovable social studies teacher that allows everyone to call her by her first name. (Ed. Note: I sent this post by email YESTERDAY, but since it still hasn't posted I just did it myself. Therefore this now counting as today's post, and I'll see you guys Monday!! ROCK ON!!!)

Well anyway, I was in the drive through at Dairy Queen, having decided to treat myself to a heaping helping of carbs and fat. There I was, staring at the menu, which features such delectable offerings as the Hungrbuster and the S'more Galore Parfait. Then I heard a series of pleading bleats that were so incongruent with my current surroundings that I was startled out of my reverie. I looked up, and there, in the bed of the truck ahead of me were two young calves. Now, here is where I would have posted my pic, because it's really worth a thousand words. THIS, people, was a WTF?! moment. Two little calves with their little calf eyes trimmed in long, curly calf eyelashes telepathically begging me...don't order the buuuurger. WHY is there livestock in the drivethrough, Dairy Queen? Hm? WHY? (Although, it did provide an amusing distraction from the fact that it took approximately 1242 hours for them to fill my order. I want my free sundae, DQ. )
I ordered the chicken.

On another note, boy am I glad I never posted my diatribe on the evils of the camera phone, because if I had, you'd have specific passages to reference when you threw it all back in my face. This past weekend, I too joined the masses and got my very first spy phone. Now, I had my reasons...I got an easy out on my phone contract and was looking to switch companies and lo and behold, Company X set up a display at my favorite store. (Yup, I said it. What? Where else can I get my eyes checked, do my banking, rent videos AND buy food? AT A DISCOUNT?! Put THAT in your "cheap chic" and stuff it!) So anyway. I got the information, took it home to look over and compare prices and service. Then I went back up to the display and purchased my plan, which came with a free phone, but it was UGLY. So my choice was to hold to my anti-trend values that made camera and flip phones taboo, or I could pay an additional $19.95 and get the flip phone. SIGH. Values vs. carrying an ugly phone. Hm. Tough one. I slapped down my $20 and jumped off the cliff with the other lemmings. The Company X rep had obviously written me off when I left previously carrying little more than his information. He was so happy upon my return that he grabbed my hand and rushed over to the nearest XM display module...and that, people, is how I learned to salsa in the middle of the Wal-mart electronics center on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

***sidenote, this is even funnier when you factor in the rep's assistant frantically trying to get his attention for some problem he was having with another customer. "Really, Juno*, there are only two choices here, pick one...Honey, step back on the downbeat, like this..." And the Spawn's utter and total mortification. "I was born just to see you do THIS?!" That makes everything more fun. It was worth it, really, just to see her turn that particular shade of rose.

*Juno is not his real name. I never got his name. He just looked like somebody should call him Juno. So I shall.

Dear Charles Darwin, You blow gnads. Love, me

2005-02-04T07:56:00.000-08:00

I have a bone to pick with Charles Darwin. With all of his much hoopla'd "survival of the fittest" and whatnot, he has perpetrated a grievous misdeed upon myself and many other young, nubile, desirable young women such as me.

You see, women can't produce kids after menopause, around 45, 50 or so. And after that you've got about at most a decade before we really stop feeling the urge to mate at all. Now, that's not Mr. Darwin's fault. That's just the way we've evolved. I blame Eve.

**sidebar:

Dear Eve,

You suck, too. By my count, you got us evicted from paradise and left a legacy of cramps, contractions, and all manners of evil visited upon the female body for generations on end. That blows. Just had to have that fruit didn'tcha? Then, once you realized that you were royally screwed, you did the only thing you could do and dragged poor Adam down with you. (classic move, btw) Was that apple worth it, Eve? Hm? Was it juicy and succulent? Did it's juice fairly dance upon your taste buds and delight you with its tangy zest? I tell you what. It damned well better have. Oh, and for future reference, when selecting a nutritional advisor, pick the one least likely to have dined upon a hearty breakfast of scarabs and cricket legs m'kay? The ectothermic are not generally the best judges of culinary merit.

Love,
me

**end sidebar

Okay, back to you, Mr. Darwin. It is because of you that men refuse to simply mate and accept the fates of their partners as their own. Oh, no. You see, they can keep right on making babies until they've stopped kicking, and you with your fancy theories have convinced them that it is only natural for them to try to spread their seed as much and for as long as possible. This not only ensures their harlotry in youth, but that they keep right on slutting it up right on into geezerdom. It's not their faults, see? Mr. Darwin says that it's in their nature. They can hardly be blamed for what's in their nature, can they?

Mr. Darwin, I was improperly propositioned by a gentleman that was no less than seventy twelve years of age. And I blame you, Chuckie my boy. I blame you.

we missed midnight

2005-02-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

We met New Year's Eve, 1994. I'd just moved back to the hell hole. It had been only two and a half years since I'd left, but it seemed like a lifetime. My mom fell right back in with her old crowd...it's easy to do that as an adult. They were having a party later, so I hooked up with the friend's kids earlier in the day to get reacquainted. So anyway. I saw him for the first time that day, but only briefly. It was enough...I still remember that moment in exquisite detail. I'd gone with this chick Wendy to her aunt's house to meet up with her cousin. We were all in the living room, laughing a whole lot over nothing, as teenaged girls are wont to do. Then the boys all came over...Wendy's brother Sprock, their cousin Dino, Gilly-boy, and HIM. They all came in, joked around, we exchanged a few passively insulting comments that made me feel instantly one of the gang. Then he came in and time stopped. That is so silly a thing to say, but I swear it did. He came around the door, and his glance, or rather gaze, stopped at me. I could still hear talking and laughing going on around me, but I zoned out completely. I don't think I even breathed. I looked at him and without ever saying a word, I knew one thing for sure. He didn't belong there. He'd grown up there, been around them for almost his whole life...but he didn't belong. In it, but not of it; it hadn't touched him. We looked at each other for a couple seconds...then they left. After he was gone, I had but one question.

Who was that? "Who, HIM?! Oh, girl, that ain't nobody. That's just HIM. He crazy." They spent the next few minutes trying to pinpoint exactly what it was that made you 'crazy.' "He be listening to all that old stuff. He don't dress right. All he wears is them tshirts and regular old jeans and them boots. He don't starch 'em down or nothing. Girl, no. We gon' hook you up with somebody like [Bastard]. That nigga there is rollin'. Be clean, you hear me? Had them hoez at the game room SICK last weekend. But HIM? Naw, girl. He just...different." All that they had done was convince me of everything he'd told me with just a glance. I immediately set about trying to engineer our next meeting. I needn't have bothered.

Later that night, the boys showed up at the party. Since we are all 14 and 15, we girls had no place to go, so we'd gathered in the back of the house where the grown folks were partying. It was getting pretty boring around 10:00. Then they boys showed up. I don't know where they had gone, before, and I don't care. My attention was on Dino, as he said "E said bring him to old girl," he said, tilting his head in my direction. "So what's up, Melrose? You 'bout it?" Instantly, I had a nickname. E walked in, and we all decided to ditch the party and go to Wendy's house. Here It was, after 10:00 on NYE, having turned 15 a mere 3 weeks ago, and I was about to go walking with a group of teenagers through the hood to an unknown house a mile away. And you know what? My mom went for it. (I think she was a few sails to the wind at the time, and heavily engrossed in her bones. [dominoes, to the unitiated. You'd think you people would know that, but then again...some of you can't even play Spades.] Yippee!!!

It's so weird, but then and even now as I tell this story, the time between meeting and the party seems so long, but the rest of the night was much longer and it seems like minutes. Anyway. We all walked to Wendy's, which was surreal in itself. We walked together, not holding hands or any of that mushy stuff. Just together. An instant "us." When we got there, everybody settled down to drink the liquor they'd swiped from the adult party. I remember all of us ooing and aahing, because Dino had vodka and gin, but Sprock took some Crown, and that would surely be missed. But after that we just went to the back and talked. For hours. About everything. I remember that they kept coming back there, sure that we were 'doing it'. After a while they came back and said they were leaving, but we stayed. After a long while, he said that he imagined we'd missed midnight, and that I owed him a kiss. So I gave him one. That lasted about another 10 minutes or so, right there. Then he said something that made me laugh and we started back talking. I don't know when we fell asleep, but I remember Wendy waking me up. The sun was coming up, and my mother was outside waiting for me. She'd let me stay over because by the time the party was over she figured that I'd have gone to sleep. Anyway. I woke up January 1, 1995 with his hand in my hair, and we were officially a couple.

Er'thang aint deep.

2005-01-31T09:28:00.000-08:00

So, y'all know about my illness, right? The one that paralyzes me with inertia the moment I open a new post screen? Yeah, that one. Well. As long as you know. As usual, I am posting again after several decidedly UN-subtle (totally a word.) [No it's not.] nudges from well meaning readers. Now. What do I post about?

Um...lessee. Oh! Yes. The Spawn and I bought hermit crabs this weekend. Three of them. Named Bertha (lazy as hell), Odie (the friendly one), and Itty-Bit. Did I ever tell you about the first hermit crab that she had? The one I viciously murdered? No? Well, see there you go. That's a post in itself. Well, see what happened was I murdered her crab. Oh...I guess that wasn't much of a post. Perhaps I might flesh it out some.

Hmm...okay. Well, see you're supposed to mist the crabs every day with a spray bottle, so they don't dry out. I did that, and the Spawn saw me do that and was all "Ooh! Squashy squashy! And water! (she was 2)." I wouldn't let her spray him because she thought it was funny to hold him in her hand, gaining his trust, wait for him to emerge from his shell and squirt him in the eyes. Hilarious, she found this. Squeals of delight, I tell you.

So one day, I'm settling down to a nice warm bubble soak, when I hear the spray bottle going. I thought I'd left it far out of reach, so I call to the Spawn to "bring me that water bottle! NOW!" And she does, after a couple minutes and some unidentifiable sounds. She brings me the water bottle. Problem solved, right? NO. When I've finished my soak, some 50 minutes later, I go into the room and see two things that tell me I've way underestimated my kid. The first thing I see is a bottle of 40 freaking 9 next to the crabarium. The next thing I see is her yellow chair. Propped up against the high boy. The high boy is where I'd left the real water bottle. Are you able to piece this story together yet?

Apparently, she went into the room, bent on getting a squirt at that crab if it's the last thing she did. She saw that the crab bottle was placed safely out of reach, but refused to concede defeat. Undaunted, she went and got the only other spray bottle she could locate, which was the 409. Now, I know you're gasping in disbelief. "How could you leave cleaning products out where a 2 year old can get them?! Shame on you! I'm calling the authorities! Bad mama!" To you I say...shut up. At my parents house, the cleaning products that are currently in use are kept in a childproofed cabinet in the kitchen. The Spawn knew this, so it was not there that she went to retrieve the 409. No, she went to the surplus cabinet.

"But why are THOSE not kept out of reach?!"

Did I not ask you to shut up? GAH!! Let me tell the story! So anyway, other people, the surplus supplies are on the top shelf of the washroom closet, where even adults need a step stool. Adults, but apparently not industrious toddlers. Such toddlers simply use their trusty yellow chair to climb to the top of the enclosed cabinet thingy my dad built, remove their Elmo slippers and then use the remaining shelves as a ladder to climb with ease to the top shelf and remove the item of their choice. Then they skitter away, taking the yellow chair, but forgetting the slippers. HAH!! Gotchu, toddler!

So anyway. She sprayed the poor crab with 409, most likely in the eyes. Probably stifling her sadistic giggles so as to go undetected. Then, when I called out for her to bring me the bottle, she, being the quick thinker that she is, merely climbed to the top of the high boy and got it for me.

"Why didn't she just do that in the first place?"

We are talking about a kid who squirts crabs in the eyes to get her jollies. Are you expecting me to explain how her mind works? Plus, going on top of the high boy meant you get in TROUBLE. You only do that when cornered.

"But that means SHE murdered the crab, right?"

See that's what I thought. When he was laying immobile in his habitat a couple of days later, despite my many attempts to wash him clean of cleanser. When I picked him up, he plopped out of his shell, which they never, ever do. He still wasn't moving, so I shook my head and promptly flushed him. Years later, while considering buying more crabs, I was doing some research and found out that crabs do that. When they are molting. They can last like that for about 3 weeks. You're supposed to isolate them, then leave them alone. But you can tell that they are not dead because when they die they stink to high heaven.

Oops.

My weekend?

2005-01-24T07:28:00.000-08:00

Was a smash...just ask the poor Honda.
Blech. Wrecks are evil.

Happy Birthday Kajuana!!

2005-01-20T07:27:00.000-08:00

Celebrate extra hard, girl. You have to compensate for the 20 degrees and the snow and the, you know...Bush. Yeah. Sorry about that.

The Pan Phenomenon, The Opie Complex, or why my best friend just might be certifiably insane.

2005-01-19T07:19:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've ever written about her on this blog, but my best friend is nuts. No, really. She is. I love her to death, though, and so does everybody else she comes in contact with, especially older people. Why? It's difficult to describe, but if you ever met her you'd realize it within minutes. She's like a child. Not today's little fast butt, lip smacking, hip-hop quoting crumb snatchers, but like a child from...the 50's or something. She's far from immature, but she has this quality...you know. Like the kid who bakes muffins for the forgotten elderly man on the corner. (Actually, she candied him some pecans). Who writes thank you cards for the bus drivers and buys them little treats just because. Like that. I don't really know where it comes from, because believe me when I tell you that NONE, N-O-N-E of her family is like that. It's like she read some book or watched too much Father Knows Best as a child, and decided that's how she'd be. But the weird thing is, she held on to that. She's 24 years old, and she's still like that. She walks the mall and stops to buy a gumball from EACH AND EVERY MACHINE. In the MALL!! Even the Origins one in Dillards. Her eyes light up at the state fair, no, the mere mention of the state fair. Genuinely. I don't know how she insulated herself against the world, but she's managed to hold onto that childlike innocence for over two decades now.

For instance, she believes everything her mom ever told her. Still. To this day. Even the offhanded little stuff she told her as a joke. It's a running joke between us at this point, because I constantly find myself saying stuff like, "your mom DID NOT invent Pop-Tarts." And then she's all, "For real?! She lied to me!" [It's not THAT bad, but close. Believe me. I just can't think of a good one right now because I'm too busy trying not to laugh at what I'm about to write.] Okay, like I said. It's like that all the time. So, I thought I'd pretty much heard it all...that she couldn't surprise me anymore with this. Oh, how wrong I was.

Imagine my surprise when, during an otherwise serious conversation, she mentioned how hurt and betrayed she still felt ever since she found out that there was no Santa Claus. I was ready to dismiss this as yet another of those little hurts we carry over from childhood. But, no. She kept talking. About how her heart broke one Christmas Eve when her mother woke her to help wrap and prepare the Christmas gifts for her nephews. How she was confused for a while, until she saw her mother carefully printing "from Santa" on each of the little gift tags. And then her heart broke.

At this point, my mind is making furious calculations. I know that the big sis had the kids at 16 and 18...she's six years older than you...so, it's a stretch, but I can see how you can still believe in Santa at 11 or so. But then she was talking about tying bows on bikes. Plural. Both children had to have been old enough to ride bicycles. So, I ask. "Exactly how old were you?" FIFTEEN. As in 1-5. Whoa. Let that settle for a sec.

This whole conversation was sparked because the Spawn found one of her old baby teeth that I'd been saving, and tried to recycle it to get some extra change. She was kinda ticked off when it was still there in the morning. But I never told her there was a tooth fairy. I have no idea where she picked that up. When she loses a tooth, I tell her to sell it to me. Sometimes she says no, that she wants to put it under her pillow. I just thought she did it for the sake of the childhood ritual. Go figure.

The Best Friend was all..."yeah...I found out that there wasn't a tooth fairy in the 8th grade. Easter Bunny, too. In the same day. That was hard." Apparently her mom sat her down and told her about those two. FINALLY. Yet, she continued to hold steadfastly in her belief of Santa for another 2 years. Amazing. I asked her how she managed to go to public school and still believe that. She answered, and I quote, "who's gonna listen to those mean butt kids? Kids are evil! Why would I believe them over my mama?" Indeed.

Now, far be it from me to forego laughing wholeheartedly and for an extended period of time at her. I am her best friend. It is my right and my duty. But, I also know the inside scoop. I know the kind of life she had growing up. It wasn't some stereotypical, Lifetime movie, after school special, inner city youth crap, either. They don't make movies about this kind of stuff. People just don't want to know it exists. So anyway. I've come to think that it was just a defense mechanism. She could either continue to believe and maintain her sanity, or she could "grow up" and have to face that life...without any magic at all. Which would you choose?

You might be _________ if...

2005-01-12T10:59:00.000-08:00

1. You might be slightly anal if your Tuesday night is ruined when because somebody mops the kitchen...with the BATHROOM MOP!! (shudder)
In my defense...she not only mopped it with the bathroom mop, but she used the KITCHEN bucket!!! When both buckets are clearly labeled "Kitchen" and "Bathroom!" The bucket and floor had to be immediately bleached and Lysol'd. IMMEDIATELY.

2. You might be in need of a hobby if you wailed when you realized they would not be showing House, MD last night.
I LOVE that show! And Tuesdays are my tv night. How can you mess up the line up on a girl's only tv night? And seriously. Have you SEEN the show? I love House!!

3. You might be kind of a dork if you cheered up a bit because you recognized Norman Mailer on Gilmore Girls before they said his name.
Or, if in fact, you can recognize Norman Mailer on sight. Yeah...I've got no defense for that one.

Mrs. Lovely??

2005-01-11T14:12:00.000-08:00

Nah.

I hate to keep beating you people over the head with the romance stuff, but that has been the subject of an inordinate number of my conversations of late. Some of them have been quite DISCOURAGING, but those persons know who they are. Especially the latter one. The former, not so much more than usual. There were a few rays of sunshine. One in particular. But anyway. I seem to be hearing the same thing from so many sources that I've come to think that I'm surrounded by crazy people. So I turn to you, internet. Please enlighten me.

Now. I've been told that as a provenly fertile, attractive, educated (or in the process thereof) young woman in the South, that I am the very "nubilest of the nubile." But guess what? I have no desire to wed. Actually, no. I wouldn't mind a wedding at all. Getting all dressed up in a new gown, getting my hair done, hundreds of adoring friends and family gathered for a party thrown just for me. Ooh! And presents. But I would most certainly mind a husband. (shudder) I just flat out don't want one.

Why, nikilovely? Why wouldn't such a kind and loving creature as yourself want to settle down with some deserving specimen of man?

Well, because. Do you have any idea how much love I would have to have for a man to be a wife? I mean, the way wives are supposed to be? Sheesh! I mean, marriage is a HUGE responsibility. For both parties. There's an AWFUL lot of trust involved in loving somebody that much. Quite frankly, I don't think I have it in me. Because, you see...I am an idealist. I truly believe that this is the way marriage is supposed to be. And I know what it would take to turn me into that woman. Not that I don't have the Cleaver inclination, but just that it would take a heck of a man to bring it out. A great big, heaping heck of a man. One who was able to "undermine my defense mechanisms" (thanks to Mag for the terminology) without being informed what they are. Someone who was able to reciprocate everything I was willing to give him if treated right. It is extremely, I mean, EXTREMELY unlikely that such a man will find me. And on the off chance that he does find me, it's unlikely that he'll be able to convince me that he'll remain like that forevermore. Because that's what marriage means. Forevermore.

But nikilovely, that's unfair! How can you expect such unreasonable devotion?

I ask nothing more than I'd be willing to give. And if you can't give me at least what I'm giving you, then you sir, can go to hell in Crisco briefs. I'm willing to compromise but completely unwilling to settle.

So yeah. I'm gonna be unmarried forever.

Say It Ain't SO!!!

2005-01-10T06:41:00.000-08:00

Please tell me that this is a cruel, cruel joke.

Yeah, yeah. Brad and Jen, Smhad and Shmen. But did you read that part where they said JOHNNY FREAKING DEPP is starring in the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? There is just so much wrong with that sentence that describing my dismay might very well deplete the Earth of adjectives.

First the screwed with my Fruit Loops. Then Superfudge. But this? My sternly worded letter will be in the post within the week.

We are from Venus; they are from Mars. Either strap on a space suit or shut the hell up.

2005-01-06T09:35:00.000-08:00

This week seems to be the week for questionable romantic involvements. I have been in recent conversation with a friend who was trying to disentangle himself from a particularly zealous female friend with whom he'd become intimate. While this female had been informed that he was not interested in any further relationship with her (albeit in dubious terms), she continued to sleep with him, and basically play herself in various other fashions such as fits of jealousy, inappropriate overtures (none of which he rejected), etc.

Now, he was truly worried that he had somehow sent the wrong message by continuing to sleep with her, because she was still acting as if she had some claim staked upon him. Bullchips. Rail against the double standard if you will, but the fact of the matter is that it doesn't work that way for them. If a woman tells a man that she is not interested, and then continues to sleep with him, then her actions have belied her words. However, if the shoe is on the other foot, the man has proven nothing but his interest in sex. Rarely is that fact in question to begin with. If he flat out tells you he doesn't want to be with you, HE DOESN'T WANT TO BE WITH YOU. I don't care what your history is. I don't care if he's sent you twelve dozen roses. I don't care if he's bought you jewelry. I don't care if he polished your grandma's toenails as she laid on her death bed. He don't wantcha. Period. Yes, you might be able to get him back into your bed, back into your home. In extremely rare cases, you might even be able to get him to the altar. But you're setting yourself up. Because he doesn't want you. He will wake up one day, and the time will have come to pay the piper, because neither of you will be happy. Until he comes back and verbally tells you that he DOES want you, the original verdict stands. Sidenote: If he does come back and say his mind has changed, then he should be able to tell you exactly what has changed that influenced his decision. His expectations? His opinion of you? His behavior? Yours? Don't be afraid to ask this sort of question. If he is unable to tell you what changed, then refer back to the original verdict. He don't wantcha. But he feels like he should. This will not result in Happily Ever After for either of you. Move along.

Now, some of you (women) have been reading this, nodding your head and shouting amen. Cool your heels. Because I'm getting on you next. If you are of the group of women who look down your noses at the priorly referenced female, yet find yourself chronically single, then you probably belong to group 2. Now, I was raised by and around Group 2 women, and previously thought that their way of thinking was the proper perspective if one is to be a Strong Black Woman. Then as I grew older I began to see that all these heiffers were divorced, single, or close to it. They were the ones sitting around Waiting to Exhale and congratulating themselves on sticking to their guns. I saw a bunch of women, ranging in age and appearance, but all reasonably attractive and successful. None so inherently flawed that they couldn't have found an acceptable mate. Yet they hadn't. As I listened to thei tales of various romances, I began to sort the wheat from the chaff. There were plenty of instances in which their actions had been justified and applaudable, but there were a fair share of times when a bit of compromise on their part would have resulted in a much more fruitful union. Now, I use those tales as a sort of romantic compass, and I have realized one fact. Nobody, nor anything is perfect. Nothing. There is no such thing. That even goes for you hair-splitters that claim you're just looking for "perfect for you." Newsflash: it doesn't exist. If you continue to go through life writing off every man you come across at his first transgression, you may as well start knitting and collecting cats. (Or for some of you, continue. *wink* ). People screw up. Men screw up lots, because we baffle them. Next time, instead of weighing the gravity of his infraction, try looking for a pattern of behavior, for this is usually where the truth lies. For instance, if all of a sudden he's acting disinterested, or not showing you quite as much attention as he was, then there is probably a reason. Notice that I said all of a sudden. If there has been a steady decline of affection, it ain't getting any better from here. Move it along lest you be remanded to Group 1.
If this is indeed sudden behavior, you might try talking to him to figure out what the problem is. Men are suprisingly sensitive. They second guess themselves as much as we do, especially when their emotions are involved. He could facing the same fears that you are. So. Wait for a pattern to emerge, and make your decisions accordingly.

Class dismissed.

DRRRRaaaaMA

2005-01-03T13:14:00.000-08:00

So. I'm on the phone with the Dallas Police Department right now, trying to figure out watch the best course of action for me, since apparently a report was filed on me New Year's day.

Yeah. So. The nice police lady just told me to that there were no warrants filed or anything. In fact, nothing was done after the preliminary report. It is quite illegal to threaten to kill people, apparently. But not if you have reason to believe that the person is imminently intent on causing you bodily harm. So. It's a stretch, but I'm scott free.

People. Hatred is a very difficult emotion for me to muster. I honestly can not think of one other person whom I've actually hated, and there are people out there who have done HORRIBLE things to me and people that I love. But this female? Totally fits the bill. Have you ever hated anyone? Like, every-time-I-think-about-it-tears-burn-my-eyes-because-I'm-JUST THAT-frustrated-that-it's-illegal-to-kill-you. Hatred. Have you? It's not a good feeling. I'd do just about anything to just have done with it. It's draining. I've tried to ignore her. I've tried holding my tongue. I've tried complete avoidance. I've tried to be empathetic, because she's has no friends and can keep no man that's not on payroll, and nobody but her mother and her youngest boy loves her, and he's quickly wising up. But she continually forces herself into my wave of consciousness. And when I told her that the next step she took toward me or that child would be her very last, I meant it. Really. And she knew it. Fear may not "be in her vocab," but it was in her heart. That's why she backed the F**K up. I would expound on the situation, because if you only knew! But I've yet to emotionally sort through the situation myself, and I wasn't kidding about that crying thing.

So yeah.

But just so you don't think I'm a total sourpuss, please enjoy the two items that I remember from the partial List of Vaguely Amusing Tidbits from the Holidays that I was composing before all the drama snapped off.

1. Random character: "Get your feet out of my EYE SOCKETS!!!!"
Spongebob: "I'm trying, but my cleats are stuck in your corneas!!"

Maybe you just have to be a completely sadistic sicko to appreciate the humor in that one. Luckily, I am. Cleats!!! In his eye SOCKETS!?!! Tell me you didn't crack a smile.

2. In addition to me being completely sadistic and sick, you probably don't want to watch a movie with me, either, unless I've seen it before. Because I might just spend the entire time after the first 20 minutes screaming at the screen "You do NOT KILL DAKOTA FANNING!!! You DO NOT!! Kill! Dakota!! FANNING!!" in varying tones of disbelief and sorrow. I won't tell you which movie, in case any of you are slow like me and don't see the movie until your dad buys you the DVD.

Put It On A T-Shirt--Based on a True Story (Part 2)

2004-12-22T08:11:00.000-08:00

If you've not already done so, please read Part One on Kajuana's site.

First of all, I must add a few pertinent details. Actually, just one. I can't imagine how Kajuana failed to mention this, and ream this dude's character accordingly. She's getting soft, y'all. But anyway. Back when she tried to break up with him the first time? He was whining because she wouldn't let him come to her house. He told her she was holding back on him. So, she's like "you're right. I'mma bounce. Take me back to my car." Dude? BEGINS TO CRY. TEARS. BAWLS. WATERWORKS. Y'all! Like he's an eight year old girl and his best friend is leaving for the summer and taking all of her best Barbies with her. Voice cracking, he begs her to stay. She's known this dude for all of 12 and a half seconds. And. He's. Crying. Because she wants to go home.

I had removed this from my memory. And, upon his attempt at re-entry, had Niki, or anyone who knew the background story reminded me of this, I would have never entertained him. That's what friends are for!!!

Somehow, she's made it to this point, months later. She's at his house. This go round, he's not being as much of a wuss, and has lowered his intensity. A little. Until he sits behind The Desk, Donald Trump style, and begins to question her about her romantic status. He hits her with that whole thing about him being able to wrap his situation up. But follows with, "So how long is it going to take you to get rid of that guy and be with me?" So, Kajuana begins to ponder. She's confused. She loves, absolutely adores a man with a plan. Here is a man, obviously with a plan, obviously very much taken by her. BUT. He's not her "type." And that may be a good thing. There's none of that stalker vibe he was giving off earlier in the year. She could maybe have something here. (See how he's wearing down her defenses? Dude is good.) She tells him she needs to think about it.

Oh and, he has children.

*PSST!! Y'all may not know this, but Kajuana secretly hates children. Hates them!! In fact, I firmly believe that she stays so well put together because she has her own personal sweatshop of seven year olds hidden in her attic, knitting angora and weaving silks. Cataloging shoes by color, print, style, and season. *

First off, I don't hate kids. I hate poor mannered children. Second, Niki hit the nail right on the head when she said the thing about my shoes being organized. But I digress.

The week went by. SCM didn't give her a moment's rest. In fact, on her way home, he was calling her to see if she'd made any decision. What SCM didn't know was that the man she told him about was already a memory. But not because SCM had asked her to get rid of him.

After days of stalling, even seeing him but stalling, she let him come over so that they could discuss the issue. Well mainly she let him come over because she was too lazy to leave her house. She questions,"I don't even know you. How can you expect to just roll in, expect me to stop what I'm doing and get with you? I could date you but you seem to want way more. Why not get to know me first?" "I know you," he says. "I know that (insert details of K's life that she can't remember telling him.) Her mind is spinning. Dude obviously has done his homework. How much does it really cost to investigate somebody these days? Even she's does the standard/casual Google on men she's interested in. He's obviously done much more.

After not getting what he wanted, Insta-Girlfriend and sex on tap, he leaves. K ponders how she ended up here, on the brink of a relationship with Don Juan or Norman Bates. Should've checked his medicine cabinets.

Once again, she thought his exit was a final one. Once again she was wrong. He called and set up dates. Dates he flaked on. She, being the social butterfly she is, never missed a beat. Ya see, what SCM failed to realize is that she had plans for every weekend from Thanksgiving well into the New Year and that even if he wasn't flaky, she'd still be doing nothing more than fitting him in to her world.

One night, it was a Friday. She went out with friends. One girl and two guys. It was not a date. But SCM called while she was out and she made no efforts to mask who she was with. He called her later, she was still out. Two days later, he said something about her being out on a date with another man. WHAT? Hadn't she told him they could date? Just date!! Yes! SCM had said he wanted the relationship but she was sure he understood that she didn't want that. So all this talk about her being with other men was ridiculous.

But here people is the straw that broke the arthritis stricken camel's back. SEX. This man is 34 and was pressing Kajuana for sex!! Laughable. Indeed she did laugh!! Right to his face. Over the phone, etc. One time he called her saying he had something important to talk about. He goes into how he is having issues with the sex they are not having. Kajuana laughs. She's decided that she doesn't want this cat around even as a frociate because he's clearly not planted in reality.

SCM: I'm not an ugly guy. I got myself together. Most men would just cheat. But I'm bringing this to you so we can work this out.

K: So you're saying you have options.

SCM: Yes.

K: Hold up. Did you just say cheat? Who'd you be cheating on? Certainly not me. You know what? What time is it?

SCM: Six.

K: M'Kay. Well you can stop by a happy hour and be dick deep in pusseau no later than 7:45. Clubs are full of broads who are gonna play your game.

SCM is crazy and now he's the subject of several entertaining IM convos as Kajuana re-tells the events to me. Not only is he crazy but he's good. So good, that after this exchange, he calls her back and asks her what she wants to eat. He might not know her-know her, but he knows her well enough to know what time is her feeding time. SCM gets there. They sit and chat more.

All of a sudden, out of no where, he pulls out condoms. Then dumps them in her table. WHAT?? She's confused. Yes, she knows the food was a diversion! But this brought the reality of it all back into focus. She's already told him, in no uncertain terms that she wasn't screwing him. But now he has offended her further. Now she's not focused on eating her food. Nope. She's offended. Kajuana isn't easily offended. But this fool, he had to go!!!

Somehow, there managed to be a few more conversation. And in the very last one, I mean second to last, he hung up on her. HE HUNG UP ON HER!! The Detroit burst out of her. Normally, she might have gone past just considering showing up at his door to curse him out in person. Kajuana's no fool. He lives in a community where if the police are called, they will show up--quickly. She called him back, cursed him and they haven't spoken since.

In the end, he showed her exactly what was wrong with him. He was crazed and sex obsessed. Don't men know that stuff isn't cool and will get them nowhere? Wouldn't it be great if we could put operating instructions on a t-shirt so men wouldn't have any excuses for doing ridiculous things even when they see there's no chance they are going to get their way!!??

I'll just get this over with

2004-12-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, ya been seeing 'em around. You knew it'd eventually get here. I'd said I wasn't going to do it, but Grace has tagged me. And she has access to the site. So yeah. You don't thwart tech support. So here goes.

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY (I'm assuming that Niki is a given):
1. T-Spoon (only people who went to HS w/me call me this.)
2. Nika
3. Bug, Nikabug, (Dad) Neetybug (there's no one left to call me this. *sniff*)

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. talktonikij
2. Lovley Daze
3. Stormy Knight
(dang. 2 and 3 sound like good twin/bad twin porn stars.)

THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. My sense of humor
2. My creativity
3. My literary inclination.

THREE THINGS YOU HATE/DISLIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. I'm anal/suppressive.
2. My volcanic temper. I hold stuff in until it's much too late to deal rationally.
3. I can't quite figure out who I want to be.

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. Black
2. French and the requisite European bastardry.
3. Nothing else of sufficient quantity to claim.

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. The idea of being in love.
2. Birds and flying animals of any type.
3. That the Spawn may be suffering because of my lack of inclination toward romantic involvement/committment.

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. God (believe it or not)
2. Music
3. Books
(for those of y'all who expected me to list the Spawn...NATCH!! I love her to death. TO DEATH. But I don't need her with me everyday. By April, your girl is counting down the DAYS to summer vacation! Over the river and through the woods, Spawn!!)

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Wine colored shirt.
2. Black cute-butt pants. (I'm going to the bank today. Hee!)
3. The cutest shoes that I nabbed from my big sis. (Sonja, if you're reading, it's NOT TRUE. Wherever those shoes are, they are most definitely NOT on my feet right now. I kicked them off.)

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS (or artists [at the moment]):
1. Earth, Wind, and Fire
2. I can't even begin to narrow this down.
3. I won't even try. See #1 and make a logical deduction as to my general taste.

YOUR FAVORITE SONGS AT PRESENT:
1. Through the Fire (Chaka!!)
2. Seasons (Donald Lawrence & Co.)
3. This Will Be (Natalie Cole)

THREE NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS:
1. Budget
2. Find at least 2 new dishes from unfamiliar cuisines, duplicate, and master.
3. A real relationship.

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP (love is a given):
1. honesty
2. mutual humor
3. compatibility

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE:
1. I never want to get married.
2. I have a secret fetish for multi-cultural men.
3. I almost single-handedly unleashed the tackiest cd promotional item ever seen.

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX (or same) THAT APPEAL TO YOU:

1. long or curly eyelashes
2. strong smile
3. scent

THREE THINGS YOU JUST CAN’T DO:

1. mingle freely in social settings
2. be a vegan
3. allow anyone to fail or suffer (unless they piss me off)

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:

1. reading
2. crafty stuff
3. researching various trivial items

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:

1. Get this stupid gift exchange thing out of the way.
2. Go to the bank.
3. blare some music

THREE CAREERS YOU’RE CONSIDERING:

1. Professor
2. Editor
3. Author

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:

1. Nepal
2. Nice
3. Thailand

THREE KID’S NAMES

1. Reign
2. Ty
3. Brashear (if I'm going the namesake route)

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:

1. Parasail
2. Learn to sew
3. Write a history of my family

Disclaimer

2004-12-15T07:48:00.000-08:00

It was brought to my attention yesterday that I had been unwittingly exposing all of my IM conversants to one of the worst pictures I've ever taken. I blame Kajuana. You see, I don't take pictures. I know my strenths. Photogeny is not one of them. (Photogeny is a real word, btw. It doesn't mean anything near to how I'm using it here. But it should, so it stays.) I can't ever get my expression right so that I look like me. When I smile, my cheekbones eat my eyes, and rest just south of my eyebrows. So smiling pictures of me make me look like that little cartoon dude they press onto the faces of moon cookies. When I don't smile, I either look evil and ill-mannered or I look like I'm trying too hard. So yeah. I don't take pictures. Of the last, say...five pictures I've taken, three of them were required for employment and state identification purposes. One of the others was of me at the Renaissance Faire, and another of me and the Spawn for that article I wrote. The picture in question is especially bad.

So anyway, it's Kajuana's fault that this hideous image of me has been floating around the world wide web (or at least Yahoo IM). I forget how she wheedled it out of me, but for some reason I felt compelled to show her the picture from my work id. Oh, yeah. It was because they wanted to put this image of me on the website, and needed my approval. I was showing it too her to demonstrate why that would never be given. So yeah. I uploaded it into IM, but then she couldn't see it b/c she wasn't using Yahoo. So I emailed it to her, we had a laugh, and it was promptly forgotten about.

Until!

Yesterday, she logs in and quickly exclaims "Whoa! I thought you didn't like that picture." So. Yeah. It's been out there. For all the world to see. So I must issue a disclaimer to any and all persons with whom I have had IM conversations with over the past month or so. Ahem!!

This communication is to officially certify that the previously viewed image
of Nikilovely is a gross misrepresentation of her visage. Ms.Lovely
wishes to assure her readers that she is, in fact, in full possession of her left
eyebrow. She also wishes to assert that despite appearances, she actually
bears very little resemblance to a deep-fried tadpole. Thank you.
We apologize for any misunderstanding.

It can happen to you.

2004-12-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

Ok. So, they say it happens to everybody. I didn't believe it. But, now it's happening to me. Y'all! Your girl is crushing. HARD. I mean that kind of sitcom crush where the protagonist meets up with the crush du jour and becomes physically incapable of speech. Forgets their name. Runs face first into the door of the restroom reserved for the opposite sex. You know the kind. Every sitcom in the history of television has dedicated a show to this concept. It's kind of required.

So, anyway. Being the suave debonaire player that I be, I thought that kind of ish would never happen to me. But I'll be a fat monkey's uncle! This dude has got me shook. Butterflies in my knees. Yes!! In my knees! That's how mixed up I am, even my butterflies don't know which way to go. You might think I'm exaggerating. Uh-huh. Well...keep reading.

This dude, CuteNate. He works at my bank. I've seen him around before, we went to school during the same period but we ran in different circles. He's never struck me. Until recently, when he resurfaced. At my bank. So, anyway. He's...changed. It's probably more accurate to say that I've changed, but that's a story for another post (and what a story it IS!!).

So, back to the story, I have a sitcom-level crush on this dude. And it's weird, because he is SO not my type. He has curly hair. (You can tell even though it's cut really low, because it waves like crazy.) I usually prefer dreads, or at least something more...ethnic? He's also light skinned. Now, this is nothing against my fairer skinned brethren, it's just that that is not what I'm typically attracted to. The last light skinned boy I liked was Dominique White in the fifth grade, and he broke up with me because I wouldn't french kiss him behind the P.E. building during recess. But back to CuteNate. He's not really tall...not particularly anything. I really find myself unable to find one specific outstanding detail about him. He has a nice smile, but that's not it. He has nice eyelashes, but they're not Bambi. It's just the whole package. Dude has it. Whatever "it" is, he's got it. Enough of it to get yours truly stuck on stupid.

Case in point:

I make what I intend to be a quick run to the bank. I go in, and to my suprise he's not at the front, so I think he's not there. I was only momentarily put off, and continued with my business. But then I got to the counter. It's kind of hard to transcribe exactly what went on, because there were so many subtleties involved. But I'll try my best.

So I get to the counter, and I realize that I've not brought my passbook in. Normally, this isn't a problem, since CuteNate is my teller and he knows my account number by heart. It's actually a running joke between us. (Or it was. Now it's not so freakin' funny.) So I get to the counter, and I can not remember my account number. This is crazy. My account number is ridiculously easy. I spout it off all day. Well, not all day, but I can generally recall it at will. I'm staring at the teller chick, who is quickly becoming exasperated with me, because none of the random collections of numbers I'm spouting at her = my account. So, finally, she just asks for my social. I'm about to give it to her, and go back outside to get my id (as is required in these cases.) Then CuteNate peeps his head around the corner, chuckling. As soon as I saw him, I remembered my number. It was like that little cartoon lightbulb appeared above my head. And I guess it was apparent by the look on my face. But before I could give the number to teller chick, CuteNate rattles it off. Then he tells us that we should have just called him, he could have saved us a lot of trouble. I must have been a particularly vibrant shade of fuschia by that time. Teller chick completes my transaction with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. I thank CuteNate and teller chick, and all but sprint out of the branch.

As I'm reading over this, it doesn't seem like that big a deal. Which means I'm not telling it right, but oh, well. Y'all. I forgot my bank account number. My account. Where my money (i.e. livelihood) is. Forgot. Until I saw him. Then it magically came to me. And this phenomenon was apparent to all involved.

This. Does. Not. Happen. To. ME.

I'm slippin'.

Now. Any recommendations on damage control?

I got Nada

2004-12-09T13:13:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm wracking my brain trying to come up with something to post about today. I run across one of those never-fail blog quiz thingies that normal people use when they don't have anything to say. So, I was gonna use that, but then I thought "Hey!!' I could just start my own blogging trend. But about 42 seconds into that thought process I remembered that the whole reason I was considering the blog quiz thing is because I couldn't think of an interesting POST, so how the HELL did I think I would come up with an interesting trend? Oh, well. So, readers, I present you with the...

List of Funny Stuff I saw on people's blogs

(in no particular order)

1. "Here's your future: you dress sexy to go out, he shows up to pick you up, sees your outfit, calls you a slutty whore, then orders you back inside to change into your burka. "

----- (Krypto in response to KR's online woes.)

2. It's too much to paste here, but the whole "hateration" discussion between Panama and the Damn Diva in that went on in his comments. Honestly, sometimes the best part of a post is what goes on in the comments.

3. "Its called a CLIT... NOT A CLICK!" (Grayse on proper grammar and online dating.)

4. STEVE!!!

5. Irrefutable proof that I am both ghetto and country. [23/28, and 22/37] That's that H-Town fo' ya!! (Courtesy of Shan)

6. "But if there's anyone else out there who has, by ten a.m., managed to:
(1) illegally block traffic;(2) abandon a perfectly good, RUNNING car on the side of the road;(3) receive a stern talking-to from two cops, who then make fun of your hair;(4) throw animal crackers at a canine named after a Biblical personage; AND (5) fall into a FUCKING POND, then PEOPLE, I WOULD LIKE TO HEAR ABOUT IT." (Leigh, and you just gotta go read the story, people. I've been reading for a while now. She's like that ALL THE TIME.)

7. "she was just in my cube minutes ago, batting her crusty eyelashes at me!" (Mag.)

8. I won't even paste it...just let me say, hell naw!!! Fishnets on a Golden Girl. Unacceptable. (Code)

Okay, I'm done. By no means is this list conclusive...it's just that I'm too lazy to go back and find all the funny stuff. I didn't even go find all the funny stuff in the posts I listed. Hell, y'all lucky I even linked.

three things

2004-12-08T13:24:00.000-08:00

1. I was gonna post about that little 8 year old girl in Louisiana who got suspended for bringing "what appeared to be" Jello shots to school. Apparently her mom "who works in a bar" told her to sell them at school to make Christmas money. But I couldn't find the story anywhere on the web. I didn't look particularly hard, though. Oh, well anyway I've decided that is either hilariously funny, or tragically sad. Either way, it's worthy of mention.

2. Y'all, say hi to Grayse, who is now the official tech support for my page. What was that Grayse? When did you agree to that? Um...SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS Excuse me, we must have a bad connection. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I can't hear you. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS You're going to have to type louder.

3. Okay, some (one) of you took offense to my usage of the term "four gay white boys." I was going to apologize, but then I decided that I'd much rather tell you to go to hell. They ARE four gay white boys (except for Juan, who looks rather Mediterranean and has an hispanic forename. Go fig.) They refer to themselves as gay white boys, and despite how you might pretend otherwise, the fact that they were gay white boys was material to the story. It was a descriptive adjective, pertaining to the persons in my story. I am of the opinion that people who refuse to even acknowledge that there is a difference between races are doing so only because they are in fear of there own subconscious bigotry. I have examined myself, and am comfortable enough with my racial relations that I don't flinch each time a white person notices that I'm black. I do, however, flinch when people like you feel that this fact must be whispered, or that you must be excused for noticing.
So, as I was mentioning before...go to hell. Four gay white boys gave me the best cherry stem birthday tiara a girl could ever want. And, you, madam, are just jealous.

So, about yesterday...

2004-12-07T08:36:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I'd intended to write about my fantabulous weekend bar-hopping extravaganza. But I had some business I had to tend to first, excuse me.

So, anyway...four gay white boys made me a birthday tiara out of cherry stems! How did this come about? People! Let me just say...do NOT get into a cherry stem tying contest with four gay white boys. You WILL lose. I don't care how many skillz you think you have. They will beat you. Soundly. But then they will feel bad for whipping you so very badly on your birthday, and simultaneously notice that you are not wearing any type of tiara, and IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!! HOW CAN YOU NOT BE WEARING A TIARA??!! Then they will take the combined product of your sound whipping in the cherry stem tying contest and fashion a very passable tiara. Then, if you are me, you will graciously wear it for exactly as long as it takes you to realize that you are wearing a tiara made from cherry stems that have spent the last few minutes swishing around in the mouths of other people.

Then you will mention this, and Juan (pronounced Jzyo-ahn) will further gross you out by explicitly listing his activities of the previous night, serving as further proof of why you don't want his saliva anywhere near your person. Then he will buy you drinks to make it all better. Many drinks, because somehow the fates are smiling and there is a $1.75 drink special going on ALL! NIGHT! LONG!! And while you know that this is in all likelihood not specifically in honor of your birthday, you and all of your friends tacitly agree to consider it so. Therefore, they will load you up with the Nikilovely Special all night long, which is your new favorite drink, the Vodka Cherry Sour.

They will also request four times that the DJ play "Darling Niki" by Prince, and dance outrageously through each repetition. While "Darling Niki" is not necessarily an image you want to associate yourself with, considering that she was a slut, you love it anyway because you know they consider it a compliment and it's the thought that counts.

Now I have four new best friends, and I've decided that I will only party with gay white boys from now on, because they are my favorite people on earth. Thanks Don Juan! Thanks Ty! Thanks Queen Bee! Thanks Roxy! Luv you guys!!

****It is necessary to note that these four people are not the group I originally went out with. The details of how I ended up with the Glorious Four must be withheld to protect the guilty. Namely those guilty of NOT BRINGING THEIR FREAKING ID TO THE CLUB, then arguing with the door chick to the point that you drew a crowd and got us put OUT of the club that we'd hardly even entered, LORI!!! And those guilty of NOT KNOWING THAT WHEN A MAN WEARING A RAINBOW COLORED LEI HANDS YOU A FLIER FOR A "HOT CLUB," YOU SHOULD PROBABLY NOT EXPECT TO ATTRACT MANY SUITORS AT SAID VENUE, LECIA!!****

I am so glad that my friends are clueless. I love you all. *muah*

Oh, you poor dear!

2004-12-06T13:03:00.000-08:00

Y'all!! Now, I know that most have you have just come across me, and those of you who followed me from the old site are seeing me turn over a new leaf...

But even those of you who have only read a few posts or my comments on other sites...even YOU must recognize that posting the following comment on my blog is at best ill-advised, and at most hazardous to your emotional (and quite possibly physical) well-being, right? Why, oh why would you go and say this?

"What the fuck is your problem? I don't even know who the fuck you are but you're talking to me on someone elses blog. If I don't like something I will talk about it. If you don't like that, close your muthafucking eyes. I didn't know that agreeing with someone is "kissing ass". You black people are so fucking ignorant and will never get out of that ghetto attitude."

Now, some of you might be shocked to see such harshness directed at my dear, sweet self. But others of you have already seen Jamille's hoe ass starting shit wherever he thinks some shit can get started, so you're not suprised. A few of you have even taken him to task yourselves. While these episodes provided much entertainment, it seems that they were ineffective at convincing his Chihuahua ass to stop trying to roll with the big dogs and stay his ass on the porch.

Poor little man.

Jamille: You are obviously intent on proving that your nature is as sexually ambivalent as your sobriquet. I say that in the sincere hope that Jamille is an assumed name. Of course, if that is, in fact, your given name...it only goes to prove my point. Apparently, you have been so very bitchmade from birth that your mother felt it only proper to christen you accordingly. With each new comment you post, you make it it more and more doubtful that you possess a Y chromosome. Therefore, I find it commendable that you were able to muster up enough testicular matter to come to MY site talking shit. It must have taken Herculean effort! To even attempt a search for testosterone in such an unlikely vessel as yourself was an exploratory undertaking worthy of William Emory. Kudos.

Now, as far as your comment. You said this in response to my observation that whenever I see your name appear, you are either starting shit or ass kissing. Well 'tis true, girly man. For instance, on Xquizzit's page, you jumped stupid because you felt that her definition of victory was dubious at best, and at the very least nullified by her use of "common Ebonics." I'm assuming that by 'common Ebonics' you are referring to the very language that you, yourself utilized in your above-referenced and poorly advised attempt at manhood. I won't even get with your ass on that one, because that was very well taken care of by Gray.se. You remember her? That "two-cent" white girl that made change with your half-dollar ass? And weren't we so quick to show off all of the fancy book learning that one can gather from two years at community college. Throwing around your ill-conceived theories on the subtleties of slave mentality and white guilt. You are not the only man to ever read Soul on Ice, bitch. We are not impressed with your supposed enlightenment. And isn't it so strange that you were able to pull that massive stick out of your ass long enough to jump off your high horse and tell me to
"close my mothafucking eyes." My, my, Professor! Somebody must have left his Roget's at home today!

As far as me being ignorant? Hardly. Nor do I think that the mere act of agreement denotes some form of ass-kissing. However, your particular brand is. For example: Say you happen to leave one of your oft-made attempts to berate a fellow blogger for comments made on THEIR SITE, and it prompts them to deliver a castigating response, exposing you for the hermaphrodite we know you to be. Now, you can either accept this punishment, or you can retaliate. However, if instead, you return to their site the next day, hailing their praises, then that, sir, makes you a bitch. An ass-kissing bitch. Actually, I believe the correct term would actually be dick riding. I was trying to be polite.

And because I believe that your attitude might be indicative of deep seated resentment of your latent homosexual tendencies, I'd advise you to seek an outlet at your university counseling center or go buy some leather pants and a boa. Either way, embrace yourself and stay the fuck out of my way.

what to post, what to post??

2004-12-02T09:21:00.000-08:00

Just so you know…

I spent the bulk of Thanksgiving holiday in the company of my new aunt, K. K married my dad’s older brother, J, about two months ago. K is two years older than me. She is also the spitting image of Uncle J’s daughter, C. So much so that even their children look alike. Creepy. To recap: J has married a girl that is 26 years younger than him. And she looks just like his daughter. His stepchildren look just like his grandchildren. Skin crawling? Good. That indicates mental stability and a general lack of incestual leanings.

Side note: If you’ve never been at a club trying to explain to a guy that you are indeed out with your cousin and your stepmother --who are six and three years younger than you, respectively,-- and not your sisters, then your life is much less dysfunctional than C’s. Count your blessings.

Speaking of guys at the club, I inadvertently uncovered yet another conspiracy, people. Somehow, early in the evening, I managed to attract the attentions of a handsome sponsor of international lineage. Two, actually. Many, many Grey Goose martinis later, I agreed to accompany one of them to the seating area for a chat. That is when he fell victim to Lewsleps Syndrome, most often brought on by abundant alcohol consumption followed by physical exertion caused by attempting to keep pace with the rapidly gyrating backside of the African American female. Symptoms include glassy eyes, rapid, shallow breathing, and a tendency to say much of anything (read: to damned much) in an attempt to keep her seated long enough for you to catch your breath. Beware the syndrome.

So, this particular sponsor let it slip that he was not a Houston native (you don’t say!!). That in fact, he was (t)here studying medicine, and that he was originally from Saudi Arabia. (Insert Scooby-esque expression of shock and apprehension). Then he said he came here with the military (Scooby again.). So, I’m like what military??? Our military is sending people the other damned way!! I’d already decided that this dude was not 100 percent on the up and up, but he went on to tell me that he had stayed in a really fancy hotel that I drunkenly heard as WALDORF Historia, when in fact it was the Wyndham Historia. Oh. Oops. I’ve been repeating that all week, too. (Hell, I don’t know!! I am not ashamed to admit that the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed in was the Red Lion, so the Wyndham is WAY out of my league. My hotel rooms usually feature double beads with matching spreads. I’m just sayin’. Wyndham, Waldorf, Wonkaville…all mystical places to me. Mama does not do $650 a night.)

Anyway, dude said he stayed there a MONTH while he was house-hunting. House. Hunting. On a med-school stipend. Riiiight. He told me he’d found one in an area known for those over-rated, rapidly built but sprawling suburban homes. On a med-school stipend. (Hi Scooby! You back? Yeah, I thought that was you.) So, all these tidbits of info began to come together in my already suspicious brain. So, by the time he actually gave me his name, he might has well have said it was Queda. First name Cardcarryinmemberofthegahdamn. Middle name Al.

I was outta there. Bastards’ll never use me for a green card. I need all my children to be able to stand in the speedy line at the airport, thankyouverymuch. It’s a conspiracy, I tell ya! Blind the black chick with the mula and use her to get that blue passport!

In addition to that fiasco, add in the mix the fact that we discovered someone had broken into my Granny’s home, burgled it…then decided he liked it too much to leave. When my mother’s cousin (formerly related to my Granny by a marriage which dissolved a decade and a half ago) went by to check on the house, he found half-eaten sandwiches on the kitchen tables, and other evidence of occupancy (such as the overwhelming stench emanating from the front bathroom. Whomever it was had not been gone long. Ew. Shoulda stolen some Tums, stankass.) So my mom, who was in town (also related to Granny through the aforementioned defunct marriage), went over to pack up the valuables and board the place up.

Coicidentally, if you've never spent Thanksgiving boarding up the house of your ex-husband's mother, which was recently burgled by what is assumed to be one of her less savory relations, then calling said ex-husbands house to inform him of the burglary and subsequent actions...then your life is much less dysfunctional than my mom's. See above instructions.

So, that was my Thanksgiving. Just so you know.

Rubber Band Men

2004-11-16T09:29:00.000-08:00

First of all, let me clarify that I am not referring to T.I., with his lame behind. That is a post unto itself, and one that will never be made for I refuse to expend the energy it would require to fully discuss my intense and all-consuming distaste for him. Oh, hell. Since I've started thinking about it, now I'm going to have to talk about it.

Attention, TI, AKA Rubberband Man:

First of all, your name. I'd previously thought it clever. Ti? As in the atomic symbol for titanium? Oh, I guess you're saying you're hard. Creative. Ti. I like it...

Alas, such was not the case. I've heard your music...even gone online to view the lyrics to be sure that my ears failed to deceive me. The exhaustive search that I've done through your entire collective work has led me to conclude that TI could not mean Ti, the atomic symbol for titanium. In fact, it has caused me to believe that you wouldn't know the atomic symbol for iced water, you dumb bastard. That you would think the periodic table is some newfangled method of clocking feminine cycles. I have unequivocally decided that you are as dumb as a box of stupid. So what the hell does TI mean, anyway TI? Huh? What does that even mean?

Secondly, Southern rap is in now. You don't even have to put forth an effort. People have always liked to hear us talk; now they like to hear us rap. This is how it is. As Li'l Jon has so thoughtfully demonstrated to the masses,it takes virtually no talent at all to make it as a Southern rapper right now. All you need is a catchphrase. And if you don't even need talent, then you surely didn't need a gimmick. That said, why you gotta be hatin', TI? You don't have to initiate beef to sell records. Check your books,people will buy your music anyway. So leave Flip out of this, m'kay?. On the cool. Raise up. Furthermore, you are not now, nor could you ever reasonably consider yourself the King of the South. Nor is Flip, the rapper who you've set your sights on as your main competition. Here's a hint: if, in your endeavors to be declared rap's King of the South, you even genuinely consider Flip to be on the list of Those You Must Conquer, then you, my friend, have set your sights too high. Flip? Cunning linguist he is not. You? Ditto. By my calculations, at the very height of your career you will go no further than, say...Scribe of the South. Or Page of the South. Perhaps even the South's Premiering Lady-in-Waiting. You, sir, will never be king. Stop saying that. You're making yourself look ridiculous.

Thirdly, from the looks of you, you could have once been a reasonably fetching man. I'm not into pigmentally challenged brothers, but it appears that your features were genetically arranged into a conceivably attractive pattern. Therefore, I must question your "image." Why in 5th Hades would a grown man want to run around with a knit cap cocked to the side of his head, looking like an unrolled condom? And what kind of image consultant would tell you this is a good idea? I'll tell you what kind. The kind that prove the point that you just can't go hiring people onto your personal staff just because her brother took that charge for you back in '91, cause he only had the one strike. I recognize your need to compensate your thoughtful companion, but don't do so at the cost of any thinking person ever being able to take you seriously. Your head is already slightly phallic in shape, is that really an image we want to encourage? I thought not. Running around looking like you're about to roll off the short bus as soon as the driver unharnesses your SpeedyWheelz. You need to quit.

Niki

Okay, okay reader(s). The real Rubberband man that I initially started to post about was this one. This is the most offensive commercial image since they took Aunt Jemima out of that do-rag. I thought that the 7-up man was bad, but this dude is ridiculous. Why the hell they gotta be using his hair like a pin cushion? This has gotten out of control. I suggest we begin the boycott immediately.

Role Reversal

2004-11-10T09:27:00.000-08:00

I am in love with men. Not any one of them in particular, just the basic idea of them. I love them. I love how they can be hard all over, but soft as goose down in some places, like that little space where their neck and shoulders meet. Man, I love that space. It's so soft, and their scent collects there, and if Partylites made a candle called Essence of Little Space Between Men's Lower Neck and Shoulders, I would gladly fill my home with it and sit and sniff it until I drifted into a pheremone-induced coma. A space that good deserves it's own name. I'll call it the neckplace, for lack of a better word.

I love figuring them out; mentally, emotionally, and physically. It provides endless hours of entertainment for me, and one can go effortlessly from one area of discovery into the next, and back again. After a while, I figure out how all their switches work, which ones make which noises, bring the flashing lights, etc. I love that.

I love it when they to figure me out. I love letting them think they have. I even love when they try to be forceful, it's so cute to see that mixture of paternalism, hope, doubt and dread that comes into their eyes when they try to tell me what to do, or steer me in their direction. It's okay, really. I know how to let a man be a man sometimes. I'll let them wear the "S" their chests.

I love hooking up. I love the feel of their weight. (never could figure out how women get excited by "toys." Isn't something missing? How do you climax from that? Where is the neckplace smell?) I love the sensation that immediately rushes through me as every thing jumps off(I'm trying not to break the poetic and flowing tone, here, but seriously...the very first thrust of sex is the best. The moment when all the anticipation has ended? When you finally release all the tension? WHOA! All further actions are for the express purpose of maintaining that feeling. My heart is pounding just thinking about it. I'm not even gonna continue... nevermind.)

Umm... I can think of anymore. My point is that I love all these things. No, I really love them. As in "each of these things has inspired various poetic emissions of mine" Love them. So my question is, if the world is full of billions of men who all possess these things (theoretically speaking) why can't I love one in particular? What is wrong with me? Does anyone else ever feel this way? Please don't say "yes...men" because that is the same pat answer that I have been getting for years and I'm really tired of it. I know that there are women that feel this way.

So, how about it? Anybody out there know women who've never dreamed of their husbands and a white picket fence, never had a high school sweetheart, have lived a third of their life expectancy without ever really falling in love? How about it? Lemme know.