It Takes an Entire Tag to Raise a Blogger

My buddy Robin tagged me with a meme, and so I come off my self-imposed hiatus (my OCD led me to bury myself in online CSS tutorials for the past week) and play along:

The Meme: Pick three professions, then tag away. They are...

If I could be a scientist... If I could be a farmer...If I could be a musician... If I could be a doctor...If I could be a painter... If I could be a gardener...If I could be a missionary... If I could be a chef...If I could be an architect... If I could be a linguist...If I could be a psychologist... If I could be a librarian...If I could be an athlete... If I could be a lawyer...If I could be an innkeeper... If I could be a professor...If I could be a writer... If I could be a backup dancer...If I could be a llama-rider... If I could be a bonnie pirate...If I could be a midget stripper... If I could be a proctologist...If I could be a TV-Chat Show host... If I could be an actor...If I could be a judge... If I could be a Jedi...If I could be a mob boss... If I could be a backup singer …If I could be a CEO... If I could be a movie reviewer …If I could be a filmmaker... If I could be a sherpa...If I could be a ninja... If I could be a cab driver...

If I could be a linguist, I would take a job working for the UN as a translator, then I'd incorrectly translate everything the president said...or better yet, I'd accurately translate everything the president said, and then the rest of the world could have a jolly good time laughing at his particular brand of English.

If I could be a proctologist, I would find out exactly what is up James Dobson's ass... and then I'd shove it up so far it would break his vocal chords, rendering him harmless.

If I could be a CEO, I would have enough money to let other people do all the work while I recovered from my various and assorted plastic surgeries.

And I tag the following lovelies:

Mamacita

Marianna

Scotty

Oh.my.god...can't...breathe..can't...breathe...must..stop...laughing

Signs of Getting Old

(1) I have absolutely no idea what a "Hollaback Girl" is.

You know what... that's enough right there. Feel free to add to this list as you see fit.

Upon Further Reflection...

Saturday’s post:

I reflected quite a bit on all your comments, and it helped me to figure out why I was so pissy about this story. In essence, I’m just really pissed off!! Why? This is a five-year old child… dammit, Mom. Clock your ass out of work and come get her. She needs you. She needs you to find out what’s wrong…needs you to help her fix it… she needs you to make sure she’s safe and happy and healthy. You left her to fight for herself…left her at the mercy of weary teachers and police officers totally unprepared for this kind of a situation.

I do see kids like this every day, and I have never once seen their problems solved with cuffs. Most of the time, a weary teacher is trying to talk the child down while the secretary babysitts the class and NO kids are getting "taught." Neither the school nor the police should ever be put into a position of “what to do with this child?”

What was more important, Mom? Do you have to work? Is your boss the stubborn kind… the kind who knows the law, but knows that he can fire you for a myriad of reasons…knows you’re defenseless because Florida is a right-to-work state?

So – I’ m either mad at the system, or mad at the mom. Either way… something here was terribly fucked up, and an emotionally disturbed child ended up getting the shit end of the stick.

You're right G - it was a knee-jerk reaction...mine. Did I learn NOTHING in ethics about prima facie?

What Do You Call, Five Lawers at the Bottom of the Ocean?

The old joke says, "A Good Start! I say, let's add "bad parents" to the mix, and you've got a very good start.

Five Year-Old Handcuffed by Police

So this kindergarten student became completely unmanageable... going so far as to try to punch the assitant principal. Mom was called, but couldn't get to the school to pick up her child, so the police were called. The video shows the child's behavior, and the child being cuffed by police officers. The family has contacted a lawyer, who is of course suing everyone in sight because the parents won't make their child behave. You can watch the video from the link.

Maybe it's the soon-to-be-teacher in me that has such a hard time with this story, or maybe it's the parent in me that is kind of pissy. Maybe it's the fact that I work on the campus of a discipline school and I see kids like this all damned day... I see them kicking teachers, punching them in the groan, swearing a blue streak... being generally unmanageable...AND FOR THE MOST PART GETTING AWAY WITH IT. I see their parents charge into the school (which, by the way, the kids have been sent to because they are unable to behave) and yell at teachers and administrators because (oh for shame) they dared to discipline their perfectly well-behaved kids. (well, someone should.)

Yes - that's exactly how I feel. No bones 'bout it. We are raising up our kids to become successful members of society. We teach them about consequences. We teach them respect. If we don't, we can't sue the society that expects obedience to the social contract. They need to handcuff Mom and the lawyer too.

The Good News is...

I think I am mostly going to be very bitter and jaded today. I am, with very little exception, disgusted with my species... at the least the North American portion... and I'm thinking that it would be nice if we all would act more like my cat.

My cat would never, ever bury a child alive. My cat would not put a child in a garbage bag with a stuffed animal, then leave her there to suffocate. As long as the child fed my cat, she would never have to fear my cat. Even if she forgot to feed my cat, my cat would do little more than try to attack her as she walked past the pantry.

My cat would NEVER allow Bolton to get away with all his shenanigans. My cat would not cater to the press and the president (notice how closely those two words are to each other?). My cat would simply turn his back on Bolton... in fact, my cat would sit 3 feet away from Bolton and show him the sack where my cat's balls used to be. He would. I know. He's done it to me.

My cat would not have cast a vote for Benedict XVI because my cat would remember that as a Cardinal, Benedict did his part to sink the election for Kerry by publicly announcing that Kerry and all those other "pro-choicers" were hereby denied communion. My cat would NOT do that. As long as Kerry scratched behind his ears, my cat would allow Kerry to drink the blood of Christ from his catfood dish.

This place is mighty fucked up these days. Someone throw me a lifeline. When I die, if reincarnation is an option, I think I'll come back as my cat. Just feed me, give me water, let me watch you pee, NEVER close the door when I'm on the other side, and above all, don't cut out my testicles. If you do that, we'll get along just fine, and I'll stay out of your business. Deal?

Damn you to hell, Blogger

I cannot get to my blog. I cannot get to YOUR blog. If you have a standard "blogspot" address, you can forget seeing me today. Blogger fucking hates me... or loves me, I'm not sure which.

Tried to go see PantherGirl at The Dog's Breakfast... fucking Blogger re-routed the address right back to my dashboard. Logged out and tried again... fucking Blogger re-routed the address to the Blogger Homepage.

I am pissy. And I miss you guys.

Robin

Take My Vice, Please

My apologies to PantherGirl for the following post:

Nicotine. Unlike coffee, this is a vice I would rather not have. My history with cigarettes reads like a soap opera script. Girl meets smoke, girls falls in love with smoke, girl gets caught with smoke by parents, girl and smoke are forced to separate, girl longs for smoke but settles for twinkie, girl and smoke are reunited, smoke abuses girl but girl is sure she can change smoke, etc...

I was somewhat of a rebellious teen, but no where near as adept at rebellion as my friend over at A Dog's Breakfast (and I bow to you, oh sneaky one.) Sarg kept a tight ship, so my rebellion had to be accomplished in a two-hour period, once a week. So my bagely jew friend and I would hitch a ride downtown in search of a horny Indiana University freshman who would gladly buy us cigarettes in exchange for the broken-promise of some under-age booty. Pack in hand, hand in hand, we made our way to People's Park to hang out with the other rebellious kids. *note to those in the Bloomington area (Scheiss, Garrison...) - People's was NEVER a place to score drugs. I don't care what you read in the Herald-Times... the kids at People's weren't stupid enough to buy/sell drugs that close to campus. If you wanted to score some good pot, you went to Walter M's house. The kids at People's just smoked cigarettes and played hackey sack.*

I quit smoking when I got pregnant with CadyBug. It was not hard - every damned smell made me sick for three months anyhow. I stayed nicotine-free until after CuddleBug was born and I was forced into the working world. My first job? Bartender at a strip club - tell me with a job like that, in a place like that, you're gonna stay smoke-free? I gave in to the pleasure of a good drag and resumed my abusive relationship with Philip-Morris.

Then I met the baby Jesus. The baby Jesus didn't like it when I smoked. Lighting up a Camel made the baby Jesus cry. Plus, if I got caught smoking, I'd get kicked out of the choir, right Scotty? So I quit - again - and stayed clean for six years. Six years!!!

Flash forward: Nashville, TN - June 2001. A recording project a full year in the making has just been completed, but instead of celebrating with my producer (yes, Seth) and band, I'm alone in a hotel. My children are home with their daddy, my darling LoveBug is far far from me, and I'm experiencing a distinct feeling of restlessness and disappointment. I've taken the baby Jesus out of that horrible church he was trapped in, so no one will care if I smoke cigarettes or snort crack. My recording project is over, so no one will really cares if my voice is scratchy... and before I know it, I've left the hotel lobby with a can of diet coke and a pack of Marlboros. Sitting on the balcony of my hotel room overlooking the vacationing families playing Marco Polo, I light up an old friend and take comfort in the familiar arms of a cancer-producing lover.

Let's face it; I've got an oral fixation. If you try to take it from me... well, you can. I'm just about through punishing my body for someone else's sins.

Life With Sarg - Epilogue

Gail called a Methodist minister over to talk about Sarg's eulogy. I went to the den where Sarg spent his evenings, secluded from the rest of us, save my sister any time she felt so inclined. While Gail tried to tell the minister what a great guy the Sarg was and how much he loved Jesus, I buried my nose in his chair and tried to catch a hint of Budweiser and Cohiba. I wrapped myself in his worn afghan and ran my fingers along the buttons of his remote. In this forbidden playground I fought back the tears I never cried growing up. "Listen you sonofabitch. I never cried for you while you bullied around this house so I'm sure as HELL not crying for you now." I laughed with Sarg. I knew that he knew I was all grown-up now. I knew he was watching me settle into his chair to claim my rightful spot as his daughter. I knew that he saw the independant woman that for so many years manifested herself as a belligerant brat. I laughed with my dad as I ran upstairs for a coke. Through the kitchen I buzzed, past Gail and Reverand Stranger, stopping only long enough to give Gail the evil-eye for lying to a man of the cloth. Returning to the den to commune with Sarg, I took not the chair, but my sister's seat at the foot of the chair. While my body heat transformed the cold tile of the fireplace hearth, a childhood memory invaded in my brain. My sister is five and we're playing in the den. She falls backward and cracks her head against the corner of the hearth. I panic. I hate her. I love her. I'm in trouble. I start to take a sip of coke and rush back to the present. Before the liquid reaches my lips, I smell beer. I look at the can, thinking I might have grabbed the wrong thing, but the red and white logo assures me I did not. I sniff - Beer. I taste - Coke. Sarg. I'll be damned.

I prayed for Sarg the night he died. I thought God had denied me. I was wrong. Until I learn to love him, and have that love returned, he's with me - that was my prayer. It took years of distancing myself from him to realize that I've been holding on. I want to love him, to understand him, to accept what love he had left to give me. But if I do, he leaves. If I heal the hurt, accept the body, harness my independance, restore the self-confidence, claim the birthright... if I do, he leaves.

Maybe that's why I still rebel...still wonder... still defy...

Maybe that's why in beginning the journey of wholeness, I suddenly feel frightened.

Daddy...not yet. Please

Life With Sarg - Part VI

Sarg died. I rode with him in the back of the ambulance. I thought ambulances went very fast. This one didn't. I stroked the liver spot on the back of his left hand, pulled on the silky hairs to remind him to hold on. They asked me to wait in the next room. They brought me coffee. Gail and my sister met me there. Gail knew. My sister denied. I prayed.

When Sarg died, he left Gail a widow. He left my sister searching. She'll search the rest of her life for an alcoholic veteran who will worship the ground she walks on. Me he left undone. I wasn't praying for him to live for the sake of life. I prayed for him to hang on long enough to watch CadyBug walk down the aisle, to watch CuddleBug tackle Purdue's quarterback... to watch me graduate from college, or sign a recording contract, or maybe make him proud one more time. I prayed for him to live just long enough for me to know what it is like to love him, and to have that love returned.

When the attending physician told us my dad died at 7:55pm on November 20th 1993, my soul whispered, "So did we."

Let Me Introduce You to My Sidebar

My Monday morning obsession (oh, yes of course I work Mon-Fri, why do you ask?) is spending about two hours working on my sidebar while I drink down that fabulous caffeinated morning elixir. I'd like to take a moment to introduce you to my sidebar. Please feel free to take notes; you can use them on the pop quiz we'll have later this week.

Bug Searches
Occassionally as I comb through the Internet on Monday morning (yes, I do work Mon-Fri. Why do you keep asking me that?) I will find something so shocking, so funny, or so amazing, that I must alert my readers. You will find in this section the results of my searching and wandering and wasting of company dollars.

Bug Juice
Profundity (is that a word?) central, I post stuff that moves me as ultimate truth. These are my words to live by, and I share them with you because it makes me look smart and well-read.

Bug Bites
The idea is to type a little monologue of stuff that pisses me off, but really can't warrant a full post. Sometimes I brag here, which doesn't piss me off at all. Sometimes I've already posted for the day, but want to say just ONE MORE THING. In other words, it's just an annoying little section that dresses up my sidebar and serves no real purpose. Read it anyhow. It makes my tail light glow with excitement.

My Antenna
This little section gives you an insight into my mood by directing you to the particular artist I'm listening to while I'm updating my template. I have selective OCD, and once I lock into an artist on Monday morning, (YES, MONDAY, not Sunday... what are you getting at?) you can rest assured I'll still be jamming it out on Friday afternoon.

Bug Eyes On
This is not, contrary to the link, an advertisement for Amazon. It is what I'm trying to read at the moment. Note I said, "trying." I'm a full-time student, so I'm usually reading some over-priced text book, but how boring would THAT be in my sidebar?

Bug Zapper
This "gotcha" section is really a little promotion for my favorite blogs. Yes, I know Michele does this daily, and yes I know that Flirt in a Skirt does this on birthdays, and yes I know that The Dog's Breakfast does this every Wednesday. I didn't ever claim to be original; I just like you to see my friends (read: "see that I have friends.") I like it better when you go see them and comment that I sent you. It makes me look important.

Movie Reviews
No explanation necessary. I just like voicing my opinion. Please do note that when I rate a movie as "five bugs," you absolutely must see it if you ever want to be my friend again. No pressure though...

Things I Shouldn't Like
You know what this is all about... pop-culture trash shit that you secretly love but would NEVER admit to anyone... foods you eat in secret... television shows you know are making you dumber... guilty pleasures and self-affirming behaviors that any therapist would tell you to get over... this section is where I show my humanity...where I get naked for the world... it's my own personal nudist camp.

Bug Blogs
These are some (note I say "some") of the Blogs I read daily. They are places for you to go when you want to see what I find interesting. There is no theme here, nothing to see people, move along.


So now you've been formally introduced to my sidebar. I need another cup of coffee and a fifteen minute gossip break (yes it's Monday morning... why do you keep asking me that?) Have a brilliant, productive day!

Two Posts in One Day...What the Hell is This, You Say?

You betcha - know this: When I post twice in one day, you know I'm getting ready to rant. You have been warned.

Other possible titles for this rant include:
Where Have All the Good Men Gone? They're minding their own business, that's where they've gone.
I Know Why the Caged Samaritan Cowers.
My Larry David Moment

Yesterday I pissed my son off. I had the unmitigated gall to say, "no" to him. He lovingly referred to me as the "mother of the year." I think he meant 'mother' in the 'she who gave birth to me fashion' but it's quite possible he meant it as an adjective. At any rate, in my effort to punish him in a truly meaningful way, I used guilt. Part of that guilt was doing really nice things for him, then rubbing his comment in his face. Hey - don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Today he approached me while I was doing my homework and asked me to drive him to the skate park. On the way to the skate park he informed me that he needed me to make a pit stop at the skateboard shop. This pit stop, of course, takes me five miles past the skate park. But I'm mother of the year, so I do it with glee.

While I'm waiting in the parking lot, I hear the strangest noise. I recall hearing it only after the fact. My son emerging from the skateboard shop directs my attention to a three-car pile up that happened while I was waiting. I didn't witness it because my nose was buried in a book, but I see that one of the drivers is an elderly man. He's standing in the middle of the street looking bewildered. I shove my son in the car and cross two lanes of traffic to see if I can be of assistance.

The Good Samaritan Bug: Are you alright?
Elderly Driver: Policia
TGSB: Habla ingles?
ED: No. Por favor, blah blah blah policia. *hands me his cell phone*


I call 911 and report the accident in detail. She transfers me to the police and I again describe the accident in detail. No I didn't witness it. Yes traffic is backing up. No, I don't think anyone is seriously injured. Yes, airbags were deployed. Location, make & model of vehicles. I hang up and hand the phone back to the elderly driver.

TGSB: Is there anyone else I can call for you? Familia?
ED: Wrecking Company.
TGSB: Insurance? Tow truck? Senor, policia estare' aqui momento. (hey, my Spanish sucks.)
ED: Morrisons!
Nurse Ratchet: Sir, is this woman bothering you?
ED: Morrisons!!!
NR: Sir, are you alright? I'm a nurse. Actually, I rent from you. I'm your renter and I'm a nurse.
ED: You my nurse?
NR: You shouldn't be bothering this man. He should be sitting down!


Totally baffled, I hand her the cell phone.

TGSB: He asked me to call the police and I did. He's asking for the tow truck, but I don't have the number.
NR: We don't need to be calling insurance companies. This man is clearly hurt. Don't you know anything?


Now, I can't figure out where exactly I went wrong, but I clearly have done all I can do. I start to leave the scene when a truck pulls up beside me.

Seemingly Good Samaritan #2: Has anyone sustained bodily injury?
TGSB: I don't think so. I mean, there is a nurse here now, so I think it's under control.
SGS2: Well, I'm an EMT, and I'm fully equipped to assist, but hey, you've got a nurse on the scene, so what do I know?
TGSB: Um, well that's great! I just meant that there's no blood or anything and I don't really know if people are hurt, but the nurse seems to be in control now...
SGS2 (interrupting): I'm a nurse too, you know! *speeds off in a huff*


And so I'm standing in the middle of four lanes of traffic in my pajama pants and t-shirt, trying to figure out exactly where I went wrong. By trying to raise my son up in the way he should go, I'm put in the middle of an accident, wearing my pajamas. By trying to be the Good Samaritan, I was yelled at because I don't know the phone number to Morrison Towing, because I'm not a nurse, and because I don't assume that everyone who stops is an EMT.

Fuck this good samaritan bullshit. From now on, I'm minding my own goddamn business.

I did NOT dump you! Who told you that?

If you blogroll-watch and you see that you've been "dumped" it is soooooooo not true.

I just sort of removed you from my blogroll...BUT only because you're in my sidebar as one of the Bug Blogs.

Why are some of you there and some of you not? (hard to please people...really shouldn't be so insecure)

It's simple:

Some of you comment. When you comment, I see you. When I see you (while I'm doing my template at work) I add you to my sidebar.

I do not have Blogroll installed at work.

They would kill me.

Over and out. Enjoy the weekend!

Random Saturday Morning Thoughts

(1) If this were Mon - Fri, this would Lunch Time Thoughts, not Morning Thoughts.

(2) Why isn't Frontline killing my dog's fleas?

(3) Why do I need to learn about pressure systems and cloud formation in order to graduate from college? I'm teaching elementary school, for Christ's sake. Besides, isn't that what we have weather men for? If I learn this material and teach it to my kids, we'll be putting meteorologists out of work. I'm sorry, but I can't have that on my conscience.

(4) Why would Mother Nature make a perfectly beautiful Saturday if She new I had housework?

(5) Is it a sin against nature to do laundry when it's 72 degrees and sunny?

(6) Why would God create beings with no common sense, then stick a penis on them? It's cruel.

(7) There are more stories about Michael Jackson in the news than there were stories about Abu Graib... the sheer quantity of abuse alone, when applied proportionately, is mind staggering.

(8) Is it too late to enroll my kids in European schools?

(9) Why did they remake Amityville Horror? Haven't we all agreed the first one was bullshit?

(10) Why can't a list simply end at nine? You see, this is why I have an aversion to lists. I just don't need this kind of pressure.

You guys have a lovely weekend. For those of you that wondered, I did not hit the bottle last night. I hit the pillow, but only after reading several chapters of Annie Lamott's "Traveling Mercies." LoveBug was informed of his misstep, but only after he brought me my coffee this morning. Alas, he is cursed with the "whoops" DNA, but blessed with an abundance of everything else. I must be in love. Sheesh.

Riddle Me This

Thursday 7:15pm - Child #1 asks permission to go to the mall/movies with friends. Permission granted.

Friday 3:35pm - Child #2 asks permission to spend the night with friends. Permission granted.

Friday 4:30pm - FunkyBug asks LoveBug where third and final child is; LoveBug informs FunkyBug that Child #3 is with her mother this evening.

That's three out of three folks; count 'em. Three teenagers, who are at every given moment living under this roof, are suddenly OUT of this roof for the evening.

My husband, who JUST LEFT FOR THE GYM for the next three hours wants to know, "What's wrong?"

Ladies?Gentlemen? Would anyone like to take a stab at this riddle while I, oh I don't know... SIT ON MY ASS on a perfectly good Friday night?

Humble Pie (With a Side of STFU)

Yesterday was supposed to be cleaning day, but my OCD will not allow me to tackle the task with any semblence of efficiency. Rather than simply putting things away, I found myself encircled with ticket stubs from Broadway shoes and Euros left over from a trip to Italy... bits and pieces of memorabilia that cannot be parted with. What to do with one man's treasure? It must be lovingly placed in the memorabilia box beneath my bed. However, the memorabilia box was already stuffed full with high school newspaper clippings from my drama club days, cassette tapes of solos at my old church, "coin collections" consisting of Canadian pennies, etc... So rather than clean out the cobwebs in the corners, I perused the cobwebs of my past.

I called CadyBug into my room to see if any of my memorabilia had significance for her. She eagerly collected her baby book and all the cards she received in her first year of life. Unfortunately for CadyBug, she has her mother's OCD and was all to happy to put aside her cleaning tasks to flip through the pages of her baby book.

CadyBug: "Your hair is so blonde...B.L.O.N.D." Mom, you spelled 'blonde' wrong!

Funky: Sorry.

CadyBug: "First New Year's Eve. Had dinner at Grammy and Papaws. Came Home. Boring" Mom! Thanks a lot!

Funky: Well, it was boring. Hell CadyBug, even YOU were bored!

CadyBug: You didn't have to TELL me that! "Five months...tries to stand up... Six months...
G-ma B. bought your first pair of shoes...pink Nike's...you stand real good!" Real Good? Jesus Mom, who learned you to spoke?

You know - I worked my ass off on that baby book, making sure every gurgle, every step, every smile was lovingly and diligently recorded - making sure that when my daughter was older, she could relive her infancy and know how very much her mother loved her. At thirteen, she marvels in her mother's stupidity. That's what I get for raising my children to be educated and well-spoken. Sigh.

The Things We Do for Friends

~for scott, who has territorial issues sprinkled with a touch of "what about me" syndrome

I'm not sure when I noticed him. I remember the first time I saw him, and I remember thinking quite distinctly that this man with the model wife and golden children was most certainly, unequivocally, without-a-doubt-gay. But that's not really when I noticed him. I imagine, being who I am, that I noticed Scott when he began his ascension. That's more or less MY m.o. but this story isn't about me.

At some point somewhere down the road, he took the mic and ran the show. He was a gift to us, a cause for celebration, and a venue whereby our leader could draw in the masses for a hour-long altar call. He was my music minister and my choir director, and most importantly, he was the person I needed to suck up to in order to nab the coveted Easter Sunday solos (ha! You thought I was going to say, "friend" didn't you, Scott? That's what you get for being so narcissistic.)

I'm not sure when we became friends - not the exact moment, or even a fond recollection that would call back the day. All I can recall is that he was there, and it was like he was always there. If we weren't rehearsing, we were firing off e-mails all day long. Back and forth we would discuss music, or gossip about people that thought they could sing, and sometimes if the weather was right and service had been a bit too long the night before, we would proceed to fight like I've never fought with anyone else in my entire life. By this time we knew WAY too much about each other NOT to wield the most wicked of swords - if only to try to make our point and prove our superiority.

And if Scott and I were out sans mates, we were always ALWAYS assumed to be mates ourselves. We kind of liked that, though it would be years later before we could confess it.

And then the path was cleared, and it might very well have been a happily-ever-after for my music man and me. It might have, except for two small problems:

(1) The only attraction we really had for each other was related to our admiration of each others' passion and talent for music. We idealized what life might be like if we were partners, because we were already best friends.
(2) Um, he's gay.

So other than one very awkward attempt at "seeing what would happen if we, um, you know..." which incidentally got as far as a half-hearted footsie match, we left it alone. It was the best decision we ever didn't make.

So I've got this friend named Scott. I used to think I had a crush on him, but I didn't. I just love him. He still knows more about me than most anyone else, and occasionally we still draw our swords. Mostly, we just miss each other like hell.

Mammaries...Smite the Corner of My Mind

I'm absolutely faithful to a few things: my husband, my caffeine, and my blogfriends, including Michele Agnew. I always participate in her Meet n' Greets as well as her Comment Game, but I usually pass on her Daily Three Things simply because I have an aversion to lists. Michele is a clever girl though, and she caught me with this one:

"If you could go back in time and relive a few special moments in your life exactly as they happened, what three events would you wish to experience again?"

So I started to respond with the first thing that came to mind, when the thought occurred to me (you know the one), "I'm so blogging this."

(apologies to Brandon for once again stealing his format)

April 2001

We nudge our way into the club, past handsome bois with pretty drinks. It's not our first gay club - we frequent several in Seth's hometown of Nashville when our schedules clear and we have the opportunity to spend the weekend together. My producer, mentor and friend, Seth is also my secret love, my forbidden fantasy. I am, as far as I know, his project. We come together (though not the way I would've liked) to write songs, to discuss philosophy, to teach and to learn what it means to be a Christian in a country where Christianity stands for all the wrong things. Seth opens my mind, heals my past, and makes my nether regions tingle with excitement. When the writing block is unformidable, Seth and I put down our pens and pick up our keys. In order to experience life, we go where people are alive: piano bars, coffee houses, and night clubs. This weekend, we are in Atlanta. We aren't here to write - we are here to witness the surreal; a female impersonator, performing as Seth's aunt, singing Southern Gospel at Gospel Night in a gay club.

We take turns buying each other rounds of pretty drinks, until Seth has one too many and confesses to the bartender his lineage. Word gets around that we are who we are, in relation to who is performing as whom on stage, and suddenly drinks are on the house. We sit on our bar stools while the bois listen to Seth's stories of growing up with the Queen of Gospel. I listen too, but mostly I concentrate on Seth's hand resting on my upper thigh...his thumb caressing the inner seam of my jeans.

We move to the floor, and Seth allows me to stand at the front of the circle. Seth always puts me forward, as close to life as I can get. He always stands behind me, always there for me when the reality of life makes me dizzy. Tonight he wraps his arms around my waist....pulling me back against him...The Diva sings, and the room spins from alcohol and energy and Seth's breath on my neck.

The Diva announces a special person in the audience - her "nephew." The crowd cheers, and we are pulled on stage. Thus begins a round of Amazing Grace. The Diva sings, then hands the mic to Seth. His voice, angelic and pure and everythingwonderful, fills the club. I am in love with him when he sings. Then he hands me the mic. All my years of singing for the baby Jesus could not compare to the purity of this worship experience. I am worshipping not just Him, but the purity of the life of all those whom God loves, who love God but have no place in the American Christian church. I am worshipping the Mighty Cosmopolitan, the joy of acceptance, the dizziness of lust, and the look of admiration on Seth's face. The club cheers me on as my voice rises to hit notes no one dares hit in a live performance. The sweet sound of harmony penetrates me as Seth wraps his notes around mine. The song ends, we step down, and Seth kisses me. I think about his boyfriend, about my boyfriend, and about their misguided understanding of the nature of our friendship. We believed what we told them - until this night.

The Diva wants to talk shop with Seth. He drops me off at the hotel and promises to return in a few hours. I go to our room and call in our wake-up time and breakfast order....shower, crawl into pajamas, sink under the covers... and he returns. The room is filled with small talk - the Diva wasn't really cute...long drive tomorrow...bagels with lox for breakfast, wonderfully luxurious bedding, $90/night through Priceline...he crawls under the covers with me, and silence screams. It's the millionth time we've slept in the same bed, but the first time we put a pillow between us. Before tonight we could cuddle, after tonight don't dare try. The wall has been chipped and we can see through to what might be.

In the morning I wake first. The pillow is gone and his face is inches from mine. The luxurious bedding is wadded up at our feet from a night of tossing and turning. I look at his closed eyelids, and I look at his slightly parted lips. These lips that kissed me in friendship, and then kissed me in passion taunt me and tempt me. His eyes open and lock on mine. The wake-up call does what it's supposed to do. It wakes us up. We never walk in that dream again.

When the nature of our relationship slapped us in the face, we turned our backs on each other. Our relationship became perfunctory; he was my producer and I was his project. It was the only way it could be, because it couldn't be the way it was.

An Tribute to the Men of Music

No, not the women. They get their tribute another day. This is an tribute to the men who touch me with their voices, their instruments… oh that they would touch me with their instruments.

This is an tribute to you, Peter Frampton. I saw you in Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart'’s Club Band when I was nine years old. You were this frail, beautiful boy...fragile with bedroom eyes and pouting lips. I didn't know what bedroom eyes were - but you taught me the meaning of a crush, and what it felt like to cry myself to sleep.

This is an tribute to you, Peter Cetera. I bought your sixteenth album when I was in middle school. You may not remember me, but every night after dinner we took the stage together and acted out every word to every song in the set. You and I were in love, Peter! You taught me about harmony, and gave me a glimpse of what my future held in terms of never quite getting the guy – and then being really dramatic about it.

This is an tribute to you, Michael Hutchence. You sang this song, and you exhaled…or maybe inhaled...but you made this sound with your breath that took mine away. I tried to mimic you on the radio. I eventually learned to make that sound, but not by singing along, but rather, by making out to your song in the backseat of a teenage boy’s car. I don’t want to dwell on the whole hanging-yourself-thing, but I want you to know that sex has never been as hot as it was that night, and I really wish you wouldn’t have left.

This is an tribute to you, Chris Rice. I confess, though your songs make the spirit worship, that I secretly worshipped the lyrical worlds you wove, and in those worlds, we were making babies.

This is an tribute to you, Marvin Gaye. I discovered you late, after you were fashionably sexy. I just wanted to thank you for that song that always makes me take off my clothes. My husband thanks you too.

This is an tribute to you, John Mayer. You have taken a middle-aged woman back to a time when it was perfectly normal to fantasize about singers. Now it’s just perverted. That being the case, “Damn baby, you frustrate me…”

The Vice that Binds

I was watching Donnie Darko with my kids a few nights ago and one of the characters extolled the virtues of what is considered to be the most beautiful word combination known to man: cellar door. To hell with that - how about Soy Latte? What about Venti Espresso?

I remember my first cup of coffee: I was sixteen and my best friend was fourteen. She's Jewish, but as Annie Lamott so aptly puts it, not into Moses Jewish, but bagelly Jewish...she might as well be Canadian... but she was raised on caffeine by parents who didn't buy into the bullshit of caffeine being a drug and all that. My friend and I were band geeks on a trip to St. Louis. We were free to do as we pleased, thanks in part to chaperones who were too busy fucking each other to pay any attention to us. We had snuck out the night before and found ourselves flat on our backs under the arch. No, we weren't star gazing...we were busy getting felt-up by some horny band geek boys. I only recall that (1) they weren't any good at it (2) how glorious it was to be making out in St. Louis (3) How absolutely glorious it was to have my best friend beside me, laughing at how inept these boys were at tweaking the titty. Never mind that we didn't have anything to compare their skills to - a girl just knows, and we knew they were doing it all the hell wrong.

My first cup of coffee was thrust upon me by my friend the next morning. "You look hung-over. You're gonna get us busted, bitch."(note: Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie totally stole our act.) My protest of "But I don't LIKE coffee" was met with the evil bagely-jew eye and a styrofoam cup. My first cup of coffee was probably closer to my first cup of sugar-laden cream than it was coffee. "Just put more stuff in it. Eventually you won't taste the coffee...and put on some concealer... Jesus Christ on a Popsicle Stick, don't you EVER wear make-up?"

I became violently ill later on in the afternoon. My precious digestive system was not accustomed to so much caffeine, let alone so much sugar. But I remember the joy of sharing my first grope and my first coffee with my first best friend, and I've never turned back from either.

I've been through my various coffee phases: cream, flavored, straight up, and back to cream again. It's not just the flavor I'm after anymore; the aroma is intoxicating, the temperature is soothing, the marbling affect of cream settling along the surface is mesmerizing...

But let's face it - no matter how much I glorify it, I'm addicted to caffeine. If you try to take it from me, I will do my best impression of a bagelly jew, and then I will fight you to the death.

Calling all Readers!

I'm tired of stuffing academia into my brain. My brain is full, my soul is hungry.

I've got a busy weekend ahead of me, so this is my WEEKEND COMMENT-GRABBING POST!

Recommend a book, please! Fiction, non-fiction, spiritual, comedy, classic, modern...hit me with your best shots! Tell me what you want me to read and why!

Life With Sarg - Part V

"Thank you for calling Bridwell's Olds-Honda. This is Robin!"

"It's your dad...he's not breathing...the ambulance is on its way..."

Maybe Gail said more - I don't remember. I don't remember leaving work. I don't remember starting my car. I do remember the 1991 Chevrolet Corsica, aqua blue, dented fender, faded Peace the Bear Beanie Baby taunting me from the back window. "Move dammit!" I screamed, as the driver of this Corsica crawled along oblivious to my panic. "Move, goddammit, MOVE!"

Gail met me in the driveway. "I think he's gone," she sobbed. I think I screamed, I'm not sure. I am sure I did something primal because my mother's neighbor put her arm around me and told me to calm down...not to make a scene... "Fuck off," I hissed. I do remember telling her to fuck off.

Somehow I stormed my way past the paramedics. I knew enough to let them work - they must have known enough to let me close. Kneeling beside flesh and wire, I assessed the situation. This man on the floor was not Sarg. Sarg is never horizontal. This man is pale - Sarg is brown from weekends golfing. Sarg bellows - this man rattles. Yet the smell is undeniable - a smoky tavern with a faint tinge of Old Spice and Vitalis. "Daddy...not yet. Please."

Life With Sarg - Part IV

The day my daughter was born, part of Sarg's soul returned from the battlefield. Like with my sister, Sarg was able to reflect the love of an infant and return it in measure. He drew CadyBug up in his arms and held her to his face as I watched in amazement. I wondered what he looked like so close up; I wondered what his breath smelled like when it wasn't tainted with Budweiser and cigar smoke... what portion of his eyes twinkled... what it must feel like to bask in his radiant glow. He looked over at me and said, "You did good, kid." Four words could never make up for 21 yrs of wondering, but for a brief moment I knew what my sister had known all her life, what my mom never knew, what my daughter doesn't remember knowing.

Sixteen months later my son was born. CuddleBug refused to come out of his womb, so we had to go in and get him. At 12lbs, 10oz Cuddlebug immediately drew the admiration of the Sarg. While I was sleeping off the shock of a last-minute C-section, Sarg was stopping the carriage which was wheeling my boy to the nursery. "I'm calling the Coach and telling him we have a new linebacker!"

Where CadyBug softened Sarg's heart, CuddleBug turned it upside down. The two-kid combination prom queen/quarterback was enough to return another portion of Sarg's soul. Now almost entirely whole, he was no longer fully sullen. He was still distant, but not quite as much as we'd grown accustomed to. I began to realize my body defined our relationship; my biological father's DNA separated Sarg and I, but my body produced his first grandchildren. I realized these babies redefined the nature of our relationship. For whatever I had done wrong before, I had now done exactly two things right, and in those two things were the terms of my redemption.

Life With Sarg - Part III

Sarg had a lover. I suppose we should have guessed as much, but none of us knew Sarg was capable of loving anyone but my sister. We knew he had friends, yes, but having a lover required both emotion and passion. Sarg displayed neither. Sarg worked, Sarg drank, Sarg yelled, Sarg golfed. Sarg died. At Sarg's funeral we cried. His lover wailed. That's how we uncovered his secret. That's when we knew Sarg was capable of so much more, and that's when we realized that we were completely incapable of drawing it from him.

A career military man recieves a soldier's funeral. At the grave site the trumpets played Taps. I felt my soul spin wildly, indicative of the nature of our entire relationship - spinning and colliding...gravity pulling us together and the mass of all our past experiences pulling us apart. I held on to my husband until the 21 gun salute. I recall two shots, then my knees buckled. While my mother glared at the wailing lover and my sister cried - oblivious to the unfolding truth of his betrayal - I gave in to more than gravity; I gave in to the knowledge that I would not miss Sarg. I had missed him every day of my life, right up until the day he died. I had missed his approval, had missed his affection, had missed his secrets. When the last shot fired, I was through missing him. We each passed by his coffin and threw our roses. The symbolism was not lost on me.

Life With Sarg - Part II

Everything I did disappointed Sarg. He was an intelligent man, but not terribly insightful. He didn't realize what kind of child my mother's lover had created. He didn't know I needed to explore, to experiment. He didn't know I needed to shine on my own terms, and he didn't know how to raise me to be the person I was intended to be. He required only obedience from me, and that was precisely the weapon I used to effect him. It is true that a child will gladly accept negative attention when that is all a parent has to offer. We were mortal enemies, Sarg and I. Though I greatly feared a man who never once raised a hand to strike me, I found myself unable to resist the urge to piss him off at every turn. Not only would I cut off my nose to spite him, I would cut it off and wave it in his face, slinging blood on every surface and person within reaching distance. The Bay of Dinner was an eighteen-year war that no one won. It wasn't an issue of "if" we'd fight, but who would start it. Would I put too much butter on my potatoes, or would my mother have somehow managed to over-cook them? I liked it best when the battles were my fault, but more often than not, I drew the fire away from my mother. She was weak and I was strong - like the Sunday school song.
When I was too old to simply ground, the battles became a series of retaliatory strikes. Sarg sent my sister to Europe in high school - I flunked out of college. Sarg bought my sister a car - I moved out in the middle of the night. Sarg told me to never come home again - I returned in the middle of the night, six weeks later.
Amazingly, Sarg didn't yell. He didn't even look at me. In fact, I was certain after the third day of my return that he would never look at me again. You'd think that would make me happy. It didn't. After several weeks of invisibility, I realized I'd fallen victim to the most mortal of wounds, and it was the worst bullet I ever took.

Life With Sarg - Part I

He was a son-of-a-bitch. He was a hard-assed, no-nonsense, militant father figure. He was my mother's husband, my sister's father, but not mine. He was the man Gail married because the man she loved left her with nothing but a broken heart and a bastard daughter. Sarg was a career step-parent; his first wife came complete with three children whom he raised and provided for. Like her, my mother came with baggage that didn't have the key to his heart. Sarg was supposed to provide us with the life my mother had dreamed of; a beautiful home that sang with security and creature comforts. Gail didn't know that Sarg was wounded. Gail didn't know that Sarg lost more than 40% of his hearing in the war. Gail didn't know that Sarg lost 40% of his soul as well.

Life with Sarg was boot camp and battlefields. Life with Sarg was Christmas morning on his terms; coffee with the boys came first. My sister I could sit under the tree staring at its glory for hours, but we dared not touch the ribbons on the packages until Sarg fired the starting pistol.

This career military man was a career step-parent, but father to one. My sister was the only object on the face of this earth that could reflect the light of a dying soul and bring him to life. My mother knew it, I knew it, and we hated him for it - or at least I liked to think she was my comrade in arms. And so it was that each evening Sarg would return from work - Gail would prepare his meals and I would hide in my room so that I would not feel the pain of watching my sister crawl into his lap while he opened his mail. I left my comrade on the battlefield unarmed while all the love that was left in all that was left of Sarg's soul would be poured without measure upon my sister - golden curls, green eyes, spotless confidence and innocence...how I hated her because of how he loved her.

A Bug With a Purpose

Damn you, Zogby!
Damn you to hell.
(format stolen from "One Child Left Behind")

In the year leading up to the mishap we now refer to as Election 2004, I signed up to be a Zogby Survey participant. All the surveys at that time were election related and don't you KNOW I had to put in my 2 cents (1.2 cents after inflation and a small head injury I'm sure I must have suffered as a child.) Now that the fiasco has been resolved (uh, yeah) Zogby has gone off their rocker. From the latest Zogby Poll:

Q. Do you have a "blog" or online diary?
A. Yes
Q. Does your blog or online diary have a theme, intention, or purpose?
A. Huh?
Q. Is your blog or online diary's theme, intention, or purpose clearly stated?
A. Monkey say what?
Q. Do you ever lie in your blog or online diary?
A. It's not lying - it's creative writing, thankyouverymuch.
Q. If you ever lie in your blog or online diary, do your readers know?
A. Good Lord I hope not.
Q. Is lying in your blog or online diary part of the theme, intention, or purpose of your blog or online diary?
A. I suck.

I've failed at just about every diet and exercise program I've ever tried, I sold my soul to Nashville to become a singer/songwriter to no avail, and my house looks like a demon-possessed, mutant monkey threw a toga party in it...but now...NOW... NOOOOWWW I'm a failure at blogging etiquette???? Well don't this just fucking suck!

Do I need a theme? Is there some purpose to blogging? Should people know when they visit the Bug's Place that they'll be reading a political or social commentary... or perhaps the trials of being a 36yr old college sophomore...or should I stick to family stories...or maybe make shit up and tell everyone it's my memoirs?

I need to weave a cocoon and contemplate.

Suggestions?