Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Everybody put your hands together for the most perfect search string ever created:
"my nipples explode for your satisfaction monty python"
Dear citizen of Rouzerville Pennsylvania, who typed this into your search engine - I salute you. You are a creative genius.
And I think I might be just a little in love with you, but not in a nasty, search-phrase-y way.
Congratulations, you win. Contest over.
(UPDATE - Y'all! I'm so excited! I think Mr Michael Jackson may have visited "noaccentyet," because dig this new search phrase from Dubai, United Arab Emirates! "gameboy for my kids" What a Thriller!! Just thought you should know.)
Please, not the last one! Anything but "here's my day" by Tiff. I'm not out to get the "sopophoric entry of the year" award, y'all and that's ALL a recounting of my daily activities would get you. Shoot, I haven't even taken a SHOWER yet today, and that right there is the usual high point.
So, how about a love story? Something from my dating years, maybe? Nah, I'm not in a "dating story" mood, even if I do have a really good one about the night I went home with Charlie Tucker (and no, not the Charlie Tucker from Star Trek Voyager (iteration which?)). That's a good one, allright, and involved me almost getting nabbed for DUI. (Don't try this at home, kids. Only experienced alcohol abusers with 8 years of marching band can blow a 0.1 and still pass the field sobriety tests. It's ALL about balance).
How about an embarrassment story, then? My kids love those, with a passion that I find intriguing. They seem to love it when Mom or Dad fesses up to their youthful shortcomings, most especially when the story involves passing wind in some form or another.
To that end, they love it when a story involves anyone passing wind in some form or another. They also love it when someone falls down, or crashes, or when animals do stupid stuff, or anything along those lines.
Which is why it should come as no surprise to find out that their favorite show is "America's Funniest Home Videos." Please keep in mind they're not in middle school yet, and are both boys. This explains much, though not their love of fart jokes, because toilet humor is the particular provenance of MY side of the family. Oh yes, what great dinner conversations were had.
Matter of fact, even BEFORE dinner started sometimes there were laughs to be had along the bodily function lines. I distinctly recall the time that my Dad came in from the garage after a day at work (we NEVER used the front door, and ALWAYS took off our shoes before entering the house), belching "I'm HOME!" in an absolutely impressive fashion. To the best of my recollection, all of us were already sitting at the dinner table waiting for him to come in the door (must have had one of those nights where we scattered to a billion different activities at 6:30 sharp and had to eat beforehand), and after his borborygmyfied proclamation only half of us were able to keep in our seats.
So, back to the kids - (though I hope you enjoyed that tangential walk through my garden of memories) -
I was settling in last night to watch "Antiques Road Show," a program for which I have a slightly disturbing amount of affection, and the kids were getting ready to do almost anything else. For, while they too enjoy the show, it is not an all-time great attention-getter like GameBoy.
Sadly, I found out that ARS (acronym time!) was not on at its regular hour, but rather the local PBS station had decided to air a program showcasing the awesomely mighty talents of one Mr. Bruce Springsteen and his E Street Band (must be pledge time again). I was disappointed, of course, because while I am an appreciator of Mr. Springsteen I was simply not in the mood to rock n' roll all night, and so began flipping through the channels to see what else was on.
And guess what? Guess what the heck WHAT? By golly, America's funniest home videos was on, that's what!
Y'all - you have never seen children's heads snap to attention much more quickly than what happened right when the theme song started to play, I shouldn't think. Instantaneously they were atop me, vying for the vaunted position of "in Mom's lap" and asking me to turn up the sound. I obliged, and settled in for an hour of restful teevee watching with the offspring.
Except, remember the thing about my Dad and the burping and the ejecting out of chairs?
Well, apparently it's been passed down to my kids; because it was 60 minutes of falling on the floor with laughter or rolling around on the futon in laughter or knocking against me with laughter or whatever-elsing with laughter so huge and body-snatching that it was all they could do to keep breathing. At one clip of a little girl singing "it's a small world after all" in words that had NOTHING to do with the real lyrics and manipulating her juicy little mouth in comically exaggerated ways, the younger son and I were in tears, convulsing and gasping. The older one, well he seems to prefer grannies trying to operate lawn equipment and accidentally mowing down swing sets, or when dogs do funny things.
Yep - high times at Casa Teef. High ol' times.
Now, what the heck was it I was going to write about today?
Oh, nevermind - it'll have to wait until tomorrow - I'm outta time (plus which, if I write any more I might get cited for overuse of the parenthetical phrase, a fate I'd like to avoid because then my use privileges might get revoked and it's obvious I can't live without them).
Monday, February 27, 2006
"Scintillating Scotoma." Funny funny funny!
Not funny when, from out of nowhere, it seems like you just had a brief glimpse of the sun and you're not even outside.
Not funny when the brightly greenish blind spot spawns offspring that dance and fuse while changing colors at a dazzlingly breakneck pace.
Not funny when the blind spot and it's children form a glittering line of visual obscurity across your field of vision.
Not funny when the line appears to be performing a complex Morris dance, making it impossible to focus on anything, even on the ground as you try to walk or on your hands as your try to type.
Thank goodness the scintillating scotoma only performs its not-funny act for about a half an hour, and seems to listen to the goddess Ibuprofen when she orders it and its dancing children to "begone"!
Thank goodness the only perceptible sequelae of the scintillating scotoma is a general mental muzziness and a deep desire to take a nap.
Thank goodness the not-funny is, in all probability, NOT something MORE not funny, like a stroke or tumor or some other evil brain thing.
Thank goodness it's not being followed by the typical migraine that many people with their own unfunny scintillating scotomas get.
Me and my scintillating scotoma.
Surprisingly, only ONE search so far has brought people to the prurient phrase fest of yesterday.
And that one was for "cheerleader." Jeez.
I'm going to have to let this one simmer for a while to see if any further traffic is generated from all the naughty talk.
More as events warrant. Regular post will come later today, as soon as I get over my deep disappointment at the negative results of this seemingly well-crafted experiment in internet pop psychology.
update - new search phrase leading the inquiring minds to NAY - "saab the will dissolve a skin cyst" No, I don't have any idea what it means.
update-update new search phrase - "tiff bark." Only on Fridays with a full moon y'all.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
She got so many hits because, apparently, posts that mention "anal bleaching" and "anal waxing" and suchlike generate a lot of traffic from people interested in hairless bleached buttal regions. I know, who would have thought that there was such an INTEREST?
This got me to thinking, which is dangerous sometimes - what if I generate a post of random smutty phrases as an experiment to see how many hits this site will get in response?
And my brain answered itself, as it sometimes does, thusly -"Why the hell not, it's the weekend, we've got nothing better to do, and maybe tomorrow we'll take it down so that the stain on our good name will be at least partially erased."
(My brain and I are a team, therefore when talking to ourselves we use the plural pronoun so as to seem more "together" and friendly.)
Thus answered, I (we?) shall embark upon the experiment and will report the results tomorrow....
NOTE: What follows is my best attempt at smutty phraseology, which may titillate, amuse, or offend you. It will seem shockingly lame to the cognisceti of erotica (if you're out there, feel free to suggest additional fake search phrases, please) but to some of us it might introduce avenues of heretofore unthought-of objects or activities.....like:
hot wet grandma
full penetration zucchini
hairy armpits love
anal master (I hate myself that I typed that)
naughty maid pinch
(Shoot! I'm not very good at this)
hard body bikini
topless dancers gone wild
sassy redneck girl in cutoff jeans
OK - enough. I feel dirty. I need to go take a shower or find a way to wash out my brain.
Let the experiment commence!
(Additions from Renratt - anal love beads and dirty blow up doll. Isn't she precious? And so creative!)
(Additions from Oldfriend - trampling (good God, I don't think I want to know) and pony sex. There's obviously so very very MUCH I need to learn; thanks sistah!)
(Addition from mopeychick - big pooping butt.)
(Additions from a newbie, Wil - picture, gif, jpg, jpeg, mpeg, avi, movie. Nice way to make a first impression there, Wil!)
Oh, I'm going straight to H-E-double hocky stix for this, I'm sure.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
In my years on this earth I have come across ultra-competitive people who seem to live their lives through sport. You know them, the ones always on the coaching staff loudly admonishing their teams to "give 110%" and who seem to specialize in the "in your face" coaching method, or the people who are perennially NOT on the coaching staff but who have "their" spot in the bleachers and who find it imperative to offer their suggestions to the coaching staff in very loud and sometimes rather blue terms, very often after every single play.
I've seen people like this snatch victory away from their kid or team by verbally and publicly denigrating them after a performance, punishing them with words describing their perceived performance shortfalls that are so hurtful that you wonder how they live with themselves after uttering such vileness.
Are these the same people that write articles condemning someone for coming in second place at the Olympics? Are these the same people who find it necessary to pick and pick at a tiny spot of a story until, at least in their minds and through the ends of their pens, it becomes a gaping oozing wound of an issue? Are these the same people who, unless their country wins gold in every single daggone competition in which it's entered, will never be completely happy with the way things turned out?
Also wondering - can't they find something ELSE to do while we're all enjoying ourselves?
I enjoy watching my kids play on sports teams. I know lots of other parents who do too.
I enjoy watching sports and competitions on teevee. I know lots of other people who do too.
I enjoy the thrill of victory and cringe at the agony of defeat, all the time realizing that they're both part of the game.
Check out these definitions of the word "sport." Sounds fun, doesn't it?
Doesn't at all sound like something that would allow dissection of one's psyche or permit public airing of any interpersonal relationship chafes one might have. Doesn't really sound much like something one engages in in order to have one's self-esteem surgically removed by the sharp tongues of those who fancy themselves expert in your particular field of play, does it?
Not to me it doesn't.
Now, y'all, before you get all "Tiff is some kind of liberal feel-goodnick who doesn't want our kids to ever experience failure", let me just say that I know that there is a line to be drawn in sports (and every other kind of competition) so that there are indeed winners and runners-up and, let's face, it, losers, otherwise how would you determine who is really best on any particular day or over the longer run of a season or career? Competitors and spectators WANT to be able to measure performance and push boundaries and move forward and improve, that's seems a obvious given. What I don't think we should do is to establish a culture of "first place at all cost." It's not sustainable; it's not healthy; it breeds malcontent and anger. It raises expectations for success to an inhuman level.
Most especially, no participant in any competition should be subjectively taken to task in a public forum or, even in private, have their motives or desire or mental fitness maliciously called into question.
Because, well, that's just not nice.
Friday, February 24, 2006
We play THE HEADLINE GAME!
So, then I was all like, "God Stefanie, your hair looks GREAT! Like totally OLYMPICS great!" and she was all like "I know, it's insane! I just won a gold medal for curling!" Stefanie so totally rocks!
I blame the internet.
NASA Detects 'Totally New' Mystery Explosion Nearby
"Astronomers have detected a new type of cosmic outburst that they can't yet explain." Y'all, this is a gimme - it's so obvious that Q is pissed. Look, there's even blood on his hands!
"God, Randall, I HATE this freaking trial and how long it's freaking TAKING!"
"I know what you mean, Biff, but how much complaining can we do when the balcony in our room gives us a smokin' view of the indoor pool? Those sequestered jurors have TOTALLY taken it over. Hey! Look! There's juror number 8; man is she HOTT!"
"10-4 on that one, dude, but you know, I'm partial to juror number 10. He's got FABULOUS delts!"
"Yeah, too bad they won't let us down there, we could totally tamper with THAT jury."
"Man, you're funny."
And now, performing a new floor exercise routine, it's "Orders for Manufactured Goods." Ladies and gentlemen, I believe OMG is going to attempt a layout triple with a twist on the first pass following a 3-handsspring run,,,,,,and YES! He NAILS it!
Boy, howdy, Old Man Pettybone was crabby as all hell at the meeting of the international order of Jurassic Mammals last night! He wouldn't listen to a WORD the didelphodon contingent had to say, and completely overturned what I thought was a GREAT idea brought forward by the fruitafossor. I think the old coot is upset that such newcomer to the group is coming up with things that could completely change the group's remit.
'Cuz, you know, Diet Coke stains do NOT come out of those outfits all by themselves, and the concierge at the Olympic village charges a FORTUNE!!
And with that, we end this broadcast of TIFF TV, where our motto is "weak humor is STILL humor, dagnabbit!"
Thursday, February 23, 2006
It's me, your neighbor across the street!
I say "neighbor," because even though y'all don't LIVE across the street from me, you've been over there for about 5 months now, in which time we could at least have met a few times.
Sadly, though, we have never met at all.
If we had met, I could tell you just how much I enjoy it when you start working at 5:30 a.m. with your banging and crashing and beeping and revving and digging and all those construction-y things you do so very, very, early in the morning. What a fabulous alarm clock! Really!
And if we had met, I could also tell you how much I enjoy it that you're doing those SAME things at night when I get home from work! Awesome! Amazing that you have the stamina to go back to work after the high schoolers are dismissed so that you can get some MORE work done on the mysterious and extremely slow-moving construction project on which you've been working so very diligently lo these many months! The engine noises and clouds of dust and jack-hammering make relaxing in the evenings so much easier because, once you're done, I really only have about an hour of my evening left before I go to bed, so I don't have to worry about how to fill all that extra relaxation time with, you know, actual relaxing.
So thanks for all that. You're great.
Quick question - When do you think you might be moving out? Now, I'm not saying that I WANT you to leave, I'm just curious so maybe the people on our street can throw you a little party once you go. I'm sure they're similarly attached to you and your industrious noises. Life will seem so, oh, I don't know, QUIET when you go. We'll maybe miss that. A little.
PS - your company by chance doesn't contact out the waste disposal activities at the school, do they? Because if they do, please be sure to give a hearty "hello" to the garbage-truck driver who does his exuberantly loud dumpster manipulations at 5:15 on Tuesdays and Fridays. Love that guy! I just wonder if he wouldn't mind coming over to my yard to pick up all the suff that blows out of his dumpsters and into my YARD??? Then we could say "hi" to each other in person! Wouldn't that be great?
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
This is a "in case you don't know me by NOW" kind of post, in which I reveal a deeply held secret (that by now you've probably already figured out).
And, as if you didn't know by now, here comes the story.
A few years ago I was going to lunch with a couple of friends; one of whom I'd known for a few years and the other I'd just met a few months earlier.
(Tangent - Does that make one of those people a friend and the other an aquaintance? What's the cutoff from transitioning from acquaintance to friend? 3 months? 6? More? Less? Can someone be a friend instantaneously without that whole awkward period of acquintanceship? Conversely, can you have an acquaintance of long standing that never really evolves any further into friendship? Now, return from tangent to story)
We were riding along, gabbing away, when I mentioned that someone at a meeting I'd attended that morning was "remarkably monosyllabic."
My new friend said "mono-who-wha-bic?"
And my friend of long standing said "Oh, that's the way she always talks...you'll get used to it."
My question would be: Is there something WRONG with that?
Further to the point:
When I was in 8th grade I was smitten with a boy who was the object of my attention for 2 very good reasons -1) he was taller than me, and 2) he was a wildly engaging and verbally active boy (can you say "turned out to be GAY? Why yes you can.). He taught me a poem that I still remember. He started with a challenge: "see if you can guess what familiar children's poem this is," which immediately got my attention and which I highly recommend to all 8th-grade boys who want to pick up geek-ettes such as I was.
Herewith I present the poem. (ahem)
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Cynical evil version here
Happy shiny version here
Totally and completely stolen from the Suburban Lesbian (here).
I will report back on the results when I'm recovered from the horrendous impact they'll no doubt have on my life.
In breaking news, I have found the world's best McDonald's. I love their warm flaky biscuits (which are too big to fit in my mouth! I know! Miracles happen every day!) and their soft fluffy scrambled eggs that are lovingly folded to a perfectly-proportioned rectangle of golden proteinacious goodness, and the symmetrically gorgeous way the steamy round of sausage and melted square of cheesefoodproduct are placed on the alluring flakiness and softness of biscuit and egg, and I love their salty-crispy hashbrowns, and I love their professional smiling staff and Quicky-McQuickpants service. I also love that they serve fancy-schmancy coffee and luscious desserts at the "McCafe" in case the mouth orgasm one has received from the perfect regular breakfast food needs a sweetly charged encore.
My God, my mouth is happy.
They also serve their "to go" food in daintily (and appropriately) sized bags.
Which makes the rest of me happy.
(If you have to ask why, check this out.)
Monday, February 20, 2006
And feel free to expound on the ideas presented therein with a comment.
'Cause, on this point, I got nothin'.
Which brings me to my next thought.......
People are pretty smart, aren't they? I mean, I KNOW kids say the darnedest things ("haggis!"), and are universally considered by their parents and adoring family members to be destined for great things until proven otherwise, but where is the celebration for those persons who managed to make good on the promise of youth?
More to the point - Why aren't we adulating the people who think up stuff like biomorphs and 3-dimensional geometric theora and speed traps for electrons?
Folks, even though I don't understand half (OK, more than half) of this stuff, it's still something to behold and for which we ought to have a party.
Oh sure, EVERYONE wants Stephen Hawking at their next cocktail party, and for good reason. What's cooler than a guy who explained the universe AND has a dread disease AND a vo-coder? I know! It would rock.
But still, there are legions of really really smart folks out there using DNA chips (it's not a snack, y'all) and deep space telescopes and who are looking into "telecloning" (a new one on me), among a thousand other deeply interesting topics or research. We should be giving these people massive exposure of their smartness, but instead all we give them as recognition in return is a vast morass of paperwork and grant proposals and hierarchical and paternalistic funding pathways through which they struggle, year after year after year, in order to pursue their intellectual dreams.
In my humble opinion, we ought to take the money that is paid to the falsely vaunted professional athletes and actors and reality teevee stars and overpaid CEOs and THROW it at the smart people and sit back to see what they come up with. We should treat them like rock stars and celebrities, like they did in the 17th and 18th centuries, when men (and women) of learning and invention were considered the pinnacle of humankind. They should have their houses paid for and their ideas protected and their labs filled with the best stuff and have people on staff who are as smart as them and hire someone who would make them coffee and occasionally bake them some really good cookies.
Imagine it, if you can. Where would we be if the main of our energies as a race was to discover and develop stuff that actually made us better off, or more educated, or could reduce dependence of fossil fuels or could point out rifts in the space-time continuum or that could, at last, give us flying cars and an actual video phone?
Then imagine if we, as average human beings, had even a small interest in these things and could conduct a conversation about self-replicating machines or telecloners or electron orbitals or genetic mutations or any of the vast panoply of tremendously intriguing fields of study currently being explored. How amazing would that be? How interesting the world would be if we stopped sheltering ourselves within in the smothering walls of commercially available, easily digestible, bland and tasteless pablum that is offered to us on a daily basis? How much more satisfying would it be to talk about ideas rather than people or fashion or reality teevee?
I think it would be pretty darned cool.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Know how I know?
Because I have one just like it on my right ankle.
She sat in the room with me while I had the work done, and I sat with her while she hummed arpeggios to take her mind off the sting of the needle.
And we were only 3 years overdue in getting them. Imagine that.
She's sensitive and sensual and earthy and has a lovely voice.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
There's a woman who was a famous DJ on a country music station before quitting that world to stay home with her kids.
I have a picture of her from college singing into a hairbrush (or is it a curling iron?). Her fate was in the cards, and nobody knew it.
She's got spark and spunk and a mind so nimble and quick it leaves most normal humans in the dust, conversationally.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
There's a woman who teaches second grade in the Northern Neck, a place of extraordinary beauty and connection with the water.
She's been there ever since she graduated college, and is best friends with the woman who taught me 8th grade English.
I did not grow up in the Northern Neck, so this convergence of lives is somewhat freaky.
She is spiritual and sure of her life and witty in a sweetly engaging way. Also, she's quite the computer game player!
I want to be like her when I grow up.
There's a woman who welcomed me into her life with open arms and an energy I wish I had for the everyday.
She is smart, insightful, funny, spirited, and beyond intelligent. She flew halfway down the east coast to see me, and boy, were her arms tired.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
There's a woman who exudes coolness like other people breathe.
A lifetime ago I sat with her in a basement apartment and smoked her cigarettes and talked shit about bands and boys and acted like geeks when nobody was looking.
She rocks Europe now with her British husband and 3 kids, and I'm sure Europe and all her inhabitants are better off for it. She is that cool.
Boy, I want to be like her when I grow up.
There's a man who can sing his head off and is searching for the right place in this world.
He's full of spirit and is on a quest to find himself. This quest has taken him across the country and back again a time or two, and the beautifully told stories he has of those travels would fill the pack of any wandering minstrel a time or two over.
I'd to be like him when I grow up.
There's a man who wandered the streets of New York City with me until the wee hours as we searched for the NYC experience. Man, I'll never forget it.
He likes chats and coffee. He's brilliantly intelligent but doesn't shove that in anybody's face, is humble and funny and can converse about anything, anytime, and has the facts to back up any point or argument.
I want to be like him when I grow up too.
There are people I've just met and am getting to know who could be mentioned here for all their special points and hearts of gold.
But, for right now, I count the myself as very lucky indeed to have met people like those mentioned herein who, either long ago or rather recently, agreed to be my friend.
And if I ever DO decide to grow up, it's clear I've got a lot of work to do.
Do YOU have anyone you want to be like when you grow up?
Friday, February 17, 2006
Ziggy and Garfield reportedly injured.
While the doctors are fighting, would someone PLEASE yank those clinics back down here? (or, yet another reason to use "and" instead of a comma). And it's "tension rises," dammit.
This is the now-obligatory "this is news?" snark. Word: it's not.
You! Hey you! You think you're such a smarty-pants, being all tough and sanction-y? You just try to come over here and I'll give you such a smack!
They're $2.99 all this week at the "Poke-n-Prod," dude.
Soooo, if they're so elusive, how's come ALL the Chinese are doing it?
To go along with the "her ankle-a" surgery she had last year.
"There once was a hacker named Jerry
Who thought he could make mucho merry
By hacking inside
Apple's shiny red hide
Now he's somebody's prison love cherry."
That concludes this broadcast of TIFF TV for this week. You may return to your regular programming.
This woman should never be allowed to have any more children. Ever.
So, amnesia is now a synonym for mid-life crisis? I'll just bet it IS!
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The fascination is from the "how very very COOOL" aspect of this idea - that music can be generated from system traffic on multiple servers and can then be used as "background noise" that will help system admins identify problems sooner than they might otherwise. I get a mental image of those "Dune" blobby-whale things the were in giant tanks and somehow created the spice through nothing but subliminal exertion and an addiction to double-stuffed Oreos (wait, that last part is me. Strike it). You know, these guys:
I mean, really, how COOL would it be to just hang out listening to music all day long, and have that be your actual JOB? Just hang out, and when the trombones miss a cue or the synthesizer isn't set to "tango" the way it always is a 4 p.m., then just spin in your estoplasmic gel pod and shoot a mind-beam of harmony at the bioprocessors and all's right with the world again.
But then, here's the part that horrifies me.
Because I can see conspiracy in an ant hill, here's my take on the actual USE of this information:
(Setting - Somewhere in a large cororpate headquarter-y oblong pod floating above a field in Kansas, a group of virtual executives gather to discuss the system's music lessons):
"CJ," says the disembodied head of the executive director of the low brass to the grainy upper torso of the systemwide orchestral/IT director, "I think the fourth-chair tuba is once again hogging bandwidth late at night, because he's at mezzoforte when he KNOWS lullabyes are always performed at pianissimo. I need you to look into this and cut his usage or my ass will be online at the next board meeting!"
"Certainly Mr Hornswaggle," says CJ, chagrined at not having noticed before that such egregious errors had been occuring without his notice," I'll get one of the tadpole brigade on it once he reabsorbs his legs - shouldn't take more than a day or so."
"Oh, and CJ," interrupts the redly glowing Oz-like cranium of the assistant director of violins,"I've been hearing one 1st-chair consistently skipping notes in the runs and trills. Please track this down and make sure that whoever this is is hitting all the marks and performing at the level expected of someone in their position."
"Yessir, Mr Pufferblast!" responds the belaguered orchestral/IT director.
Beecause, you KNOW it could happen.
Oh, they SAY that the system music is background and meant to be used as an overall flavoring for how well the system is running, but how long will it be before your IP address is attached to a part of an overall tone poem, and if you're conspicuously silent or too loud or not playing at the proper tempo well then maybe you'll be "let go for not being a team player"?
Don't look at me like that, it could happen.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
A man once told me that he liked me because my boobs were bigger than his head.
You know, up until that point in my life I hadn’t thought of actually comparing my gals with the size of the average human cranium (cue the 7-pound quote from “Jerry McGuire,” woncha?), but HE did, and apparently my ta-tas won the size prize. Goooo, me!
I don’t necessarily find that having large breasts is a FUN thing or something to be celebrated every day, so I tend to cover the Dee Sisters up beneath shirts and sweaters and such that could be kindly termed “swaddling cloth,” or better yet “drape-y.” I have never thought that my dirty pillows were particularly sexy or attractive or alluring or whatever, so would like OTHER people to ignore them as much as possible, just like I do.
Except for sometimes I like to mess with people’s minds. Sometimes I like to doll myself up in clothes that actually FIT, and do my hair, and carefully apply my makeup, and then parade around the corporate world like I’m Miss Thang and please take a look at anything you like, thanksverymuch.
Mind you, all this dolling and parading is done in the name of science. It’s all about trying to find out what people are really made of. It’s about shaking up the environment a little, because, just as no-one expects the Spanish Inquisition, neither do they expect Tiff to come to work in a nicely-fitting sweater that’s cut a leetle bit lower than usual. They don’t expect to see Tiff wearing a pair of pants that really do fit, and even if Tiff’s bum is larger than it used to be it still fits a coach seat, if you know what I mean.
So, sometimes I dress for fun and for science. To see who looks, how often they look, and where.
It’s akin to going to lunch with a bunch of people and noticing which guys in the group look at the waitress with the nice ass and which gawp at the ones with the perky love balloons. Or it’s like taking a walk with a girlfriend and comparing which construction dude could park his muddy boots by your front door. Does she go for arms or shoulder or the well-fitting jeans? It’s all in the name of the study of human behavior, really.
It’s just that I’m conducting the experiment with boobs the size of a man’s head. My boobs.
My apparently very INTERESTING boobs.
The results are sometimes amazing, and, I think, are telltale signs of a person’s trustability.
There was one guy who, while I was dressed in my very occasional scientific expedition wear, could NOT STOP GLANCING at the chestal area. Y'all, there wasn’t anything pornographic about the outfit - it would have been standard office fare for most women, but apparently had attractive powers of immense proportion for this fellow.
Too bad he wasn’t my boss. I could have used the raise all that visual feasting might have meant. However, I was glad that he wasn’t my boss, because, and here’s the social experiment part, how could I trust a man with my career who doesn’t have the self-control to avert his eyes from a normal part of human anatomy? How mature is his outlook on life, how focused would he be on big picture items when he’s so obviously not over the whole teenage thing?
My actual boss looked once, then averted his eyes for the rest of our weekly one-on-one meeting. That one lone look told me that he was guy that could be trusted and had integrity (or.....he preferred smaller mammaries!).
A male friend had the good grace to look and then look flustered, then not look again. The fact that he only looked once (maybe twice) told me he respected me as a person.
Even the ladies got in on the action! One colleague asked if I had lost weight (her social skills obviously highly honed), one told me my sweater was pretty (observational remark only, resulting in a rating partway down the interaction scale), and I think one woman just was looking for pure pleasure (but I would NOT ask her if that was indeed the case, because this was in the cafeteria and I didn’t know her and besides, who knows where THAT conversation could have gone thereafter? “Hi, I noticed you staring at my breasts. Any questions?” I have no comment on what implication this might have on my nascent ratings scale).
So, you might ask, was all the inspection and introspection and analysis worth the effort?
Did I learn anything from this except that, even though I’m not in top form and I'm older than the average piece of dirt, I can still get people to look at my bustal region?
Nah, not much. It was always all about the boobs anyhow.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Nossir. I want to be in the cool crowd of kids and admit RIGHT NOW that I don't much care for the Valentine's Day onerousness of forced husbandly affection.
(But I do like the roses he sent me.
From several states away.)
Anyhow, I'm NOT in favor of women EXPECTING to be treated like queens for this day, UNLESS they come across with the goods for their man (or woman, as the case may be) as well.
And I think we all know what I'm talking about.
Honey, you can't take the roses and candy and dinner and lovey-smoochy-snookums-ing without having to "give a little back." You DID know that, didn't you?
Girlfriend, you're lyin' if you say you thought you'd get away clean with being the recipient of all that attention without having to dole out a little in return. Don't play ME like that. NO, ma'am, you cannot. You KNOW you need to show that man a little of what he wants, oh yes you do!
It's that "responsive giving" that I think needs to go.
It's time for a change!
Ladies, it's time to turn the tables on this thing. Let's take this whole rather embarrassing precept of V-Day being all about us GIRLS and spin its candylicious message around.
I say let's give our men what they want, without them having to ask!
Let's SHOW them we know what they want, without them having to wait for it!
Let's walk right up to them, stare them right in the eye, and boldy declare our intentions for them.
Say it with me, sisters!
"Baby, here's $20. Go get drunk."
Monday, February 13, 2006
My question is: Use this as the blogger profile pic or keep the eye? Your vote counts.
Oh, and even though it's blindingly ovbious to me, no makeup was harmed in the production of this picture. A little mascara would have helped....
And damn - when did I get the bump in my nose? Awesome!
Thanks to a certain blogger who lives in Wisconsin and is linked to on this here blog and might be writing her very own novel, I was exposed to "The Porcine Funnel-shaped Whirlwind" who, in a disservice to all of us who have quite enough nightmares, thanks so much for asking, put up a picture of a "Collectible Doll" offer he got in the recent distribution of the "Valu-Pak" in his neck of the woods.
Also, thanks to a certain OTHER blogger that I read with a near-religious fervor who is now on the fast track to stardom with his linkapalooza to the National Lampoon and is getting all swaggery in his "West by-God Virginia" britches, I was exposed to pictures of what crystal meth can do to you if you don't have enough open facial sores.
For this, Pork Tornado and Jeff Kay, I thank you.
I thank you both because I wanted to shed a few pounds anyhow, and those pictures have put me right off of the notion of eating.
I thank you, Mr. Tornado, because now I have a mental image of what the inside of people-who-collect-dolls houses might look like; with the lifelike silicone (or soft vinyl!) dollies of newborn babies or (inexplicably, really) "fashion dolls dressed in stripper costumes" encased in clear high-quality plastic sheaths, posed either with a ramrod of plastic shoved up their stripper butts or, if a baby, nestled, as though asleep, in itchy-looking tulle. The owner of the collection would perhaps, from time to time, remove one of her babies (or the stripper doll, if she was feeling naughty) out of her/his plastic sheathing and stroke it with her 4-inch-long fuschia laquered nails, gently crooning - "naneenaneenahneee" - while rearranging the finely crafted fashionable clothing in which her darling baby is clad and bestowing onion-scented kisses on its little silicone (or vinyl) head. And I shudder.
I thank you, Mr. Kay, because now I have a slightly better understanding of what those people who injest methamphetamines at such a furious pace that their skin drops off of their faces in round chunks leaving gaping red holes in their once-doll-like visages that appear to be just the size and shape of the end of a lit cigarette look like (yes, it's a real sentence). I didn't know this before, and I do now. And again, I shudder.
Oh yes, I thank you.
You've taken this heretofore brave and inquisitive woman, and on the same day, in some karmic twist of, er, karma, turned her into a link-shy wreck. What special new horrors will you have for me NEXT?
Handknit gastrointestinal tracts?
Bring it on.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Me: Anybody getting hungry?
Me: Whaddaya want?
10YO: Can we have waffles?
Me: Sure, I can put them in the TOASTER just as good as ANYBODY, I guess. Want scrambled eigen with that?
8 YO: And haggis!
So, there you go, waffles, scrambled eggs, and, haggis. Think Harris Teeter carries haggis?
In a rather roundabout way, that does indeed have some small thing to do with haggis, I'm sorry to say I've missed an opportunity to take part in this celebration, which seems right up my alley. I appreciate the "after-party" instructions, always a tricky part of any evening. Next year, perhaps.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Because, y'all, that's how it is. That's how it is when something is taken away from you that you thought would be there forever. That's how it is when you think everything is going along just fine but the person you love doesn't and they decide to hit you upside the head and heart with the sudden destruction of the little world you've built together.
Man, it hurts. And Purl writes it better than I ever could. However, because my catharsis has started, I will herein offer up its product:
The very very WORST break up experience (which I feel free to bloviate about here because it's a rainy Saturday, and nobody's going to read this until Monday, and maybe by then it will be buried in the follow-on of a possible Sunday entry even, so that maybe this will just be for ME) has been briefly mentioned here before, but because it happened right about this time nearly 18 years ago I'm aware of it and am over it enough to objectively describe my reaction to it.
The guy was the fun one, the one with all the toys. The one who would take me on 100-mile-an-hour motorcycle rides and taught me to rock climb and who had the world's softest bed and who knew why Neutrogena Sesame oil was invented. He was the one who took me to Vermont to ski for a week, and told me I could do the black diamond slopes and kissed me on the long lift ride to the top. He smiled a lot and was quick-witted and gentle and energetic and breathed cleverness into every conversation...
I adored him. I would have said I loved him, but I wasn't able to get out far enough on that limb, because I'd had it crack underneath me before and was afraid of putting that much weight to a relationship again. I was READY to love him, let's just say that. I looked forward to seeing him, to being near him, to experiencing life with him. It was all good, as far as I knew.
And then he dumped me. Over the phone. The day before stupid Valentine's Day.
In a previous entry I described my reaction to the dumping, which involved slobber and tears and some begging, but it glossed over the overflow reaction, the weeks-long denouement of deep retraction from all but the most essential functions. I didn't mention how I stopped eating, started drinking, and ceased talking. I didn't mention the darkly throbbing ball of pain I carried in the center of my chest, nor did I explain about the hollow of regret that formed just behind my eyes, blinding me to anything but what was right ahead of me: my loss. There was no PLEASURE in anything, not food, or sleep, or friends. I sat, on the couch in the living room, and stared out the window, wondering how everything had gone so horribly, horribly wrong.
Everything about me went quiet and still. There was no sparkle, no liveliness, no energy, while I waited for it all to be over and for the hurt to leave. I was mourning. If only I had known that the mourning needed to take its time, and when it was done with me it would move on, and that I needed to just be quiet and let it work its way through me, I would have been fine. Sadly, I didn't know that there's no fighting the mourning, no way to bull your way through it or tuck it into a safe corner to fester quietly, no way to ignore that tightness in your throat or the heaviness of your own body while the mourning makes its way through you. I wish I'd known that I simply needed to let it be, and wait quietly until it was done with me.
But I didn't, and for 2 (or was it 3?) weeks I was "not me." I fought the mourning, tried to drown it in beer and sleep, pretended to be just fine, tried to fool my friends with a cobbled-together brittle facade that hid the bitter hollowness of "me." I wasn't altogether as clever as I wanted to be; however, and more than one friend saw through the disguise and were concerned. The brittle smiling shell couldn't completely hide my sadness at leaving all those little dreams and big hopes behind me. Inside the smoke and mirrors it felt that the work of finding happiness again (which, at the time I confused with having a boyfriend) was too great, so I opened yet another Busch and mourned what I thought was my "sure thing."
I alternately fought and succumbed to my sadness for many, many long and tiring days.
Until, one day I didn't so much. One day the shell started to crack. One day I got hungry again. One day I smiled and really meant it. One day I had good dreams. One day it seemed that I was ready again, for something.
So, you know what I did?
That's right, I called him. And asked him that, even though he said we shouldn't see one another any more, did that mean we couldn't be friends. And he said he thought we should be.
Which is how we wound up seeing one another again.
When it finally petered out of it's own accord, there wasn't any hurt; just a small feeling of "oh well, if that's how it's going to go, then that's how it's going to go."
And we stayed friends.
I never told him how badly the breakup made me feel. I never told him that because of it I finally learned to pad my defenses. I never told him that I had been on the brink of loving him, and that the breakup convinced me that love was a dangerous emotion, too hard to control, too difficult to give completely to someone else.
Which is just as well, really, because he wouldn't have understood. He wasn't an "emotion" kind of guy.
Still, it's a hell of a lesson to learn, and one for which I wish I'd never opened the book.
Friday, February 10, 2006
That is all.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Does SOMEBODY out there dare to tell me we're alone?
The mind boggles.
(Oh, and if you do think we are, that's cool. I just cannot see my way around trying to count all the stars and calculating their possible attendant planets and then multiplying by the amount of, oh, infinity.)
Yeah, me too. But I never took advantage of the call to arms to really and truly and revengefully get payback for my tormentor.
And boy, I should have....
The times on the bus in elementary school when the older mean girl called me names? Should have come up with some good ones and hurled them right back, but instead just enveloped myself in imagined painful punishments for her and all her greasy friends. It is she for whom the "slide of razor blades" was invented.
The time that guy dumped me on the phone the day before Valentine's day? Should have messed with his mind, but all I did was get back together with him, then slept with his brother.
The coworker who blamed everything bad that ever happened on me? Should have purposely screwed with her reagents so that her assays all turned to mush and her data were irreproducible, but all I did was avoid her as much as possible, and spend too much time in the library, "doing research."
The hurt? I SWALLOW it, people, I gulp it down, forcing a great huge ball of painful embarrassment and indignation down through my esophagus and into my subconscious, where it can be digested by my dreams, which often are filled with images disturbing and sometimes wonderful.
But, if you hurt someone that I love, then man, you are in some shit. Deep shit. If I find out you're messing with somebody close to me; all bets are off where your health and welfare are concerned.
Does the phrase "Mama Bear" remind you of anything? Yep, that's me when I have to stand up for someone else. Suddenly all that repressed anger and semi-digested referred pain come surging forward and I'd step into a bar fight on a floor of broken glass to get my licks in on someone who'd hurt a friend.
I remember a time when a was really little; we were out in the backyard playing in the neighbor's fort, and my younger brother fell out of it and landed, hard on the ground. He started to cry, a little out of proportion to the fall and subsequent landing, and the kids started to make fun of him. Something in my little towhead snapped, and I TURNED on them, spewing a stream of bilious vitriol that even a gifted teenager couldn't have gotten their mouths around. I was STEAMING hot and on a roll, but there was my brother, still on the ground. I snarled at him "get up, we're going HOME!" to which he replied "I can't, I'm stuck to the ground!" I looked at his thigh, and saw that there was a board from the fort that was essentially nailed to his leg. My rage at the taunting neighbor kids helped me yank that board out and just about CARRY my baby brother home, still snarling and fuming like a cornered badger. Oh, I was HOT allright, and even at 8 years old I felt like I could spit fire because of the hurt those kids had caused my righteously suffering brother.
While anger, however well-vented, isn't revenge, really, the anger is the hot-start for all things protective that can be kindled in me at a moment's notice. If you come to me with a story of a cheating boyfriend or mean boss or evil neighbor, then the knee-jerk of my indignation over your ill-treatment will kick-start the revenge part, and I can take that ball of pain and RUN with it into the recesses of the twisted up parts of my brain to devise an insidiously perfect torment for the tormentor (whoa, just realized I did a little football metaphor there. Weird). Cheating boyfriend? I'll set you up with a date of your own, someplace where the cheater is going to see you. Evil neighbor? I'll not only BRING the bag of dog poo but will bring the lighter too. Mean boss? I'll be sure to help you find out what they're allergic to so you can accidentally-on-purpose start exposing them to it on a daily basis. It's fun, you should try it sometime!
Yes, friends, it's clear that, while I have no self-preservation instincts on my OWN behalf, I'm all over the third-party action. This, I'm sure, is a brilliantly lit roadsign to whatever mental imbalance I ought to own up to, but that would take all the FUN out of life while I'm pretending to be so well-aligned.
Revenge - while perhaps it is a dish best served cold, is also sweet. And I have the research to prove it.
Let's all chew on that for a while, eh?