Changing Wombs

In light of recent events many people are coming to me with long faces and quasi-uncomfortable pats on the back. And honestly, who can blame them? What DO you say to a girl that lost a baby? If you figure it out, please let me know because I can use all the help I can get. Anyway, in order to put my friends at ease I've decided to throw a little shindig I like to call "Let's Laugh in the Face of Crushing Depression" or simply A Miscarriage Party.

What goes on at one of these questionably tasteful events? I'm glad you asked. First we start with your choice of bloody marys or abortion shots, natch. Once we get a few in us, it'll be time to bring the serious fun. Pin the Umbilicus on the Fetus, bobbing for zygotes, and my favorite, cracker whistle. There will be a magnificent buffet featuring such delicacies as red Jell-O with tiny gummi babies suspended in it and a sort of placenta gazpacho just like my Oma made in the old country. When it's time to go home I'll give my guests precious party favor bags containing prescription strength painkillers and an assortment of feminine napkin related products.

I'm assuming that this party will be such a crashing success that I can start franchising it out like those stupid Pampered Chef parties. Our representatives can come to your home, office, or place of worship and they'll work closely with you to make sure that each party has that personal touch. Is this your fourth or fifth trip down Spontaneous Abortion Lane? Why don't we play seven minutes with a speculum? Did you sustain a life threatening infection? Then we should totally serve the Dilate and Crudetet Platter! It'll be just like those days back at the sorority house.


Securely Yours

Once a good friend of mine pointed out that after an abortion, girls don't want fast food. "Found THAT out..." I recently learned that after a miscarriage, girls do want chili cheese tater tots from Sonic.

It's always jarring when your body betrays you. Each day we wake up fully secure in what our body is doing. Even surprises such as stubbed toes and massive, hurting zits can be dealt with with a minimum of strain. No one ever asks you how you're handling the massive lurker on your chin, or whether you were trying to stub your toe. "Yes, we've been trying for months and our prayers have finally been answered." No, you deal with these infractions because you've dealt with them before. But when you get into the bathtub to soothe a bout of female trouble, you never expect to start bleeding.

I'm unsure as to how to begin to handle this situation. Right now I'm going to continue laying on the couch, wrapped in my wedding quilt, trying to figure out what the fuck happened.



I just really haven't had much to say. We got back from vacation. It rocked and I got the coolest red pants I've ever seen and if you see me in them, then I'm the coolest chick I've ever seen. I started at a new shrink. Let's all keep our fingers crossed for my mental health. I drank a lot of beer last night. Cheers.
I'll wind this up with an open ended question.

If you could get into a fight right now, who's ass would you kick?

I would beat down Tim LeHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins. Natch.


First you take it on the run. Then, you take it on the run.

The road to physical fitness isn’t always a smooth one. Those silly machines at the gym are always sweaty, not to mention confusing. Since I came to Portland and unexpectedly found myself well on the way to buffitude, I’ve been searching for alternate methods of exercise. Well, I think I’ve found a winner. Our gracious hosts, James and Melissa, have recently started a recess club, with an emphasis on four square. I was invited to join, and not without some hesitation, I agreed. Due to an unfortunate childhood incident involving a Big Toy, it’s been a while since I’ve been on a playground and I must say, I was a little gun shy. But once I got to the Sunnyside School for the Deaf, it was like slipping into the arms of a lover.

Four square is just the same am I remember, only now it’s better because (a) no bitches, and (b) I wasn’t worried about someone seeing my panties. We played for a good, solid hour then this young tough showed up on his bike. At first I thought he was simply observing the field of play, but as it turns out he’s a member of the club as well. Anthony jumped in and brought an edge of competitiveness to the game that really kicked it into high gear. And he let me ride his bike. All in all, I must say that a Tulsa branch of Recess Club is soon to follow.

Later on that day, my homie Dr. Dre came by with a gang of Tanqueray. Actually, we decided on an evening of Japanese culture. First sushi, then karaoke. Now, I’m used to workin’ it at Lennie’s where the place is usually mostly deserted and I and mine get to dominate the mic. At the Ambassador I quickly realized that I was very close to being out of my league. The song list was the size of a phone book. How am I supposed to choose? Especially when I was not allowed to stuff the ballot box. I suspected that our intrepid emcee was not exactly pleased to listen to our drunken asses. Plus, between each song he cranked that “Come to snuff the rooster” song by Alice in Chains. Anyway, we quickly got the ball rolling. My Dude kicked things off with a little John R. Cash, then I politely requested to be kissed once, twice, then deadly. Lita Ford rocks no matter where she is. I learned that I indeed do not know all the words to Fancy, but it didn’t seem to bother the table full of hoochies wailing along with me. The evening came to a crescendo when Greg, sporting a furry Meisterbrau hat complete with horns, took the stage and serenaded My Dude with a flawless Broadway rendition of the theme to the Flintstones, which, in the song book, was listed as Traditional.

In many ways I’m glad not to live here. I honestly don’t know if I could sustain this level of kicking ass.


Put another nickel in the nickelodeon

So here we are in the Rose City. The hostmanship is top notch, the drinksmanship is through the roof, but perhaps you dear readers are growing tired of my many drunken stories, so I’ll regale you with a tale of what may be the most physical activity I’ve logged this year.

After eating a superb breakfast My Dude, my bosom chum James, and myself set off in search of adventure. It brought us to the Avalon. Now, I’ve never really been much for video games, unless you count the Kool-Aid Man game on my Grandma’s Atari, but the Avalon was an arcade unlike any other. First of all, everything cost a nickel. Ok, sometimes they cost five nickels, but the point is I had a pocket bulging with nickels and it made me feel kinda rich, secondly there were two big screen TV’s presiding over the hall. One was tuned to Dexter’s Lab and the other to a program I believe was called Mengele: The Nazi Angel of Death. Sometimes the bodies stacked like cordwood was a bit distracting. I soldiered on.
I explored the myriad of shining, sparkling video game fun. I avoided all the claw machines, and the driving games. There was some dinosaur game that played Love Shack really loud. I skipped that one too. Instead I just went for my old favorite: Skee Ball. This is my favorite game because (1) I doesn’t involve staring at the video game screen, which always makes me kinda sick to my stomach, and (2) You get tickets, which are them traded in for fabulous prizes such as Chinese finger traps, and those little plastic poppy things that you’re not supposed to stick to your eye.
I exhausted most of my nickel bag of funk, but not before amassing over 200 tickets. Then I got to really looking around. Perhaps playing the field a little. I rocked the bowhunting game, but not as hard as James. I tried my hand at a little air hockey. This time James coundn't hold up. My Dude, on the other hand, is a certified air-hockey guru who schooled me time and again. Then we got hot and itchy in our sweaters and had to play a sit down game. This is why we're married and not professional atheletes. Or even amature athletes.
Most of these games were entirely in Japanese. Many of them involved shooting of some sort. A new breed of game that challenged your dancing/drumming/guitar rocking ability took me aback. I learned that I have none of the above. Save all the rhythm-based games, the games were basically the same as the ones from my childhood, only now they have better graphics and chairs built right in.
Tomorrow we’re off to play four square. I swear, by the time you all see me again I’ll be so fucking cut.


Shady Aces
So I went and read to the old people today. Since I tell the stories to the little kids I volunteered to read stories to the old folks at the Baptist Village. Strange place. Very noisy, lots of wheelchair shuffling. I took my seat in the main common room and immediately a polydactylic kittie jumped into my lap. A lady scooted over and told me that that cat never sits on anyone. Then she proceeded to give him several artheritic, yet still sound, thumps to the back and chest. No wonder he doesn't come around often.

For the most part, these people look to be well fed and taken care of. Since I am one of the activities I know that they have a pretty heady schedule. Trips to the steak house in Oologah, a Sno Kone machine, a llama. Good times. The thing is, all the "guests" don't seem to like each other at all. Everyone is really cantakerous. A nice gentleman was telling me the story of how he repaired his hearing aid and attended school at a sanitarium and burned his shirt with a cigarette while driving a tractor. I'm unclear as to the timeline. Anyway, I was trying to start my story, but there was no stopping this gentleman. That is until Bernice rolled up, slammed into his wheelchair with her own and loudly told him to "SHUT UP YOU CRAZY OLD MAN". He grasped my hand and shuffled away.

Here's to dying in your bed, surrounded by kitties, and spooned by your beloved.


I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid

One evening while sitting on the couch, slightly tipsy, I realized that I had definitely grown up. Quickly I rushed to the mirror. I still looked the same. In fact I think I look better than I used to, but maybe that's just because I've spent more time with myself. So I refreshed my cocktail and set to thinking. When exactly did this happen? Well, I can confidently say that I did age a little once I flipped on the latest incarnation of The Real World and was completely unable to deal. Seriously, my tolerance for self-centered whining and agressive behavior disguised as "strong womanhood" is totally out the window.
Another sign of impending adulthood was the time I went shopping with my mother and she bought me a Swiffer Wet Jet. Because I totally wanted one! That was my treat. By the way, I love my Swiffer.
The most telling sign of maturation is the fact that, rather than getting all misty over my long lost youth, I find myself horrified by the youth of today. Let's talk about dreamy boys. Legolas? I can get behind that. 50 Cent? Um, I find it hard to imagine his spread in Big Bopper magazine. "50 has a pit bull named Kilo and loves long walks by the beach."
Teen fashion? All these girls look like skeezers. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I wish they'd just clip onto a little bit of style and stop wearing shirts that aggressively promote their bad attitude.
I'm really fine with my mean old lady mantle. It's hard to be nostalgic when I remind myself that I now have my own money, I can legally purchase alcohol, cigarettes, and pornography. I'm allowed to have sex whenever I want and I know that when my mom calls me, I'm never in trouble. I know that my Dude isn't going to show up at my house one day and tell me that he's taking Taunia to the dance instead of me, nor do I fret as to when he'll call. Also, none of my lady friends ever try to steal him. I guess high school was pretty rockin', but I'm pleased that I no longer run the risk of in-school suspension. Unless, of course, the Handlebar was my teacher.


Not that kind of weed.

So, one of the major projects I’ve been working on is a systematic weeding of the library collection. For those of you who aren’t up on your library lingo, and I know there are a few of you out there, that really just means getting rid of old shit. Some librarians are kinda crazy when it comes to weeding, meaning they never get rid of anything, so there are stacks and stacks of books with titles such as “Stop the Insanity” by Susan Powter and “The 1991 Agricultural Yearbook”. That is not me. Weeding is actually tons of fun. You get to throw things away and you come across some amazing discoveries, a few of which I’m going to share with you today.

Quickstyle: This ladies companion is simply chock-a-block with tips on how to expand, enhance, and update your wardrobe with accessories. Published in 1994, Christine Kunzelman, television’s #1 fashion authority, lets us in on the dos and don’ts of fashion. Some of her hints include:
Mismatched earrings. “One hoop can be plain and conservative while the other can be smaller but decorated with a heart, pearl, or a tiny key.” The diagram shows all three.
On a turtleneck: “Place your pin slightly to one side on the collar or just underneath it on the shoulder or put a cluster of small pins together.” What they Kunzelman does not take into account is the sagging and stretching of the turtleneck brought on by the stress of a small cluster of brooches.
Plastic watches: “Buy several of these colorful, affordable watches and try stacking them all on one wrist as though they were bracelets.” Why not just use them to tell time?

I could really go on and on extolling the virtues of fanny packs, scarves, eyeglasses as headbands, and the importance of an all weather beret, but there’s more to cover here. Once you’ve found your style, it’s time to get something to eat. May I suggest something from The Complete Encyclopedia of Wild Game & Fish Cleaning & Cooking, Volume 2. Small Game.
For those of you who have opened the freezer one night and wondered “I have this armadillo/groundhog/marmot/wild cat but I’m at a loss for how to cook it.” Fret no more. Here’s a little something my mom used to make.

Squirrel Heads
Skin the heads as directed in under “squirrel skinning”. Remove the eyes and ears. Cover them with cold water to which one tablespoon of salt has been added and soak in the fridge for at least 12 hours. Put them in kettle and cover with water to which you add:
Salt, onion, carrot, bay leaf, mixed herbs, and lemon.
Bring to a boil, COVER and simmer for one hour. Put in to frying pan with ½ cup butter. Brown the heads lightly. The jowls, tongue, and brains are considered great delicacies.

If anyone out there tries this, you get an unspecified prize from yours truly. Keep in mind that I must have photographic evidence of every step of the proceedings, from the application of many plastic watches, to the pins on your turtleneck, to the decapitation of dozens of tiny squirrels. Also, those photos must be notarized.


Are you ready to ROCK??!!
So, we sang a little karaoke in honor of Lady Ms. Brown. Almost immediatly upon arrival, my Dude got up there and let loose a little Johnny Cash. While this did wholly rock, it attracted an unsavory element. There was this durnk cowboy guy that came right over to tell Brian that he kicked ass, natch. But then he kept hanging around, standing too close, telling us how much weed he used to smoke. When I went up to the bar he ponied up and called me a pretty little cowgirl. Now, only one person has ever called me cowgirl, a true and trusted friend. Hearing it come from this boot-scootin' dude was jarring, to say the least. Anyhow, I managed to dodge him and went on to rock some more, even though they didn't have Jackson.

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