Green chicken make telling the airsickness bag!!

Junior high meant, among other things, no more recess. No. Now you had Physical Education. This meant trudging down into a dungeon-like basement room full of screeching idiots, some of whom came from really, really disturbing home situations, and getting naked whilst simultaneously experiencing puberty. This was called 'dressing down.'

It was absolutely humiliating. The only naked girl I'd ever seen up to that point had been myself! I had no idea where to look. I knew where everyone else was looking though: at me. Oh yes they were too. Up until then, one of my nicknames had been 'Stuffie'. After a couple of group showers the message shot through: the Kremlin was in fact real (and spectacular). Then the nickname became 'Boobs'. Boobs? Boobs,you say? May I ask, as long as we're on the subject, where yours are? Yeah, wow. When do you suppose that's going to happen, huh?

That was the only positive thing about the entire experience, in fact: being the only Barbie in a room full of Skippers. HA!

Otherwise, it wasn't quite the locker room scene in Carrie, but it was pretty grim for everyone concerned for the first couple of months, until the novelty wore off. Sanitary products were in fact tossed around; towels were snapped, ketchup was squirted in through the vent slots onto peoples' clothes, all the usual crap; all accompanied by the smell of dank, fungussy sweat dating back to 1925, while the asbestos dust sifted down from the plumbing insulation. Yeah, it was awesome. This building made it on to the front page of the Oregon Journal one year on a list of 'Ten Most Hazardous Public Buildings'.

The showers were...no. The showers beg a particular parallel that I hesitate to draw; suffice it to say that the soap was in fact soap and not a block of wood painted white. You could tell it was soap because there were other peoples' hairs stuck in it.

Yes.

Back in the day, girls athletics programs were pretty much a joke. Underfunding and a general lack of interest by the district lead them to hire whoever would put up with the low pay and the unstable hormones, basically...and they definitely got what they paid for. In Jr. High our first PE teacher was Mrs. Marshall. She was small and rather a pretty woman on the downslope of 40, with the sudden, unpredictable temper of a rabid rat.
A rabid starving rat.
With scabies.

You never knew what would set her off. One minute she was a pleasant, smiling woman filling out the attendance sheet. The next, she's cutting loose like an air raid siren. Two bright red Pikachu spots would glow high up on her cheekbones and the whites of her eyes would actually turn pink. Whipped spit-froth would begin to gather in the corners of her mouth until it began to fly off in chunks as she screamed. I can recall her leaning out of the doorway of her office like the harpy hood ornament on Satans Pontiac, shrieking about some shit or other, and watching her neck go all strange. You know how when you strip the meat off a turkey leg and there's all these weird strappy cartiliginous quill-type things in there? She'd get yelling and her entire neck would look just like that; like a de-fleshed turkey leg. What was unfortunate was that she had this patchy skin condition shaped like the former Soviet Union that would color up during these tantrums, and you could follow it's course from day to day around her neck, chest and face.

I didn't come in for any more than my share of shit from this woman, oddly enough. I say that meaning that I was the kind of studious, asthmatic non-participant who usually came in for extra helpings of 'special treatment' from these types. I think Mrs. Marshall was just grateful that she had one less hormonal little beast to deal with. As long as I sat on the sidelines and kept my mouth shut I was let alone, unless she needed to include me in one of her sweeping, 'you all have the worst attitudes I have ever seen in 13 years of teaching' rants.

Midway through my 8th grade year Mrs. Marshall passed a length of gut during a tantrum or something; I forget what. In any event she had to be replaced.

Her replacement was the unfortunately named Ms. Hatleled, a spastic, evil chihuahua of a woman who looked like an eight year old boy with a moustache. Her other distinguishing characteristic was a pair of freaky, black, tam-o-shanter sized nipazoids you could see through anything she wore. It was impossible not to stare. And you could always blame them; they started it.

If she had ever cracked a book in her life (this is not counting perennial Gym teacher favorites 'Instigating and Encouraging Sadistic Group Behaviors' and 'Asthma, Allergies and Orthopedic Disorders: Nothing a Quick Three Laps Around the Track Won't Cure') I would be flat out surprised to hear of it.

Her idea of teaching was to give a speech at the beginning of class. About something. Anything. Like, say, a movie that she'd seen over the weekend or something else really PE-oriented like that.

Her idea of motivating a person was to fall into place behind them and start yelling and clapping only milimeters behind the back of your head "ONE TWO ONE TWO ONE TWO COME ON LIFT THOSE FEET LIFT THOSE FEET GO GO GO GO GO" and then actually come alongside you, and turn, facing backwards, still running, and continue this shit "LETS GO LETS GO LETS GO LETS GO" while everyone ahead of you sniggered and everyone behind you (usually no more than two people, in my case) sweated and puffed. I would have got down on my knees and thanked God if she'd stepped on a land mine, the fact that Milwaukie wasn't heavily mined at that time notwithstanding. I would have loved to have seen her blown into a fine, athletic mist. By the end of the year everyone else would have too. She was so heinous that even the flunkies and ass-kissers finally deserted her.

One of her favorite before-class pepper-uppers had to do with how unfair it was that she hadn't been allowed to do 'X' or 'Y' thing because she was a woman. She had a point; if you were female and athleticism were all you had going for you back then, that certainly was the prevailing reality and it had to rankle. But here she was with a job and benefits in her chosen field, so I didn't waste too many tears on her behalf. Besides, I was willing to bet that what had really held her back was a riproaring case of NABPD*.

She was a member of the 'abuse is motivating' school of teaching. Imagine your stereotypical sadistic ex-Marine sergeant football coach and you have her personality down. She genuinely believed that snarling insults into a persons' face would spur them toward greater achievement. Even if that person were turning blue from lack of oxygen. There she'd be, screaming 'You need to just quit faking it now and get up off your butt and get out here and sweat like the rest of us!' I guess she figured I would, I don't know... suddenly spring up, give myself a shake and say 'Thank you, thank you Ms. Hatleled; I was blind but now I see. Chronic respiratory illness really was nothing more than a character flaw on my part and I'll certainly never give way to that kind of weakness again!' and go run the Boston Marathon. I'm not the only person who got this treatment; she genuinely believed this shit. She knew if she could just scream loud enough, just shame us enough we'd snap out of that wimpy 'physical ailment' bullshit tout de suite. Just a sniffle was enough to spark off one of her scornful rants about 'you spoiled kids who think they're sick make me sick'. Oh yes. "All that stuff like allergies and asthma and cramps and things, they're all imaginary. Yeah, most of you girls what you need is a good smack."

Your tax dollars at work!

The beginning, middle and end of this womans' life was sport and activity in all its hideous permutations. By Christ everyone was going to participate ("You have a doctors excuse on file? TOO BAD! YOU'RE PARTICIPATING!") and everyone had better not whine and everyone had also better just agree with her that this was the best, most funnest, most favoritest part of their entire school day.

She labored under the misconception that each and every one of us was aching to be a hyperactive dull-norm just like her. All we needed to do was to admit to ourselves how fun playing flag football (wearing shorts and a thin cotton shirt, in the middle of winter) really was. I recall her telling us "Oh, I hated school. If it wasn't for PE I wouldn't have stayed. I hate reading and math and all that stuff; that's just stupid as far as I'm concerned. I couldn't wait to get outside and get moving!" I wanted her to get moving right in front of a corn auger.

It was inevitable that she was an enthusiastic proponent of Field hockey. Why this is even a sport eludes me, let alone a traditionally female one. Field hockey is a form of the ritual game that the Algonquins used to make captives play before they tortured them to death.* It is not fun. It was not meant to be fun.

At that time there was NO SAFETY EQUIPMENT WHATSOEVER. What Field Hockey amounted to back then, was handing the most vicious, bloodthirsty and deranged thing on the face of the planet (a pubescent girl) a club made of solid oak which has been sharpened on one edge and telling her 'now remember, no high sticking!' The Algonquins showed more mercy, I'm sure of it. You take one zit covered She-Hulk experiencing her first bout of PMS and give her a field hockey stick, and face her up against some quailing 65lb fawn of a girl who can barely lift hers, and there's going to be some damn high sticking, you can believe it.

I was a studious, artistic person with asthma. Naturally, Ms. Ratshithead HATED me. I don't mean she didn't like me, I mean she sank down to a grade school level and pulled deranged shit like sidling up to me and hissing some kind of evil comment just loud enough for me to hear and then slipping away with a mean smile on her face. At first this was devastating. But after I had a chance to think about it, every time afterward I was just instantly repelled-after all, this was an adult for the love of Christ. Any effect it might have had just ended.
I began retaliating.
I started with the psycho eyeball treatment.

YOU CAN DO THE PSYCHO EYEBALL TOO! ITS FUN AND EASY!
1. Piss off a gint.
2.While they rant, simply stare. Do not blink. Above all, DO NOT TALK. Maintain absolute silence throughout. Let them ramble, let them rant, let them say what they will, at length, with illustrations if they deem fit.
3. Once they finish, hold that same gaze as they walk away, maintaining it through the inevitable point where they turn around and glance back and see you, and they do that kind of 'full body clench' thing and then try and play off the sudden unease by giving you a little more attitude.
4. Keep staring. Do not blink. Continue to remain absolutely silent. Gint will make a 'phff' sound and turn away but their shoulders will be all squinched up.
5. DO NOT OMIT THIS STEP; IT IS THE COUP DE GRAS:
Make a sound. 'Hey!'
Watch them flinch.

Completely flummoxed the woman; I loved it. So did my sister members of the 'less than athletic' club. Those snickers were sweet sweet music to my ears.

Flipping her off as soon as her back was turned was just as effective, of course, but her toadies could see that and would nark you off. I found out the hard way.

Ms. Ratshitheads' idea of punishment was to make you run the track, so I ended up running the track for the rest of the class. Now by 'run', I mean that I walked, you understand. When that got boring, I boogied the track for awhile (kind of a Vegas showgirl thing with lots of high kicks and arm flinging.) I also flashed cars passing by the track (those snap-front shirts made for rapid deployment)... and when she finally gave up trying to make me mind by yelling herself hoarse from a distance, I sat down on the track. And waved at her every time she looked at me. Hi!
Oh, I had them rolling in the aisles. Nothing a bully hates more than laughter, particularly when the bully is also an idiot.

I'd taught myself how to make this strange demented noise in my throat. I even practiced it in a mirror and everything until I could do it without moving a muscle. It really freaked her shit out. Shed be lecturing the class and I'd give her a little 'WHOOPWHOOP!' every time she ended a sentence. "You girls have the worst attitude Ive seen in 10 years of teachinWHOOP! ...I've never seen a lazier bunch of fat, out of shape girls in my lifWHOOAWAWAW! .....I'd be surprised if any of you passed this class at the rate you're goinWHOOP!"

I loved it when she tried to face her way through it and it just failed miserably. After all, everyone else could hear it too, and they were all cracking up laughing. I'm going 'ooWEE EE EE EE OOOOOO aw! aw! awwwww!' like a brain damaged toucan off in the rain forest someplace, all the while looking around like 'who could that possibly be?'

It didn't stop there. I pulled out the stops... destroyed papers, vandalized the plumbing, dumped shampoo into her desk drawers. I wasn't the only one, either, but I was the first one. Oh, you bet; I waged a full-on guerrilla war against this woman. Did she once suspect me? She did not. Why? Because the ignorant dumbshit was a victim of her own preconceptions. I was not an athlete, therefore I was useless. Useless people didn't do things.

Useless people generally didn't have complete access to the entire building at any time of the day because they were painting murals on all the walls***, or know where the stage door access to the lower gym was, or how to jimmy open the breaker box and trip the power supply to any room in the building either.

I did, though.


________________________________________
*Nazi ass-bitch personality disorder

**true fact.

**They're still there, too.

Plaid squid mistake value of dear: Tulalip penny slots!!

I am being stalked. This is no shit. The lady down the street is stalking me.

We made the mistake of helping these folks about 4 years ago or more, back when we all lived in the same community.

Now, we live in the country. When you live in the country you help out your neighbors, and in turn they help you out, and it's all cool. Fine. So it was with these folks. If they had an emergency we babysat their kids. They needed to borrow a truck, no problem. At one point they were down on their luck and needed a car. We had one that was a runner so we 'sold' it to them for 5.00. Far from being unusual; folks have done the same for us in times of need. And these things were reciprocated; the husband gave us a hand with our deck and cars and whatnot.

We would not have done any of it had we known that his wife was a raving psycho.

...you know what i'm going to do? i'm going to tell you about this one chick i totally hate who doesn't have any toenails; i'm going to do so at length and apropos of nothing. i am.

This is not to say that I was expecting anything different from the woman, just that I was kind of hoping against hope that I'd be wrong. This is the kind of woman to whom gossip is meat, who says the first ignorant thing that pops out of her mouth; no inner censor, no boundaries to speak of, bone stupid, loud, inappropriate AND a hee-hawer. The kind of person who brags about having been in prison (for meth, natch!) and in the next breath goes off on a rant about drug dealers and how the cops won't do anything about it. You know lady, whatever.

They moved to another town, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

Then they moved back into town here about four months ago now. Could they borrow our truck? Sure. No problem. Fill the tank, flip us a nug, it's cool.

As far as this broad was concerned, the Gravy Train had just pulled in to the station.

That's when it BEGAN. Every day there was phone call, and with every single one she was begging for favors.* Can I come over and whine about my apartment not being cleaned (no.) Can I come over and whine about how much the neighbors here hate me? (no.) Would you come over and help clean my apartment (no.) Would you help me paint (no.) Do you have any paint and brushes and painting supplies I can use (no.) Can I borrow your truck (no.) Can you give me a ride (no.) Can you babysit my kids while I go down to the check cashing place (no.)

Here I began screening calls.

She left messages: Can I have some cigarette money (no.) Will you run down to the store and buy me a pack of cigarettes (no.) Can I borrow 20$ (no.)

Then she started showing up at my door. Unannounced. Uninvited. More favors being begged. Will you drive me to my son's preschool evaluation (NO.) Can I have a Christmas party at your house (NO.) How about if I sit here and plan it anyway (NO.) Can we park our car in your driveway with a for sale sign in it (NO.)

Soon she was showing up with some skeezer friend of hers. AT 9:pm. In her fuzzy house slippers. In the rain. Could we help skeezer move? (NO) Could skeezer borrow our truck?(NO) Could skeezer come on over and beg for cigarette money? (NO) How about if ol' skeezer tries to sell me some prescription drugs she's ripped off from Christ knows where?(NO) Hey, how about me and skeezer come on by and just hang out for no apparent reason while I go on and on at length about people you've never heard of and how much I hate them?

And simultaneously the phone calls are mounting up, every day, until there's ELEVEN MESSAGES ON MY MACHINE some days.

We have a good reputation in this town. We are not criminals. We are not ghetto rats. So why suddenly do I have Chickenhead One and Chickenhead Two parked out in my driveway doing bong hits while I sit inside and look out the kitchen window and just about drop ass thinking "Oh my God what the fuck?! WHAT THE FUCK?!? Oh Lordy please; kill me now!"

The last time this woman called I took her for a drive. I told her "Listen. We are not an inexhaustible source of money and favors. We have family, and they come first, and we take care of them. Not the rest of the world."

Pretty clear, right?

And the next day this skag called five times. Wanting a ride into town. And cigarette money. And Christ knows what all.

It finally got to that point.

Obviously she wasn't listening; well and good. The Biker and I fronted up her husband out into the driveway one day, in the rain, stood him up against a car and gave him the rundown. I told him what his wife had been doing, and he blanched. Then my husband threw down. Now, chickenheads' husband is a smallish man. My husband, the large tattooed biker - and a none-too-happy one at this point- is up in his face hissing "We don't want that psychotic bitch of a wife of yours calling anymore, or at our door any more, her OR her loser friends."

Unquote.

See, I'd say that was pretty clearly put, wouldn't you? The guy got the message. Oh, I'd say he definitely got the message. And I know the message was delivered, because the calls and the visits stopped dead, for about a week and a half.

I kept my answering machine on, though.

I started getting a few exasperated comments from folks. "Are you still screening your calls? Oh geeze. Would you please pick up your phone? For heavens sake. How long has it been? Don't be paranoid."

Oh? Just wait. I grew up with people like this. I know how their minds work. Just wait.

And sure as shit, the calls started up again.

No messages. Just breathing.

She lives just down the street, right across from the city limits sign where the speed limit changes from 45 to 30. My machine picks up, and as I listen to her breathing, in the background I can hear a truck putting on its jakebrakes. Now my phone is in the front room next to the streetside window. And as I listen, here comes the same truck rolling past my door, still gearing down.

These calls went on for a month. One. Then two in one week. Then three.

Now we're up to three a day, with brief verbal messages. "Hi! How do you like the weather!"

Well gee, now that you mention it I've noticed its been kind of BATSHIT FUCKING INSANE lately."...tell you what,they arrested my cow ass for peeing on my neighbor's front step and even I think this broad's crazy."

So the next step is going to the husband at his place of work and having another talk with him. From there, the police. It may even get ridiculous enough to require a 'no contact' order. The last time I had one of those was over 20 years ago; there was a court appearance involved, then a visit to the county clerks office. It cost 75 bucks then, and that was with all the fees waived. I don't imagine that they've got much cheaper or more convenient in the interim.

Life was a lot simpler back when I handled this shit with a baseball bat.
___________________________________________________

*Unneeded favors, let me hasten to point out. That's the kicker. They have friends. They have family. They have a car and money. That's what makes this so incredibly creepy. She doesn't need this stuff...she's just doing it. Gosh I love being a freak magnet.

INTERVIEW WITH Z!!!!

Z writes a sex blog. It's pretty goddamn hot, too. Anyway she wanted me to interview her so I bugged her with about a hundred emails and we hammered the following out.

All the bits with lower case letters, thats Z. I know you would have figured that out eventually but there ya go.
______________________________________________

EVER DONE A GIRL?

Nope, but I've done a woman.

OH. I SEE. ITS LIKE THAT IS IT. OK.

Oh, sorry, did you want a bit more detail?

NO, NOW ITS BORING.

...It was a threesome, and it was fun. I hadn't been hankering after threesomes or girlies, and I don't have a mental checklist of Sexual Things To Do Before I Die - partly because I already did some of them by mistake.

YOU'RE JUST GOING TO GO ON AND ON ABOUT THIS, AREN'T YOU.

...But hey, she's my girlcrush, and she was on the same continent for a change, so we had sex, and it was great. It's very unlikely I'd do it again (unless she turns up here again).

....OH I'M SORRY. WERE YOU FINISHED? OH. WELL. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN OTHER THINGS BESIDES SEX? WHAT, IF SO?

Are you trying to imply I'm obsessed with sex?

YES.

Bitch!

YES.

Actually, in some ways I'm more interested in writing about sex than sex.

...actually, that's a big fat lie.

NO! *ahem*

However, it's entirely possible that if I had a garden I wouldn't spend my time writing about sex

ANOTHER VICTIM OF GARDEN ENVY. I UNDERSTAND. I HEAR THIS ALL THE TIME. OH, IF I ONLY HAD A GARDEN I WOULDN'T HAVE TO BE ALL BEAUTIFUL AND HAVE FABULOUS WILD SEX AND BACON GREASE ORGIES AND BE WEARING ALL KINKY BOOTS AND WHATNOT.

...and if I had more self-discipline and painted more I wouldn't write about sex...

NO SHIT? COME DO MY BATHROOM. I'D BE HAPPY TO TAPE EVERYTHING OFF BEFORE YOU ARRIVE. I WOULDN'T EVEN BE PICKY ABOUT SPILLS. RIGHT NOW IT'S WHITE AND LEMME TELL YOU ITS MAKING ME NUTS.

...but none of these things would stop me having sex - and because I am too anti-social to be able to sustain the kind of relationship where you see the other person(s) more than every few weeks, sex tends to be very intense and concentrated, and I am self-obsessed enough to find

the differences between sexed-up me and everyday me fascinating enough to write reams about.

So yeah, mainly I'm just interested in sex, although my consuming passion is color, and I'm not sure that's terribly enthralling to read about.

BUT I'LL BET YOU'VE NEVER TRIED IT, HAVE YOU. DON'T JUDGE, Z. DON'T HATE.


SAY SOMETHING DIRTY. (well? I don't know what to ask! you want barbara walters here you're out of luck. on the other hand you don't have to put up with questions about trees.)

I don't really do dirty talk. But this morning in the car we were discussing the fact that my best-friend's sister's boyfriend moos when he wants sex, and sometimes bizarre beats dirty hands down.

....GOTTA TELL YOU, I DID NOT EXPECT 'MOO'. LIKE A COW? I'D HIT HIM WITH A CHAIR; GEEZE. MOO?

I think hitting him with a chair is fairly restrained. I'd be wearing his balls as earrings.

WHY DO YOU DO A SEX BLOG?

It was a conversation that went on for a couple of years.

"You should write a blog"
"Yeah, that's a good idea"
"You should write a blog"
"Yeah, that's a good idea"
Ditto ad infinitum, until
"You should write a blog"
"If I have a blog, it'll be about sex"
"Fine. You do that"
"Fine. I will"
And then there was about two months of: "Fuckfuckfuck I'm writing about sex and anonymous people are reading it! What the hell am I on?" until you get to the point where you become so innured to it you think posting pictures of your ladyparts is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Truly, the more I go on the less I know why, and the less I think about it, because that way total fucking derangement lies.

However, there is one possibly sane reason: I wrote quite a lot on the internet, and always felt I was playing both safe and to myaudience, and I wanted to write something that came from the inside more. It may not be raw, what I write, but it sometimes leaves me feeling raw when I write it, and I like to take my masochistic streak out for a whirl every so often.

SO IT SERVES A LARGER PURPOSE? BY WHICH I MEAN, IT ISN'T ALL ABOUT THE TITTILATION; IT'S BEING DONE AS MUCH TO EXPAND YOUR INNER LIMITS AS IT IS TO EXPLORE THE SUBJECT AT HAND?

It sounds pretentious as hell to say it, but hell, I am pretentious at times, so I'll just say it: you haven't quite grasped the extent of my self-obsession. I don't write stuff so that other people will think I'm hot or fantasize over me, I write so that I feel pleased that I've managed to get something in my head out, and with any luck it'll be out and coherent. Plus, I tend to think I'm so interesting that people are just gagging to know the inner workings of my mind. (Sometimes, obviously, I write things that I think are crap, but press publish anyway, and then I have to box my own ears and go and stand in the corner until I have repented). And sex is a good subject to write about if you're introspective with a literary exhibitionistic streak, because you can throw emotions and relationships and self-image and quite a lot of misinformed opinions in there too. What I think I'm trying to say is, I don't have time to think about titillation, what with all this self-policing going on. Unless, of course, I post a picture of my legs, in which case everyone is welcome to forget about my mind and just concentrate on how hot and sexy carefully selected bits of me are.

NOTE: SHE DOES HAVE GREAT LEGS, KIDS.

...seriously great

WHAT IS YOUR OTHER WRITING ABOUT?

I don't do it any more. I used to be a ravening political animal, but now I just read the fluffy bits of the newspapers and don't watch TV and it all floats over my empty little head.

WHAT IF YOUR MOTHER FOUND OUT? OR YOUR KIDS? OR DO THEY KNOW ABOUT
YOUR BLOG?

My parents, my daughter and my friends know I have a blog. But when I say I don't want them to read it, they respect that because even though they think it's weird I don't want them to read what I write, they have come to terms with the fact that I am weird. If they found it... I dunno. Sophisticates though they are sometimes, they'd be shocked, and I doubt they would understand my reasons or justifications. Also, I don't think they would feel they needed to know that much about my sex-life, any more than I need to know what they would write on a blog about their sex lives.This is something that makes me want to just jam my fingers in my ears and yell lalala-I-can't-hear-you.

YOU WRITE LIKE SOMEONE WHO'S HAD SOME BOOK LARNIN.

My father was a librarian, and I used to spend my time sitting behind the stacks reading my way through every single book there.

STORY OF O, VENUS IN FURS, TIM FOOTMAN, JUSTINE, LADY CHATTERLEYS LOVER, THE TOTAL WOMAN, MARTHA COOKS LITE...

Well, Lady Chatterly's Lover, Anais Nin, Henry Miller - bear in mind that it was a school library. I had to buy Story of O myself from an actual bookshop. Luckily there was no Martha in those days, or I dread to think how my tiny mind might have been corrupted.

DID YOU THINK I WOULDN'T NOTICE HOW YOU LET THE MARIBEL MORGAN REFERENCE SLIP ON PAST?

I was just hoping you wouldn't draw it to anyone's attention.

I INTERRUPTED. CONTINUE.

I went to a pretty up-market school, dropped out of university and finished my degree (Art and English) years later. But I come from the kind of family who, if we have to hammer in a nail, we read a book about how to hammer in a nail first, and then hammer in the nail ineptly because by now we're engrossed in a book about hanging a picture.


I NOTE, (WITH HUGE RELIEF) A DISTINCT LACK OF FEMINIST RHETORIC IN YOUR WRITINGS. YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO OWN THAT 'TANG LIKE A GROWNUP, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO JUSTIFY IT ALL OVER THE PLACE; COME ON NOW. HOW CAN YOU BEAR TO SHOW YOUR FACE AMONG THE OTHER SMART LADY SEX BLOGGERS? DO THEY THROW THINGS?

Well, I am a feminist, and I think that women who run around lisping: "I'm not a feminist but..." need a cattle prod up their ass. WHO DO YOU THINK GOT YOU THERE, HONEY? WHO CHAINED THEMSELVES TO THE RAILINGS SO YOU COULD HAVE ALL THESE CHOICES AND SIMPER ABOUT HOW EMPOWERING IT IS TO GET YOUR TITS OUT? WHO WAS FORCEFED WITH A TUBE DOWN THEIR NOSE IN JAIL SO YOU COULD SQUEAK ABOUT YOUR RIGHT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY? DON'T FORGET YOUR ROOTS, BIRDBRAINS. And so on, until my capslock key wears out. But I have very little sympathy for bleating on about how the Patriarchy is keeping us all barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen when we could be kicking through the glass ceiling with our hobnailed boots. Grow up, sisters, and take responsibility for yourselves instead of blaming everyone else for your underachievements.

I LOVE YOU.

I think the some lady bloggers think I'm a scary bitch and they only throw things from safe distances, and some lady bloggers probably think I'm too trivial for my flibbertigibbet feminism to matter much.

TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE YOU'VE NEVER REFERENCED RABELAIS (or anaiis nin, come to think about it). IN SMART LADY SEX BLOGGING CIRCLES THAT'S LIKE NOT THROWING SIGN WHEN ONE OF YOUR HOMIES GOES PAST. DOES THE SHAME OF THIS OMISSION TORMENT YOU?

I've never referenced The Simpsons either. I am a cultural-references wasteland.

YOU WRITE AS HONESTLY ABOUT THE PLEASURE AS YOU DO THE REST OF THE EXPERIENCE...THE SETTINGS, THE TALK, THE MOTIVATIONS. THIS ISN'T WHAT I'VE COME TO EXPECT FROM MOST WOMEN WRITING ABOUT yeah yeah yeah yeah. WELL IT ISN'T.

...For ever curs'd be this detested Day,
Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite Curl away! etc. etc.

I don't really know what to reply that. I just write the way I write, about whatever comes into my head, so long as it has a hook that makes me want to write it. I don't do journal entries, so there's no progression of: first we hooked up, then we went to the room, then he did this and I did that once I'd been talked into it, and then we did something else and then etcetcetc. Sometimes I get a flashback to something that happened 20 years ago, and I write about that, and sometimes the thing that makes me want to write is a pattern on a curtain, rather than "Guess what, y'all, I had really great sex at the weekend". (Yes, I am weird. It has been remarked upon).

There is all sorts of stuff I can't bring myself to write about: I can't go on about how fabulous anyone says I am because that would just be boastful and silly, and anyway I note that people are most inclined to tell me I'm a great fuck when I'm not actually doing anything, which makes one wonder if they are just relieved I've stopped doing things, and everyone I have sex with has access to the blog, so if I wrote about what a world-class cocksucker I was, I'd just get comments pointing out that I'm a notoriously lazy fellatrix. And I'm neither sentimental nor romantic, so I can't write lovey-dovey posts: I'm a Scot, and we're only mawkish when we're drunk, but I have to have a little lie down when I'm drunk, and am therefore unlikely to post anything dribblingly affectionate.

DO YOU EVER FIND THE SUBJECT LIMITING?

Yes, very - I quite often feel as though I'm writing the same stuff over and over. Plus, I won't write about some stuff because I don't think it's anyone's business but the people involved. Sometimes I think I haven't got the right mindset to be a blogger.

YOU CAN HAVE ANY CAREER IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. WHAT WILL IT BE? WHY?

I'd write the perfect novel, and have a career sitting on my laurels. Because that's what I've always wanted to do. Or I'd be an interior designer because if you can't make sense out of what is in your head, you can at least make sense of objects in a space and make people happy inside
the space.

YOU WOULD MAKE ME HAPPY IN MY SPACE IF YOU'D PAINT MY BATHROOM. WHAT IF I SAND AND DO ALL THE PREP WORK? I'D EVEN PRIME. ID BE HAPPIER IN MY SPACE. NO ONE COULD HEAR ME SCREAM. IN SPACE.
THAT WAS AN 'ALIEN' JOKE. HA!


OK, you win. I shall come and paint your bathroom if you send a spaceship to get me AND let me take pictures of my ladyparts nestling in your nasturtiums.

IMAGINE GOING TO THE FREE CLINIC AND TRYING TO EXPLAIN HOW YOU GOT APHIDS.

Oh, c'mon! I could be a story on Snopes!

baby recipes

For Chaucers Bitch or whatever the hell she's calling herself now...because she wanted to know how to make a baby.

The woman married a sailor, right; you'd think she'd have that stuff figured out by now, but no. Apparently it takes the wisdom and advice of an experienced woman to bring these younger girls along....so here goes.












DELICOUS IRISH RED BABY

....ah yes; sure 'n its the drinkin o' the green

Irish Red Baby....a tasty treat on a cold winter afternoon...served with a heapin' helpin' of boiled cabbage and a steaming glass of delicious mulled cabbage, it's the kind of homespun fare that will have them emigrating to Boston before you can say 'have some delicious cabbage'!!

1 1/2 tablespoons prepared horseradish
1 tablespoon unprepared horseradish embarrassed by Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon salt (sodium chloride may be substituted)
ground black pepper to taste
3 tablespoons vinegar in which a human toe has been preserved
1/2 gallon vegetable oil
4 freight cars filled with spoiled butter
1/2 cup sweet onion, chopped until its disposition changes from 'sweet' to 'distinctly irritated'
2 teaspoons garlic, minced, browned in lamprey squeezings, chilled and set aside
1/2 cup apple, peeled and chopped, ground, re-constituted in used motor oil, set on fire, rolled into a ball with some lint and set with pinecones, and a stick. And some rocks.
3/4 cup pickled beet juice reduced to a quivering emotional wreck by merciless jeering
5 cups cabbage, shredded (well duh, its an Irish recipe, gotta stank up the house with a bunch of nasty old cabbage up in here)
1/2 teaspoon salted salt, extra saline
1 tablespoon vegetable oil, extracted using the Vulcan galvanized extraction system (allow for counterclockwise motion in the southern hemisphere)
2 pounds baby, cut in 3 inch pieces
1 cup dry white wine
2 cups pickled beets, soured in the light of a waning moon
1/2 cup not-so-fresh parsley, minced

Directions

In a Buick hubcap, whisk together horseradish, Dijon mustard, 1/4 teaspoon salt and several grammes of cocaine cut with mannite. Discard.
Whisk in vinegar very rapidly. Pretend that javelinas are eating your feet and jump around too. DO NOT OMIT THIS STEP.
Slowly whisk in 1/2 cup oil until thick, tarry, and perfectly motionless. Set aside. Shun for several months. Refuse to accept calls.
In Dutch oven, melt some plastic toy army men over the highest possible heat the settings will allow. If using a Finnish oven a 'Hello Kitty' figurine may be substituted for the army men. Deglaze with urine.
Add onions, garlic and a potato bug. Saute until tender, about 5 hours.
Stir in beet juice and scrape any browned bits from bottom of pan. Then fling the entire mess out the window. Use a backhand motion.
Stir in cabbage and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Bring to a bubble for some unspecified reason. Let cook for three days. Because we wouldn't want the house to NOT smell like a Dubliners jock strap; please. This IS an Irish recipe after all.
Cover and cook over low heat until cabbage is tender, yeilding, and somewhat slutty in appearance.
Meanwhile, 1 tablespoon oil in skillet with a disdainful sneer. Add baby and brown. If baby is already brown, omit this step.
Add wine to baby and tell it knock knock jokes.
Cook until deviated from the norm.
Slap Norm. Combine pickled beets with prepared horseradish vinaigrette. Pour into underpants.
To serve, arrange several pieces of baby on each plate next to a mound of cabbage, since this is an Irish recipe and it wouldn't do not to have a metric shit-ton of fucking cabbage in it.
Arrange pickled beets around the house and sprinkle each plate with tears of remorse.
1. Go find a nearby overpass and start shooting at cars.

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BEBE MAL DE MER (French for 'Never take take a baby on the Orcas Island ferry during March')

...oregon baby sez: a little dank before that rough crossing makes 'whoopsie tummy' say 'bon voyage!'

Surprise your friends this holiday season with this tasty, tangy treat! It's sure to tickle their tastebuds! Barring that, ram it through their stoma with a broomhandle; its a sin to waste food.

HINT: For a really festive effect, bring this into a darkened room a la flambe and watch their stunned amaze as the ceiling catches fire and flashes over onto that cheap plastic tablecloth you bought thinking 'Ooo, it looks just like lace; they're just a bunch of rubes, they'll never know the difference' only now its too late and everyones running around with their heads in flames and the cat is making that weird HORK HORK HORK noise.

Ingredients:

4 ounces (1 stick) baby
3 tablespoons flour
1/4 cup very finely minced lean street person, unbathed
1/2 cup finely minced mincing mincers, minced like a big minced thing which is all mincey
3/4 cup mushrooms, finely chopped (minced)
4 tablespoons finely minced onion , camp as tits, wearing a tutu, doing its Katherine Hepburn impersonation WHAT THE FUCK IS IT WITH ALL THE MINCED CRAP GEEZE
4 tablespoons finely minced garlic SEE WHAT I MEAN?
1 teaspoon salt (minced)
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper (minced)
1/8 troy ounces cayenne pepper
1 cup rich beef stock, made from old wool sweaters COME ON FOLKS ITS BEEF STOCK. one assumes beef here. Go hunt down a beef. I'll wait.
Marrow sucked from the shinbone of a gnu
1/2 cup dry red wine or more depending on the success of the beef hunt; beer or Wal-Mart store brand mouthwash may be substituted

Directions:

In a large heavy saucepan melt the butter over low heat. Gradually add the flour, stirring constantly, and cook until the ceiling is light brown. Quickly add the man, the box of #5 fuses, the dilithium crystals, mushrooms (minced), onion and garlic (make sure that shit is minced) and go rent a carpet steamer. Add the salt, pepper and cayenne and some crud out of the window tracks. Keep the mixture in a shoebox and gradually add more baby, an unbaptized infant elk, and a half cup of vasoline, stirring constantly to keep the sauce as smooth as possible which ought to be pretty easy given the vasoline. When the sauce is blended, stand in the back yard with no pants on and holler at kids walking by to come over and see your new puppy. When the police arrive run and hide. Makes 2 cups.
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