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It would be all too easy to metablog over up in here, if you do or don't know what I mean. Readers or no, a point or no, here it is, the definite need to write. Whether it be to avoid a Bedazzled Blitz or merely procrastinate more major progress in syllabus writing for the coming schoolyear, I need something more personal... stat.
There was a staycation that involved rearranging closets out the wazoo, muchly needed thank you very not-sexily much. There has been a return to my beloved 12-stepness, with a vigor that can only be explained by desperation or a cute guy that makes me gushy, which I suspect is a trick my unconscious, far larger, hence "higher," within, of course, is playing upon me, to get me back to ways that help me feel grounded. Fuck this gay shit, fuck OkCupid and dating and my open relationship tendencies, I'm a Liz Phair song wobbling out of tune over here, and frankly there is some relief in that. Not, that any of the crushiness is reciprocated, but I feel a quiet certitude that needs nothing. It's not about anyone else, but me.
After 10 years in a pretty bad relationship that produced some pretty badass results, I am feeling as though my bi-ness is intact, and it is my skills that need to be honed more than my (sic) "target." After flirting with the idea of dating a "drinker" again, even if not alcoholic, I have realized the utter nonsense of that. Not because of any drinker's invaluability, but rather my own insufficiencies. The language of Bill spews forth here. Last week it would have been Deadwood. I want to fuck Deadwood, succubus that shit. It's so good. Last week any language less than proper would have found me wanting were it that cocksucker were not a part. Mumblemumble.
Of course, any and all of that paragraph prior might at well be complete and utter bullshit, seeing as, I feel now qualified to move out of an age of exploration into a willing matte of foible; I do not not intend to make mistake left and right of it all, but with both feet in, perhaps. Or not, that is the beauty.
There are 6,034 more items I was going to mention, but then something shiny, nay Bedazzling, came along and stole my resolve. Dirty cocksucker!
You'll have me when you do, and you won't when you don't, but I assure you, dirty talk does help. Hence, the mattress ( from here) to get you in the mood.
Many thanks and, as always, I appreciate your prompt reply.
-Fred
As the summer really sinks in, I am finally thinking I'll be able to shift my focus to matters of true import such as eradicating my fridge of half-eaten bananas. An inkling of a screenplay and a rehashed-to-death-over-the-years book-thing are trying to get together in my mind. I am fully willing to enable this hot mess. Of course, I haven't really had a moment to breathe yet, but I do foresee that changing. This is probably the hectic-est (knocking on some wood, for reals) my summer will be.
As was the case in December with mid-year assessments, every time I've thought I was done, I wasn't; I'm in some sort of weird limbo. Deadline Friday. I need til Sat. noon. I get done at 5, and then the next day all of us are charged to write comments over there, and I, who was the only one who had done that already with half the kids, am struggling to finish those others, when the other three teachers (who were also asked) are moving on with their summers, apparently. No response from emails. Even my bosses have moved on with their summers, and I want to say fuck it, but I seem to be seeking permission to do so. Fuck it.
That was a boring paragraph. You should probably just skip it.
Also, I've had other work encroaching onto the scene. I bet I could work myself into working full-time in the week through the summer, as well, subbing at my weekend job, housecleaning. There's some prospective tutoring. I just want some time at home. I've had some, but the summer started off busy with my daughter's-with-me two weeks of the month starting the day the kids' school ended, aside from the Lip Model who is officially GED'd with a part time job these days.
It's taking all my strength not to snicker at her, "I hate work," comments, especially when I know she has one of the best jobs she could get in Austin, getting 9 an hour at a first job at a cool locally-owned boutique that sells costumes, lingerie and obscure oddities. Maybe, as she spends less of what she makes on their awesome wares, she'll feel it is worth it. Her independence is looming large, and while she has the possibility of community college available to her this fall, she's pursuing being a magician's assistant... and who the hell could blame her?
Those other lovable three are justifiably chillaxin' to the max, and I can't clean up faster than they're messing it, especially without all this pesky work. Also, today's seeming-to-become-a-habit behavior of waking up at the crack of dawn with the thoughts-a-flowin' seems to culminate in a nine o'clock tiredness that begs another hour and a half of sleep. (Recall, I sleep in hour-and-a-half OCD increments (if not in reality, in intent).)
So, as the kids wake up around 9, I'm snoozing off the let the Lord of the Flies (I originally accidentally put Lord of the Rings there, which is really funnier) ensue, so I can wake up to never-ending dishes and wet towels (since, the Future President has been having throngs of teenagers over for hopefully not too drunken swimming in the evenings). This is vacation.
Snaggletooth and I bought paint to paint the boys' room, and even though their room teeters on being just clean-enough for that, these kids keep needing to eat, damnit. We attempted one of our exercise-til-we-get-to-water outings yesterday, but am afraid the splash pad at our neighborhood park (which has an awesome real pool that is closed for the second year in a row, grrr) was a little less than a glorified sprinkler, mostly. Snaggletooth enjoyed it, as there was one boy his age there, but it was really for toddlers mostly. The Genius and I did have a nice time chillaxin' (over-used word of the day) in the shade under a tree, once i finally bribed him (to stop following his brother around asking if he was ready to go) with the usually denied foot massage. I had done some stretching for a while priorly and the whole scene we had ridden our bikes to was very mellow and nice.
That's what I'm talking about, people.
Well, I'd best get back in bed for a spell before the shenanigans get started back up.
The girls return to their dad tomorrow and the boys will be with the ex-in-laws for their yearly three-week trek to Montana here in a few weeks, so I foresee some marathon cleaning sessions motivated by the promise of potential sex-romps.
A mother's work is never done.
How about another single-sentence paragraph, just to be nostalgic.
I just have a minute. I woke up regretful of all the metablogging lately. I guess right now the important thing isn't so much where I'm writing, or maybe even what I'm writing as much as that I am writing. Plus, where else am I going to complain that I will be at work tomorrow during the SlutWalk here in Austin?
Last night I attended another wonderful (albeit crowded) edition of Bedpost Confessions, and amongst some really high quality smut saw the wonderful organizers of SlutWalk read out 10 ways to avoid rape which were directed at perpetrators. Is there really anything a person should have to do to avoid being raped? No.
This has been a weird week to me. I've been menstrual and emotional and seemingly non-productive, unless gorging on episodes of How Stuff Works counts. I think it probably should.
This is my week in links, I suppose. I accidentally cleaned my van very quickly after forever and 6 bales of hay just so my fam and I could cash in on a groupon to go eat some chicken and waffles with a friend... only to find the place closed. Frankly, I was more excited to have a clean van than any amount waffles and fried chicken could have satisfied.
Tomorrow at noon is my extended assessment deadline. I'm gonna clean a house today, and then starting tomorrow, I'm gonna change. Really, I am, Baby. I'm gonna write. I'm gonna treat you right. Tomorrow.
Repost if you're inclined. Snarkipedia and No Cure For That are projects I am very thrilled to be involved with. (Plus, that's a pretty darn good Sarah Palin impersonation.)
What happens after you're chased (in a fur coat) holding crack, weed and a gun? If you're lucky, you wake up with a stand-up comedy bit (that has nothing to do with the dream) that won't stop running through your head until you finally write it down. (non-sequitor)
Dear Blog, I'm having some angst. I feel like our relationship has become stagnant and old. Predictable. I'm not sure you're meeting my needs anymore, and, I'm fairly certain, I'm not really meeting yours.
I've tried spicing stuff up. I mean, take a look at this font. It's kinky, or at least kicky, right? I know we have some history now, and this may be a little insensitive given we're a week from our four year blogiversary, but this all just has to be said.
I'm sure this relationship is giving me exactly what I'm putting into it, but I don't like the shame that underlies it all with us. I mean, we've had some good sex here, right? I know, but I go out into the world and pretend that's not me. I know we could eroticize it all, but I think you know how lazy I am. If anyone does, it's you.
I don't think I would be being true to myself in a sense to ignore these parts of myself, and I'm between a rock and a hard place here (sigh) and this closet is getting a little small for the both of us.
I don't want to pretend you never existed, neither could I, but I just can't take you out in public, and blah fucking blah. I'm not telling you anything. You just sit here like a lump. You're not even real. I made you; I can....
Fuck, am I talking to my blog again? We need some help, people. See, it's much more palatable for me to anthropomorphize my blog, to have a cohort in all this. I think I might like co-bloggin, yo. Anyhoo, I've played around with some new blog names, and some new user id things, to maybe uproot and all. I did start blogging first weekly on MySpace and I liked that. My friends and my mom read it and though it was definitely different, it served different needs. My mom even said my writing reminded her of Erma Bombeck's. Ugggh.
Maybe keeping both is the answer. I know I feel like there's not enough of me to go around as it is, but you know, doesn't that Slut book refer to all this? There is not a limited amount of creativity in me, and for a little this summer I might have a tad more (after I write 324902834-98 assessments) time on my hands.... Given the fact that Erotica Gone Awry is my favorite of the blog names I came up with, and Freida Bean was the best Blogger ID I found (so far), I'm not so sure I'm all that ready to change here, damnit.
There was more, but the Baby Bees have just been delivered for their first full week of Fun with Mommy 101 M-F. Today is actually a day home, and chore charts have been revealed. Oh, the excitement. They chose their chores last week, and I just typed them up and if they get it all signed, they'll get an allowance for a change. Snaggletooth is at a cute stage of wanting to do the hard hitting chores. The dishes daily, washing the laundry. And, he just took out a book voluntarily. How can we contain it all?? Honestly, this is great, but sunset will likely find me running them like dogs, to avoid the stir crazay.
Be well, and stay cool in Riviera™.
(Also, I just saw Run Lola Run for the first time last night. Why didn't you tell me?)
Hello Beautiful. Yesterday, I really wanted to be here, decompressing, taking off my bra and settling in to be holed up for days on end with plenty of coffee and half and half, incentive to write, and a new bullet vibrator. Interestingly or not, not the point, I have been pondering owning my blog(ging) in the meat world, inviting the folks I know to read my smut... elsewhere, most likely. I will be returning to my same school next year, which may be the one school on Earth I could get away with a slutty alter-ego. But, probably I really couldn't. I've literally asked, "Would I want my mother to read this?" Likely, she would be like a number of people I know in the meat world who know I "blog" and don't really give a shit or read, but I just can't give up my bulletesque statements up there, and neither can I imagine the parents of students I teach nor my mother loving me the same way in light of them. True or no, not the point. There was a conscious decision made to continue this on without paragraph breaks, just so you know.
So, what happened? To the plans to hole up for days on end in 12 hours, yesterday? There was a computer incident on my work computer, the cause of which is shameful, thankfully. I imagine that playing some inane fb game allowed some trash into my system, and things looked like a hard drive crash, but only on my account, and already this story is boring me. Push come to shove when you get right down to it when the finger's on the button down to the wire, it may and/ or may not have been caused by that, but really, it's better that I think that, so I quit wasting my time with such nonsense. And, it probably was the cause. So, yesterday, I didn't write this, but this wouldn't have been this, whatever is is, without those critical 12 hours in between, only 4.5 of which were devoted to sleep, but this is preferrable to 5 hours, even, since 4.5 is a multiple of 1.5, and if you don't understand that, consider yourself not told the importance (there is none).
I think I was riding on a high horse when I yesterday wrote something to somebody about not wanting to stoop to making the past wrong, but, I'm pretty sure, that's what I do near incessantly. I'm all about living in the present, in theory, and I think I do a pretty good job of it when I'm alone, but oh, maybe there's something to generalize there, but instead I was interrupted by a nice conversation with a fellow at my work, and the angstful moment slipped away. In order to save this post, to have the Southpark lesson, I'll have to recharge on the ennui, but for now, meh. Incidentally, I just watched an episode of South Park with my kids the other day (incriminating, but not so much as another thing*), and their "We're Gonna need a Montage" song has been stuck in my head below the surface ever since. It's quite good, and if I knew where a good copy of the video was, I'd link to it, but I don't. Not offhand.
*My son and I have been enjoying the soundtrack to the Broadway musical The Book of Mormon. (OMGLMAO) I'm pretty sure I'm gonna burn in hell for buying it almost for him, but for me, too. It seems I'm going to have to explain what, "Man up all over yourself," means. Or maybe not. He asked, but I really coudn't have answered him then, but maybe I shouldn't. Or, maybe, information is just what it is and it's a good segue to talking about masturbation in some parental responsibility capacity, but maybe it will be clear enough when it is, and eww, washing brain with soap. I could ask his dad, but I'm such a part-time control freak, I imagine I would be more sex positive, but who the hell are we kidding? We aren't even a we. It's just me over up in here. "Permission not to decide right now and not to feel bad for not deciding right now. Permission granted." There, in the spirit of The Book of Mormon the musical, I have shown how Star Trek as religion has entered my psyche. They're more Star Wars. I'm more Star Trek (Next Generation). We're accepting of those beliefs around here, though. That imaginary we I've slipped back into. We're gonna need a montage.
Have I mentioned how, now that my school is out, once I undo the pile of wrap-it-up stuff I have to do to really finish the year, I'm gonna make everything better! I'm gonna declutterfy and rent a carpet cleaner and paint and walk daily and catch up on sleep and blog and cook and go to AA meetings and clean out that closet and camp and swim without getting water on the brain and visit my dad and do yoga and meditate and make kombucha and make money and write a screenplay and ride bikes with the boys and get them together with their friends and read books and make a budget and write erotica and don't forget poetry or to start early to lesson plan for next year. Summer vacation. Somewhere in there I'll become suitable for consumption, ie. sex, again. Once, I'm worthy. I'm not like the lady in the picture (really). She's actually thin imagining she's not. I've definitely lost my groove/ gotten more realistic, and consequently less ambitious and almost depressed, but that's just the work work work of the end of the year talking (and the ice cream belly).
That was a good place to stop, but apparently, there's more. Oh, so much more.
Good lord, I hope I haven't been right since before the 2008 election when I asserted (as many have, I know) that Rick Perry would put his hat in the ring in the 2012 election cycle. What could be seen 3,000 miles away is ever closer, and for once I wish I were wrong. He is sooo slick and cruel. Just the polished sort of candidate the GOP needs.
Check out this video some of my fb friends have been sharing of Texas Representative Senfronia Thompson who is fed up with the sort of treatment women have received by the Texas legislature, under the leadership of Perry.
This is on the coattails of Perry's prized Sonogram Bill. While schools across Texas are closing due to budget cuts, Perry put this forth as emergency legislation (along with stricter voter id standards) which requires a woman to get a sonogram before being able to get an abortion in Texas. It's another financial obstacle for a woman already going through a hard time, which is the way of those in power.
"Don't worry Oscar, Lenny, Brenda, and Travis. If Mama's goin' down (pun only partially intended, but not really because there are the offspring fish to consider and that's just sick, ya sicko), you're going down with her."
Happy Mother's Day. Of course, you had your slightly burned, but slathered with love, waffles long ago. You called your mother, and your grandmother, for good measure. If you're a real suck up, you called your mother-in-law and made her day. She still talked about you to her sister, like she does every Sunday, but this time she felt a little more guilt than usual, so kudos on that.
Of course, these are all of the things you might be experiencing if you fall for those stereotypical scenarios, willingly or otherwise. I'm sure I'm in the middle. "Of what?" you might ask to which I'd have to say a jelly roll, but you know I'm a liar. I'm actually sitting in the middle of a big fat turd flake, today.
Here I am at work on Mother's Day. Boo fucking hoo. Here I am sick. Did I cry today? Yes, but that was probably only because my body said no coffee and you know there's all that suppressed tiredness that got me jumpin' the shark on up over in here (whatever that means). Coffee is my last vestige of addiction (if you don't count food, sex, kombuchas, whining, my phone, tv, and the internets), so I am allowed to mourn the loss of her java ways. I have avoided moving into full-on anxiety attacks this coffee go around, but we all know it's only a matter of time before she turns my cruel alertness to matters best not thought about, like how fast my heart is beating while I'm dying.
I suspect I am mourning things other than coffee, as well, but my co-worker who replaces me just showed up, so I probably won't go into all that. Suffice it to say, another McSweeney's List was submitted and last night I laughed my cajones off watching Ladiez being funny. Right off. Catharsis, people. Catharsis. There is one three-day school week left and two four-day ones, a field trip to NASA with a bunch of hormone infused tweens (including The Genius) and probably no sex until school is out. (How clever to slip a complaint about no sex in there after all this time, though upon re-reading, quite ineptly, since it's adjoined to a sentence about chaperoning a field trip of 6th graders.)
But, seriously I'm in a hurry on up over in here. I'm just gonna flip this swi
Oh hey oh. Just livin' it up over in here at my work, chillaxin' on a Sunday mornin' comin' down on the internets. I can't directly speak for the entitled, unless being under a financial hardship student loan deferment qualifies me, which I don't think is the case, but having been formerly entitled, and currently the parent of the entitled, I feel, er, entitled to speak for the entitled.
I couldn't rightly tell you what my entitled children are up to while I'm here at my work, because I have been working nearly every weekend for the past five years and don't see them on Saturdays and Sundays, but I assure you it involves decadent amounts of cereal that no doubt you, the tax payer, are paying for in some indirect manner (most likely through funding overseas wars that make the gas his dad used to drive to the grocery store to buy the cereal possible). The socialism of it! I know.
My two sons are spoiled by the fruits of this great country with their exorbitant CHIP coverage. I know I should be ashamed, but it's just such good health care coverage that I am hardly sorry. There, I said it! It's not too often we use their healthcare coverage, twice a year, but I did go fill that prescription so Snaggletooth could have Epi-Pens at school, his dad's, and my house in the event he gets stung by a bee and has a life-threatening reaction. I'm a greedy fuck, I know. Also, there was that time I went and got him diagnosed as colorblind from that theivin' socialist eye doctor. I know, and I'm sorry. Other than that, we've been meager entitled people. My children are dutifully healthy and save for one bout of pneumonia The Genius indulged, I've been a good mother. (That was several years ago, so I hope you won't hold it against us.)
You see, though I work 60+ hours a week, I am not able to provide my sons with health insurance. My daughters are covered by the state, but that is because the ex-Mr. Bee works for the state and they are covered though his employment. I'm not sure if that's socialism or not. That's a borderline scenario, but one might say the whole lot of 'em, the ex Mr. Bee and my daughters, are entitled, as well.
I, however, am blissfully not entitled at the moment. I may need dental work, but I patch together enough pay to survive between part-time teaching, security guardin', tutoring, housecleaning, and the occasional trick*, but believe you me I'm not doing it with an impeccable smile. You're welcome, taxpayer.
I was formerly entitled. I shamefully received Pell Grants and unsubsidized student loans I thought might even be forgiven since I went into that socialist racket called teaching, but lucky for you, taxpayer, so many public school cuts have occurred, a middle grades certified math teacher with a math degree from one of the premier teaching programs in the US cannot find a job these days. Lucky for you, teaching positions are being cut right and left. You Libertarians might be happy to know I got a job in a private school were it not for the fact that it's a non-profit with low-ish tuition that struggles to keep its doors open enough that it cannot afford to provide me with health insurance. What up, private sector?
I was once a shamefully entitled whore. I selfishly got myself dumped by the Mr. Bee before the ex-Mr. Bee and became a single mother at 23. Though I cleaned a midwife's house (for years!) to barter the home births
of my daughters, it was with Medicaid in hand that I selfishly transferred to the hospital during my labor of The Lip Model to have my 24 hour labor induced. I know, and I'm sorry.
While the Pope is washin' my feet over in here, I might as well say that I got my thyroid removed on the taxpayer's dime during a three month period when Mr. Bee was unemployed and we were doing bonafide welfare that one time 8 years ago, shortly after Snaggletooth was born. I'm sorry I'm not a crazy hyperthyroid (albeit skinny) loon any more, but I pulled my entitled self up from my bootstraps after that and went back to school for the next six years to get where I am, now a (whole lot in student loan debt) single mom (with fabulous equal custody baby-daddy support) with four children.
Let's not devote a paragraph to my relief that in some Tuesday in the next month I can skip my sliding scale women's group to go to a once a week clinic that will renew my thyroid medicine, and if I'm feeling really selfish, look into this bruised feeling that's been persisting the last few months between my left breast and shoulder blade. God,I hope it's not breast cancer or some shit. Ok, we won't.
This week my single-parent family unit departed from our usual entitled routine a bit when our mini-van broke down. Since mommy can't afford a new alternator until she gets paid (after she pays the cell phone bill so she can keep the cogs going, after she pays the rent, after she pays the electric, after she buys a new Cadillac), she went and spent money borrowed from her 11 year-old (clearly, entitled) to buy a bike lock, so they could ride their commie pinko bicycles to school for a change. (The third person references are no doubt side-effects.)
I did cash in on the sweat of a lass more fortunate (has a running (and cute) car) than me by accepting a ride to my weekend job from my lovely neighbor who pitied the prospect of long by bus rides making my 2 12-hour weekend workdays 16 hours long. She's such a socialist, and I'm thankful for that.
The funny thing is I don't really want a car. I don't, but I will begrudgingly be spending my precious hard-earned pay to fix the damn machine threatening my children's futures. (The Genius himself commented on how much cars make the air stink when we were riding our bikes to school Friday.) But, with our new bike lock, and de-flattened bike tires, we will be adopting riding our bikes to school two days a week. I'll see how it goes getting to my teaching job Monday- Wednesday via bus, because save for the self-inflicted cruelty of 16 hour days, I'm hoping to stick it to the man (with the equivalence of a feather tickle) by cutting back on my gas-mongering as much as I can.
That's what up in the world of the entitled, but don't take my word for it, check out Cassandra Bang's newest Snarkipedia entry about Entitlement Programs
Here is another of those lovely Snarkipedia videos I'm co-writing. You can tell this one's co-written by Dennis, as it has his perkiness written all over it. I'm not nearly as optimistic that the American Empire is in his final days. Plus, there's Cassandra Bang who makes the imperfections perfect.
All written material contained in this blog Copyright 2007-10 by http://freidabee.blogspot.com/, unless otherwise noted (except the pictures. I steal most of those).
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