yeeehaaaawwww!

Now, Andy's all about the privacy stuff so I won't say conclusively whether we did have hot, hot monkey love bordering on tantric and I'm not going to say if we didn't have hot, hot monkey love bordering on tantric, but I will tell you this for free...you might think playing Lord of the Rings in bed is sexy but I guarantee you, the moment you throatily whisper to your partner, "I see you bear the white hand of Saruman" things will come to a screeching halt. Your partner may even say to you, "What the hell are you on about?" Then you have to stop and remind him of the Orcs and you'll then realize that he hasn't seen part two yet, so you will feel obligated to show him how cool Legolas was when he slid down the stairs on a shield and he was pwew, pwew, pwew shooting arrows the whole way down and then zing the shield goes whipping out from under him and riiip impales a guy right in his throat and he's all arrgghhh! then he falls over and dies and, and, and...

And by that time, he was asleep.

This leads me to believe that he's not the geek I once thought he was. We'll have to work on that.

LOTR me asap-ly,

Natalie

And when Legolas grabbed onto Aragorn's horse as he was running past and did that flip thing and landed on the seat I was all like, "Whoa - elves rock!" ()

one of these things is not like the other

Since Andy posted the picture of his brother's wedding I thought I'd go ahead and show you my wedding picture.

This was, what, two years ago? Three years ago? (Andy, help me out - how long have we been married?) Anyway, I'm not fat. Seriously, I'm not - I just look that way because I was buying cheap clothes. I'm serious. Stop sniggering!



That was us. What you can't see are our kids to the right of us (our left, your right) who were given the contents of my purse to play with during the "service". Afterwards, we went out for some pints and generally got piss-drunk out of our minds.

I'm speaking from years as a wedding planner - that was the best wedding I'd ever been to in my life.

I have a theory that the more a wedding costs the shorter the marriage will be. That's not being petty - the most expensive wedding I ever managed dissolved so quickly that I was able to reap the benefits not only once again but twice. I think it has something to do with the princess-complex. High-maintenance, "We need to register 16 eight-piece-place settings at $400 a pop or else this wedding is OFF!!!" kind of chicks really scare me. There are more of them around than you would suspect. Probably one out of every four weddings I handled was for a woman like that...so think of your three best friends. If they're not the princess, then it's you. Sorry, you lose - but thanks for playing.

Here's a little bit of home-truth that I'm going to slap down on your ass...no one else will tell you this, but you are paying multiple thousands of dollars for a party for you. (The bride, that is.) The groom? He gets very little out of it, other than to shut you up. Would you allow him to run your marital asses into debt for the sake of a party to make him feel good? No fecking way.

My dream is to do away with "Bride" magazine. Get rid of caterers and cake decorators. It's a fecking sham. All of it. You want to invite four hundred of your absolutely closest friends to eat your prime rib and to take away cutesy little personalized, "Kelly & Keith 4-Ever" candy bars? Then, I'm sorry, but you have bigger problems than I can sort out.

Now, not all married women view the wedding like it's their party, their time, whatever. But a lot of them do. You are pledging your life to another person, that's a huge thing, I understand that. So, um, what do you get when you have a baby? That's an even bigger commitment, and you can't break it nearly as easily. What do you get? Oh, some bows stuck to your head. Right. Okay, that makes total sense. You get some baby shampoo and a bouquet of plastic ribbons. Sure! That makes perfect sense.

The best weddings I've ever been to have meaning. They're not prescribed by some fucking magazine. And, guys, if you're marrying a woman who's weak enough to fall into that trap...well, do you really think that's the end of it? Women, is he ever going to look as dashing as he did in a tux and tails?

Why would you throw these expectations onto the mundane, of the every-day, for the rest of your lives? Why on earth would you want to start things that way? You have nowhere to go but down.

If you mean it, if it's real, you don't need some stupid big party with a white dress. You'll do it on a Friday afternoon when no one's looking and relish every moment. If you need the party then by all means, go right ahead. It's people like that who kept my ass in business for so long.

On a wedding anniversary...an eighth or a fourteenth or something that's not divisable by five...I'm going to renew my vows. And I'm going to do it barefoot in front of a Native American with none of my family there for that event, either.

Check your priorities-ious,

Natalie

I ain't judging; I'm just sayin' ()

jiggety fucking jig!

He's home, he's home!!!

What a fine bald head my man has. Sexy in that, "dip it in oil and rub it all over me" kinda way.

That was too much information but, whoopity doo! His ass is in bed and can't edit me.

That's a sexy-fine head right there.

Lech-ingly,

Natalie

baby's coming back

baby's coming back so I'm on my best behavior...

I woke up singing the lyrics to a song by a band that no one who has ever of them likes. I'd play the song but I only have it on tape (!!!) and besides, I'm sure that Jellyfish isn't as good as I remember them to be. But still. STILL! Andy's coming home and I'm gonna greet him with a punch in the face. Because that's the way we do things 'round here. First the punch, then the hot, hot monkey love.

It's an ancient dance of seduction whose mysteries are still, erm, mysterious to me.

People often never ask me, "Natalie, what is the secret? How have you managed to stay with Andy - who, honestly, is a painfully bitter man - all these years?" To them, I reply (or would do, if anyone asked me) that the secret lies in the ability to have a conversation that ends, "What is it with you and midget porn, anyway?"

Of course, that statement should be made by the man in the relationship. For those of you keeping score at home, that would be Andy.

I dunno - it's cuz midget porn is funny. They're just little people but, man oh man, do they take their performances seriously. Ah, I can't explain it.

But today is no day for midget porn, oh no it is not. Today my Andy is going to come home, and when he walks through the front door I am going to jump from the highest step and he will gracefully catch me in his arms and spin me around. Or I'll fall on him and sprain his back. Either way, we're talking some serious bed-time.

(Sealed envelope prediction? He'll storm into the house, curse the dogs, wrinkle his nose up at the mess in the living room and stomp down the hall to his computer and begin the arduous task of backing up his laptop onto his dying unix box, all the while grumbling about being jet-lagged and wanting a beer. There he will sit until around seven when he'll become inspired to play something like New Model Army at eardrum-shattering volume while screaming the lyrics at the top of his voice. Then he'll tell me he's too tired for hot, hot monkey love. And I will be pissed so I'll stomp away to watch midget porn all by myself. I can almost hear him whispering in my ear right now, "Don't read me!")

Ah well, at least he'll be home and I can stop parading around the house in his underwear, spraying his cologne in my path. He doesn't know I wear his underwear while he's gone, though, so let's just keep that one between us, okay? Thanks.

Don't judge me-ly,

Natalie

I share too much info here, I think. This entry even made me uncomfortable. Happy Monday, y'all! ()

life is good

Ahh...an all-new Boomtown, a burrito supreme, and my son taking his first step, all in the same night.

It just doesn't get any better than this-ious,

Natalie

Not necessarily in that order ()

keey-rist!

I found a link to the winners of the 2001 Creation Science Fair from the most electric of all the bugaloos. Some highlights include:

First place at the elementary school level: "My Uncle Is A Man Named Steve (and not a monkey)". Look, my uncle doesn't look like a monkey (she's obviously no relation to Ben Stiller) and he doesn't eat bananas. Evolution is wrong!

Second place at the elementary school level: "Pine Cones Are Complicated". Well done, junior - now get back into your harness.

Honorable mentions included this gem: "Pokemon Prove Evolutionism Is False" I choose you, Jesuschu!

First place at the middle school level: "Life Doesn't Come From Non-Life" This experiment was quite the little thrill, as the student put a bit of charcoal, some water and a multivitamin in a jar to see if life would spring forth. Oh, and she also asked God to not perform any miracles. So this experiment not only proved that "life doesn't come from non-life" but it also proves the power of prayer! Good for you, little girl.

Second place at the middle school level: "Women Were Designed For Homemaking" This little genius compares females in the workforce to "normal" workers (they make less than the "normal" people! Tell 'em to go home!) and the female center of gravity is lower than males, thus making them perfectly suited for carrying laundry baskets and groceries. I'm really envious of the lucky lady that snags this fine little gentleman!

Honorable mentions include: "Mousetrap Reduced To Pile Of Functionless Parts" (I'm thinking this is the older sibling of the Steven Hawking who decided that pine cones are complicated. "Dear, little Jimmy needs a project for the creation science fair - what would you suggest?" "How about he tears apart a mouse trap? He's pretty good at that.") Another honorable mention was "Dinosaur & Man Walked Together" (note to child...the movie "Caveman" was not an accurate representation of history) and "Rocks Can't Evolve, Where Did They Come From Mr. Darwin?" Wow! She's a bit of an aggressive one, isn't she? Quick, someone get her a seat on "Crossfire"!

The high school projects were a little more complicated...first place was "Using Prayer To Microevolve Latent Antibiotic Resistance In Bacteria" in which two groups of bacteria culture were studied. One group was "prayed over" and became more resistant to antiobiotics. Geez, all of these kids are proving that prayer works and yet the press hasn't picked up on this?

Second place went to a boy who titled his study "Maximal Packing Of Rodentia Kinds: A Feasibility Study", which is a fancy name for saying, "I'm going to cram a bunch of mice into a cage, hang it from bungee cords to simulate being on a ship, spray it down once a day and carry on for thirty days and thirty nights to see if they would survive and be able to breed, a la Noah's Ark." Where's PETA when you need them?

A couple of the honorable mentions include: "Geocentrism: Politically Incorrect" (in light of the "Women Were Designed For Homemaking" study I don't know if "politically incorrect" is a good thing or a bad thing to this group of wing-nuts) and "Thermodynamics Of Hell Fire". I bet all that flaming sulfur made this presentation particularly nasty. Aren't the fires of Hell fueled with the souls of the eternally damned? Where would one go to find such a product?

I don't have a problem with religious people, per se...heck, some of my best friends are Christians!...but knowing that there are people who teach their children that women are second-class citizens pisses me off. Teaching your children that the earth is the center of the universe pisses me off. And letting children "scientifically" draw these conclusions from these studies definitely pisses me off.

Trouble is, you don't really know when you're dealing with a hard-line Christian fundamentalist, do you? They're not unlike the Canadians, in that they look just like everyone else and it's only when you engage them in conversation that you realize they're A Little Bit Different. At least the Mormons have the decency to have that "Stepford Wives" gleam about them.

Anyway, congratulations to the winners of the 2001 "Church of the Future Abortion Doctor Killers of America" or whatever you're called. Now I'm off to contemplate the complexity of the pine cone.

Monkey around-ingly,

Natalie

Humans survived whatever it was that killed the dinosaurs. Go, humans! ()

now I'll never get to be a Palmer girl

Robert Palmer died! Jaysus - okay, what's the tally now? Warren Zevon, Johnny Cash, John Ritter, Gordon Jump and now Robert Palmer? Am I missing one? I have the feeling that I've forgotten someone in this...you know, apart from all of the countless regular people who have died, of course.

All of my childhood icons are dying. Warren was sick, Gordon and Johnny were old, but John and Robert were both in their fifties. Nobody dies in their fifties! What a stupid age to die.

You know, once you pass your 35th birthday you're close to fifty than you are to twenty. I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but it's something to think about. Or not, depending on how fragile you are.

This really sucks - I had such a huge crush on Robert Palmer. I remember he hit the scene right about when Robert Plant was doing his solo work and my younger sister would razz me about having a crush on two Roberts. I don't know why it pissed me off but she would tease me that I could only have one...of course, my inclination was to stick with Robert Plant (because, well duh) but off to the side was this blossoming love for Robert Palmer that I wasn't ready to give up on just yet.

Yeah, I pounded her but good. Trying to make me choose between my two Roberts, damn her. (In the end, Robert Plant won, though. He always won, even when I would fantasize about him wrestling Rowdy Roddy Piper for my hand in marriage. Hey, I was, like, six, okay? That's what you do when you're six.)

I can't take much more of this - quick, someone get Gabe Kaplan to the doctor for a check-up. Can't go losing him, too.

Simply irresistible-ly,

Natalie

update: I was reminded by Candy that the other guy I was thinking of was George Burns Bob Hope (that was my fault - got my old guys confused), and Nicole informed me that George Plimpton died, too. Okay, so they were both old, but still.


She's so fine, there's no tellin' where the money went - what's that supposed to mean, anyway? ()

draggin' ass

Immigration...employment law...too many hours reading the half-informed opinions of lawyers...so tired. My eyes are crossing, I'm that tired.

Who writes these immigration forms, anyway? I'm on form 89-OCL-43280 or some such crap and it tells me to refer back to form G56933K to fill in this part. So I go back to form G56933K to see what it's talking about and there it tells me to reference form 89-OCL-43280. Around and around in a circle I go, looking from one to the other, hoping that at some point a little paper clip will pop up in the corner and say, "Hi! It looks like you're trying to fill in a self-referencing form and getting very 'All work and no play' on it. Would you like some help?" and have it magically fill in what I need. Hasn't happened yet, but I'm hoping it will - and even if it doesn't happen I'll probably hallucinate it happening so that'll be fine, just as long as the little paper clip signs that the forms were filled out by him. That way I won't get into any trouble for doing it wrong. Could you see me at the INS appeal hearing, claiming, "It wasn't me; it was the googly-eyed paper clip!" Hello, Mr. Four Point Restraints, courtesty of your friendly government official. Yeah, um, no.

It's fall now - I should be on the IRS site getting ready for tax season, not at the INS site trying to figure out a way to keep Andy in the damn country. It's incredible how much easier tax law is to understand (even under a Republican) compared to immigration law. Straight-forward, my ass.

Add to that, we're dealing with multiple unknown variables that could help steer me in one direction over another with regards to filing this, but we don't really have the time for the unknowns to reveal themselves to us. If I mess it up the government will be patient and understanding, right?...right?!? Sweet jeebus I hope I'm right.

I really shouldn't be doing this while tired. The only upshot is that I'm filling everything out on the computer, which prevents me from grabbing an orange crayon and scribbling up the margins. I'm very tempted to draw a big, goofy, ugly face with the tongue hanging out, eyes crossed and picking his nose and label it, "This is YOU!"

Nah, that's not fair. After all, the INS is just doing their job, right? I should be more polite, especially considering how many ".gov" visitors I get. (Hi guys! You're doing a great job - keep up the good work! How's your mom's goiter? Really, that's wonderful. Did you get the bundt cake I sent over? Yes, it was carrot, made from my own bumper crop. We had a great growing season this year. You give my love to Maureen and the kids and tell them we'll see them at the cabin next spring. Sure, I'll bring my patented stink-bait but you're not getting the recipe out of me, you old dog. Take care now.)

Gah - this is what I get for hooking up with some old foreigner, eh? Like my mom said, "There are plenty of Americans; why did you have to get someone from another country? We have a big country here - I'm sure you could have found someone to marry you without going English!"

Yes, I made my bed and now I shall lie in it. It's quite comfy, as it's stuffed with shreds of form 89-OCL-43280.

Greencard-ingly,

Natalie

Gérard Depardieu is an asshole ()

how did that get in there?

Like many people I have images and audio on my computer that I don't remember ever having put there. Sometimes people send me things on Yahoo that I tuck away and later forget exactly what context in which they were sent so they lose their significance.

Now, many of the images aren't particularly note-worthy outside of the conversation when they were sent but some of them absolutely baffle me.

For example, it's weird enough that last night I found a picture of a young, nude Betty White but weirder, still is that A.) I don't know why the hell I have it, and B.) I can't think of a single person who would have given it to me. It's not something I would have hunted for on my own, nor is it a file I think I would have readily accepted from anyone.

I realize you're probably still recovering from those George Bush pics from the other day so I don't blame you if you don't want to peek at Betty but if this sounds familiar to you please let me know....so that I can delete your twisted ass from my friends list.

Vintage-ingly,

Natalie

Now I just need a nude Bea Arthur... ()

Thank the Shariah Court of Appeal

Amina Lawal is free.

Appeal-ingly,

Natalie

I can't express how relieved I am by this. It gives me hope. ()

we interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you this special broadcast

My feed is pulling down, like, fifteen times an hour. Not my fault cuz it's not really my feed so you can just suck on it ignore or unsubscribe to my feed for a while until it gets sorted out.

That is all. As you were.

Filed under "I'm just sayin' is all"-ingly,

Natalie

You wanna complain about getting me fifteen times an hour, huh? How about no natalie for anyone, ever - would that make you happy, huh? ()

now ya done pissed me off

I don't know who this "Uncle Ray" might be, or what makes him think he produces a tasty potato chip, but I can tell you with quite some authority that he most certainly does not.

I have tried every single brand of dill pickle flavored potato chips available and can honestly say that the cream of the crop is Old Dutch. On the other hand, Uncle Ray's kosher dill pickle potato chips are ass. ASS! They're even worse than those margarita-flavored chips that have the demon on the bag. You know the guys I mean - they hooked up with Rachel, the chick who makes those kick-ass garlic parmesan kettle chips? Not Death Eaters, that's from Harry Potter. What the heck are they called?

Oh cool - I just googled them and found this site that reviews every tasty snack imaginable. (The company I was talking about before are "Death Rain" and there's some zombie-looking guy on the bag. Don't ask me, I'm just the guy who eats them.) I remember them so strongly because on the back of the bag there's a letter from Rachel (of Rachel's Gourmet Snacks or something) telling the Death Rain guys that she likes their spices and wanted to incorporate their flavors into her chips. Their reply was along the lines of, "Send us naked pictures of you and we'll think about it." Those are the guys I want making my chips.

What does Uncle Ray do on the back of his bag? Quote the frickin' Bible. Does God really want to be associated with a mediocre foodstuff? I should think not. In fact, I'm fairly certain that pickles aren't even sanctioned by the Bible. I think they said something in Leviticus- can't remember.

Uncle Ray also tells a couple of stories about his youth, one of which involved a huge rip-off. He was selling Kool-Aid for a penny a cup when some kid grabbed the gallon and ran off with it. Naturally, our Uncle Ray gave chase but failed to catch up with the boy. That's right, Uncle Ray couldn't catch a boy who was running with a sloshing gallon of Kool-Aid. Hell, Ray, even if you couldn't catch the kid you could have at least followed the trail of spilled drink.

Anyway, Uncle Ray gave up and returned to his Kool-Aid stand and guess what? While he was off running after the Kool-Aid Bandit, someone else had found his stand and liberated him from the rest of his supply.

It's no wonder the guy can relate to Jesus. Think about it.

Uncle Ray would probably equate me to the kid who stole his Kool-Aid 'lo so many years ago, but I would recommend you give his pickle chips a pass.

Reviewing-ly,

Natalie

When he quotes Hebrews 13:1 on the bag the word "angels" is spelled "angles". He has a guardian angle. Lucky bastard. ()

ain't that always the way?

Leave it to a husband to try and break up his wife and her one true love. I feel like a character in a Bronte book...no one in particular, I just feel representative of the whole genre. Actually, maybe I'm more Ethan Frome except without that pesky botched attempted suicide.

At any rate, I was duped by my husband and his friend, Richard, into thinking that Steve was saying bad things about me. And, like anyone else with webspace, I decided to, you know, publicly taunt him. Like you do. But I was wrong.

The upshot of this is that the guy commented. *swoon* *thunk*

So let me retract all of the bad stuff I said about Steve. See, I thought our relationship, as it were, had passed from the "He barely knows who I am" stage into "He can't stand me" stage. Turns out I'm back to being a peripheral annoyance, yee haw! That's how momma likes it.

This is the man I'm going to practice making babies with - ya know, if Andy will let me. And if he agrees. (Gotta pretend like I'm giving Steve a choice here - you know, for when I'm facing the judge claiming that it was all consensual.)



Okay, now that that's done with, let's get back to what I've come to realize are the pictorial representations of everything I am - a finger monkey and a monkey giving you the finger. Enjoy!



Primate-icious,

Natalie

There are a finite number of hot English guys in the world and Andy works with all of 'em. ()

She Has a GREAT Body

Her face, on the other hand...

Tell me you didn't just throw up a little in your mouth. You can't, can you. *shudder*

Using powers for evil-ingly,

Natalie


I will not be held accountable if you are scarred for life ()

One Day He'll Come Along...

...the man I love. And he'll be big and strong, the man I love. And when he comes my way, I'll do my best to...

kick him in the nuts for calling me a talentless hack!

Yeah, you heard me Steve. I'm gonna kick you in the nuts. Andy and Richard both told me what you said about me, ya salsa-dancing nancy boy*, and I don't appreciate it one bit. After all the nice things I've said about you? After all the times I mercilessly taunted Andy by telling him that our marriage was just a ruse so that I could get close to you? After the way I taught my children to call you "daddy"...this is how you repay me? All of those times I rebooted my computer to get a new IP address so that I could vote you a 10 on "Am I Hot or Not?"** were all for naught? Wait..."not" and "naught" rhyme so that sounds stupid. Oh, but I bet they don't rhyme for you, do they, Steve? I bet you, like, enunciate an' stuff. Is that what they teach you at those big fancy schools in England, huh? Well, I'll tell you a little something else that I know they teach you about (hey, I read Stephen Fry, I know the scoop) - buggery and the biscuit game! Yeah, I bet you didn't think I knew about that, did ya, Steve? I loved you despite all of that.

sniff You made me want to be a Very Tall Man***, remember that? Remember the good times, Steve? When I stalked you by proxy through John and Andy? Who am I supposed to stalk now, eh? Answer me that...erm...oh, huh, I think I've got it.

Psst...Andy? What do ya reckon about getting me some more shots of Tristan, John and Neil, eh?

In all seriousness, these guys, the UK team of Andy's company, are in the process of being "let go" as I type this. The whole office is being lanced along with the US arm of the team as well. I'm not sure what they all were really up to over there (something involving damp sponges and raw poultry, I think? Something like that.) but if you know of any really great jobs for a group of smarter-than-all-get-out techie guys in the general England-ish area you'd do right to look 'em up. (Oh, and if you know anything in the general "my neighborhood" area that'd be good, too. Gotta keep the old man employed so he can afford my expensive ass.)

I have a seriously hubba-hubba picture of a topless Neil but I don't think he knows I have it so I'm wary about posting it. I might do, anyway...you know, just to lighten that whole, "Good morning, you're fired!" thing they have going on over there. Well, it'd make me happy, anyway - and isn't that what really matters? Course it does.

But Steve, seriously, I'm gonna have to "dude" ya..."talentless hack"? Dude. Nut-kick forthcoming.

Hack-ingly,

Natalie

How was that? Was it too aggressive? ()

* I also know another salsa-dancing Steve but he's not a nancy-boy. I excuse the other Steve's salsa-dancing because he actually dates Cubans and doesn't have VD.

** I didn't really do that and he still managed to get an 8.6. But I don't think he's hot anymore and I'll probably only let him make one, maybe two, babies with me now, tops.

***Originally posted Friday, May 30, 2003


Hoo ha! Here I go - one day only, I'm gonna be a really tall man. Maybe not for the whole day, just a few hours...tall man. I'll go the the store and when I see people looking forlornly at the "Please ask for assistance reaching the top shelf" shelf I'll say, "You want that double jumbo pack of Mott's Apple Juice up there? I'd be more than happy to help you, for I am a Very Tall Man." And up I shall climb and when I reach the top I'll throw apple juice to all the waiting people far below. "Thank you, tall man! Thank you for assisting us and bestowing upon us these gifts of apple juice!"

The side of my face will have those sheet wrinkles - you know how you get wrinkles in your skin from your sheet? You know why you get that? Because you're dehydrated. Drink some water and you won't get wrinkled. But I'll be hydrated and still have those wrinkles on the side of my face and people will whisper to each other, "That Very Tall Man is obviously hydrated, yet he has those wrinkles. I wonder...are they scars? Is that Very Tall Man scarred or something? How can a scar look like a sheet wrinkle imprint?" They'll want to ask but they won't. And when they go home they'll tell the story of me, how I helped them. See that glass of apple juice you're drinking? That's courtesy of a Very Tall Man. He had this wrinkle...and when they finish the story, they'll realize that they now have a weird phobia about wrinkles and scars and will buy every moisturizing product on the market when all they really have to do is drink more water. The fools.

Models get ribs removed to look skinny. You ever see a skeleton? The rib cage juts out - even more so if you've had a baby. My tailbone sticks out further than normal since I've had kids. Used to be, if I was sitting down in a tub I could slide down into the water but now I can't because my tailbone juts out a bit too much and kinda hurts. But my ribs don't hurt. How many ribs do they have removed? You'd have to remove quite a few to even make a difference because your ribcage sort of curves, and the bones at the bottom are quite small. You need your ribs, they protect your lungs. Then again, most models smoke and snort cocaine so it's not like they're going to be very concerned about it...I'd like to see some statistics about models who have had ribs removed versus us regular folk when we get into car accidents. Do they have a higher instance of punctured lungs than the rest of us? Can you get your tailbone removed? I'd be all over an operation like that.

I have my younger sister convinced that she was born with a vestigial tail, but that mom wrapped a rubber band around it until it fell off and we kept it in the medicine cabinet. That's why she won't keep a Doberman. Because of the tail.

I'm only a Very Tall Man for one day, but Steve is a Very Tall Man every day. He picks at imaginary lint on his sleeve because he's been to posh schools in England where they teach you how to do such things. I bet he has a tie that identifies him as having attended a posh school. Maybe when he sees other people wearing the same tie he approaches them and says, "You old sommabitch, how the hell are ya?" and shakes their hand in a strange fashion. Then they both stand there, picking imaginary lint from the sleeves of their blazers. Yes, they don't wear mere jackets, or sport coats...they're Blazer League. Steve makes me want to learn how to row one of those canoe things. You know that little retractable hook in the backseat of your car? That's for hanging up your blazer when you're driving so you don't get those ass-wrinkles. Steve uses his. I've never used mine, for I like my wrinkles to get people talking.

He is not a young Prince Charles, he is a Very Tall Man. (Steve, how could you turn your back on me after that?)

I'm A Danger To Myself And Others

This is what I do when I'm bored - I will IM your offline ass until I'm sick of myself. Andy was away in slumber, blissfully unaware that I was in one of those moods.


me: Yo - my phone seems to be shagged. Are you up?

me: Hullo hullo hullo.

me: Go Go Gadget SMOKER!

me: Word to the wise - incorporating kung-fu moves into the lighting of a cigarette? Very very cool. Trying to use those same cat-like ninja moves when drinking a bit of hot tea? Very very bad.

me: It tastes like burning!

me: There's a staaaaarman, standing in the hall/I wish he'd help me clean up but the bugger does fuck all/there's a staaaaar man going through my drawers/I've said that they won't fit him but the pervert wants to wear them anyway/Let the children kick him/let the children trip him/let the children escape him. There's a staaaarman...sing it with me now!...standing in the hall....

me: They keep saying what great swimmers moose are, oh aren't the moose grand, watch them swim! But that's a damn dirty lie. I saw one drown once. It was his own damn fault for ignoring the "thin ice" sign. Cocky bastard. Yep, but that's a moose for ya, all right.

me: Oh I wish I were a Russian ballerina/that is what I'd truly love to be/cuz then I'd get to dance for the Czarina/and from her samovar she'd serve me tea.

me: My dad used to go with a dead dappy lass. She was a dancer and had tassles like egg cups. She smelled of custard and sparkled all over. Unless you made her laugh. She had no teeth at the bottom. If you made her laugh and stared at her bottom jaw she would somehow sense it. That's when the lasers would shoot out. We don't quite know what they'd shoot out from, but really, that's a fairly academic point. You see lasers shooting out of a shiny, custard-smelling, toothless dappy fat dancer...well, you don't stick around to ask questions, I'll tell you that much for free.

me: Even though the slang is outdated I still laugh every time I hear the word "Idaho". I don't think I'll ever get tired of that.

me: I realized today that the only time I ever use the words "corpuscular" and "crepuscular" is when I'm telling someone that I always confuse the two words. Makes me wonder if I ever really confused them at all.

me: Wow. Wow. Really makes you stop and think, huh.

me: There's really so much I don't know about astrophysics. I wish I'd have finished that book by that wheelchair guy.

me: I've broken nine of the ten commandments and committed all of the seven deadly sins. Once I finish up on the commandments I'm pretty sure I get a plaque on the Wall of Foam in Chicago. Or something. Can't remember. Lost the pamphlet.

me: Aw hell, did you know that the wages of sin is death? How did I miss *that*?!?

me: There are, quite simply, not nearly enough foodstuffs that are presented "On A Stick".

me: I could sit here and do this forever. I think it's in your best interest to wake up and stop me before it's too late.

me: Come on! I want to play that game where I challenge you to name ten attractive English people but you get stuck on three.

me: I wish Oscar Wilde were alive for just long enough to join "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" so he could put the smack-down on Carson.

me: I don't care what anyone says, "Pygmalion" was a stupid fucking name. And they totally messed up renaming it. The original title is in reference to the professor but the new title was in reference to Eliza. What a bunch of dumb-asses, eh?

me: You guys didn't used to own Turkey or anything, did you? Because just between you and me, the Turks don't much care for you lads.

me: The phrase "mounted police officers" is a total misnomer. The horses are mounted, not the cops. "Mounted police officers" just makes me snigger every time I hear it. Catherine the Great, anyone?

me: People say America's so free but then you see that English people are laying odds and betting over whether or not Blair will win a re-election and you just have to say, "THAT! That right there, my friend, is democracy."

me: Holy shit - you're probably facing the hang-over of a lifetime and this is what I do to you? Serves you right, ya bugger.

me: Ah, it just doesn't get much better than this: David Blaine threw his dirty diaper into a crowd that held Gloria Estefan and her daughter. That's almost dream-like, it's so random and surreal. Folks, you can't make this stuff up.

me: You know, the only thing he took in the box with him was a picture of his mother. I bet he eats it.

me: I wouldn't be surprised if he soaked the picture of his poor mother in saline before he went up. He's using his mother as a tool. Sick bastard.

me: Why for you not online moan a me?

me: It'd probably surprise you to learn how easy it is to offend a babboon.

me: Wait - substitute the words "a babboon" for "children" and substitute the word "offended" with "deeply traumatize".

me: Ack! I've just misspelled baboon not once but twice. Thankfully I corrected myself before hitting the dreaded "thrice".

me: I wonder how long it'll take David Blaine to start wanking it in full view of the spectators. Cuz, come on, that had to be the first thought that went through his head when he finally got locked in. 44 days?!? What was I *thinking*?? That's a long-ass time right there, and I'm saying that even as a woman. And we're sexual camels.

me: Okay, I am now wholly and utterly convinced you're not online. My only hope is that you haven't died from alcohol poisoning. That, and that you picked me up some stripey socks. You know how I love my stripey socks.

me: Cig is done....tea is gone....calls the bed, calls the sheets, calls the down (pillow)....as I go....this I know....I need to get my ass back on a normal sleeping schedule, s'truth.

me: I shall be sleeping with my cell phone - because that's not a divorcable offence! (ba-da-dum!) Is divorcable a real word? Aw, whatever. Anyway, you can call when you set off back. Say hello to the Men with Hills* for me, and let them know I've been receiving their transmissions loud and clear. Later.

*Menwith Hill (or, as I like to call it, Men With Hills or Men Without Hills because I'm remarkably un-clever) is an area in North Yorkshire that's believed to be a US spy base. Why do people believe it's a US spy base? Because it looks like a whole bunch of Epcot Centers in the middle of a field and there's no way the English would have come up with that on their own. It's my understanding that the real Epcot Center is under some sort of extraterresterial control but that's a secret from me to you - don't you dare tell anyone. This information is worth more than my life so let's keep it 'twixt us, okay?

At any rate, I do believe that there are some sinister things going on at Menwith Hill because every time we'd drive past, the radio would play a song by Oasis and my back teeth would start to vibrate. Okay, so I admit that UK radio stations always play Oasis, and, sure, Liam Gallagher's voice is usually what sets my teeth to shaking, but still. Sinister forces and the like. Think "Star Wars", but not in a "fat kid going vrhoohm, vrhoohm with an imaginary light sabre" kind of way. Just trust me on that.

Loving the sound of my own voice-ly,

Natalie

Why's it always gotta be all about me, anyhow? ()

I'm Taking My Ball and Going Home

It's no fun for me right now. Yes, yes, this is a continuation of the Great Basement Debasement and Aggrandizement...wait, that's a stupid way to say it. I'm redecorating, that's it. Strippin' it down and buildin' it up 's all.

Anyway, between my walls and my ceiling I have this sloped bit - looks very cool; textured like the ceiling, only cockier, somehow. Like a bowler hat lowered over one eye. Yeah, that kind of thing. When I first painted the basement two years ago I wanted to give it a gypsy tent-vibe. Fabric on the walls, loud colors, coordinated (never matched, for matching is death) pillows and rugs. And I did, and it worked. Except for this one panel. This thing, this feature, this whatever you want to call it, was sniffing at me in indignation for being ignored. Then it mocked me for my lack of vision. Then I got sleepy. I forget what happened after that, but the end result is that I spray-painted it gold.

I've got to say, the look worked. Rather, it did, until we decided to redecorate.

I let Andy choose the colors for the basement and am feeling a little nervous because the guy doesn't even know the difference between mushroom and slate. Honestly, I sat with him for a good ten minutes pointing out the various undertones and coordinating hues with each color and he stared at me blankly before saying, "Well, they're both a bit browny-greyish, aren't they?" Yes, that's exactly what they are - browny-greyish. Sigh.

End result is that I have to now paint over the gold, and lemme tell ya, spray-painting is a lot easier than brush-painting. I'm doing the job in three-foot-lengths to save my shoulders.

The shade we chose for this is roughly the color of Angela Bassett's skin, which if I had to name I would call, "not quite as dark as I like 'em." (I'm just kidding here, but that does remind me of something...it used to be that when someone asked me how I liked my coffee I'd do the old, "I like my coffee like I like my women...in a plastic cup" but now I've decided to start saying, "I like my coffee like I like my women...strong, black and two at a time." That has nothing to do with decorating; I just really, really like saying that.)

The point is....the point is that I have no real point, just that this is some fecking tough stuff and I'm bored with it.

Is it wrong to drink Slim Fast shakes like they're cans of soda? I bought some of their Cappuccino Delight and find myself getting all, "my precious" on it and have supped three cans tonight.

Now I'm just stalling because I don't feel like working. That's not fair to you because you're probably reading this at work and getting all crazy-ass bitter over the fact that the worst thing I'm facing at the moment is repainting my basement. I'll make it up to you somehow...maybe later today, before I lay down for my nap, I'll post something funny to get you through your after-lunch looginess. Yes, I just said looginess.

Happy Monday!

Step on-ingly,

Natalie

"You're twistin my melon man" is a stupid fucking lyric ()

You know you're sick when...

...you start reading a book that you think is a harsh indictment of the current fractured, damaged infrastructure of the larger metropolitian areas of the US (with specific emphasis on the post-modern, ennui-laden, urban youth and their ensuing, almost mule-like stubbornness to accept, and even wear as a badge of pride, their placement in their socio-economic strata), but upon reaching the mid-point of the book, you suddenly realize you're reading a biography of a Russian ballerina.

That'll fuck yer head up but good.

Still congested after all these days-ingly,

Natalie

What's the Czar got to do, got to do with it? ()

Arrr!

I was below deck nursing meself back to health when I heard a shipmate exclaim, "Well pieces o' eight, it's Talk Like A Pirate Day!"

A life of pillaging and plundering is hard work, indeed, and fair few people can appreciate it so I had to drag meself to the port side to hear the proclomation of my pirate husband and partner in crime, Mad Roger Bonney, the fiercest pirate to ever sail the seven seas.

"Ah, I see my wife, Mad Grace Kidd, has decided to join us! Gather 'round, as I spin ye's a yarn about the rich history of the noble profession of piratin'! Now, many years ago there once was a man..." Then he was cut off by cries of, "Land ho!" The map was consulted, as we didn't expect to find land in this part of the ocean, and someone noticed that this island we were 'bout to run aground of had been covered by a whopping dollop of parrot droppings.

"Behold!" spake Mad Roger Bonney, "for we've reached our final destination. A pirater's paradise! Everything here is ripe for the taking with nary a bit of resistance to be seen. To my crew, my comely wife, gaze and behold that which is known as...the Island of Kazaa."

There was much oohing and aahing, for we had all heard tell of the legends of Kazaa, where software grew on trees and where you had to sleep beneath mosquito netting to avoid being assulted by audio files. Our quest was complete and we lived in blissful harmony for many years.

Until the RIAA came and sued us all. *sniff* They even took me dear husband's peg leg. No Bananarama song is worth a man's peg leg. You take his leg, you take his dignity. (Then again, a man who would download Bananarama probably doesn't have much dignity to begin with.)

Then he died. (I don't know why - just run with it, ya scurvy mongrel!) Oh, and everyone else died. Except for me, arrr. I alone live to tell the tale of the Pirates of the Kazaabbean.

Obligatory pirate day post-ingly,

Natalie

Don't look at me like that - it was a last-minute thing, I'm sorry! ()

Evolution

I have finally released myself from the primordial sludge that has been my home as of late. I believe the nubs on the lower half of my body will eventually become legs but they could easily go tentacular. Time will tell.

I am not yet human but am hopeful.

I have learned that the optimal temperature for the life form I wish to become is a fairly standard 98.6 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale and, while I am still reaching temperatures above this I have, in fact, had a few occasions where I have experienced this lower temperature. It is during those times that I feel my best, so I believe my destiny is to become one of you.

I've been watching a lot of what you call "television" and your general lack of dripping mucus has not escaped me. I do not know how I can make mine stop but I now realize it's essential for my success as a human being.

My vocal chords yet remain inflamed - I do not know if this is because having a voice is a new thing in my evolution or if there are sinister, infectious forces at work. Slowly but surely I have been able to increase the volume and strength of my voice - it's a development I'm monitoring closely.

Most disconcerting is feeling that which occupies my cranium is too large for the container it's held in...how can the gooey grey matter within feel so much pressure? My rather remedial experimentation on my skull has revealed that it is, for all intents and purposes, a solid piece with very little in the way of elasticity, yet the innards feel as if they'd like nothing more than to spill out of my ears. Is this part of the self-hating human condition? I should hope not.

In the meantime I have taken what is known as a "decongestant" and am closely monitoring myself for effects. Currently all that I desire is to sleep. A lot. Thankfully, those other inhabitants of my household seem to be on the same track so I do not feel as conspicuous as I could do. Time will tell.

Darwin-icious,

Natalie

I couldn't just say, "I'm sick" could I? No, I've gotta get all stupid with it. ()

Pot, Meet Kettle

Yesterday, en route to the airport...

me: You know what I think would be interesting in the next election? A Howard Dean/Bill Clinton ticket.
andy: You know what I think would be interesting? A Howard Jones/George Clinton ticket.
me: Yeah! Bwop a bwow a doobie doobie bwop...
andy: What the hell is that?
me: Bootsy Collins. He can be George Clinton's co-vice president.
andy: Co-vice president? (pause) You come up with some goofy shit sometimes.

Vote Jones/Clinton in '04-ingly,

Natalie

'For the top gun hit you with the GOP gun ()

Psssttt.....

I'm eating chips and drinking cocoa in bed while reading a trashy book that I'd be embarrassed to be seen with by anyone and I'm wearing sweats.

AND my face is slathered in a toxic-green skin-firming mask.

Sometimes, alone-time can be g-o-o-o-o-o-d.

Next up? A pedicure!

Like a poor man's spa-day-ingly,

Natalie

Heaving her ample bosom atop his muscular chest, Randolyn was reminded of a Greek god... ()

I Don't Like Mondays Mornings

I was woken up by a panic-stricken voice in my ear urgently telling me, "Natalie, you have to get up right now - we have to leave for the airport in two hours."

Remarkably, my brain was able to process that, before going to the airport, Andy had to get his clothes together, do a load of laundry, pack, find his international power adapters, shave his head, shower, talk to Asia, talk to England, confirm his flight and hotel, put the dogs out and have some tea.

I, on the other hand, only had to wake up in time to drive him. I didn't even need to brush my hair for that portion of the show.

So why did my happy ass have to get up? He's going to be able to sleep on a plane for the next eight hours but I have to stay awake for the next twelve...and I have to drive clear down to the airport and back. There is no reason for me to be up yet.

He could have let me sleep. He just didn't want to.

Misery loves company-ly,

Natalie

They say that waking up is hard to do ()

Shrimpin'

By A Shrimp, On Finding Himself In The Unfortunate and Unenviable Position of Becoming My Dinner

Oh, we succulent skewered salsa-drenched shrimp
Squished butts to nuts on your plate
(If only we had nuts.)
(Or butts.)
Awaiting the beast that is you to consume us all
Devour my brethren, my brothers and sisters
(if only I could tell their genders, as our sauteed sex organs now blacken the bottom of a fry pan)
You unworthy beast.
Seafood?
I don't see any food
Just the mangled carcasses of a once proud creature
King Prawn of the Great Barrier Reef!
(How fresh am I now?)
The blood of thousands of years of majestic and unencumbered existence flowed through these now-dry veins
Thusly, I have the knowledge of my ancestors, inherited memories
And shall die a valiant death for a noble purpose
To sustain your life
Do not weep for me, lying on your plate.
Would that I had eyes I should weep for you
And the task ahead at chewing, swallowing and digesting
One so magnificent as I
You, so undeserving.
You, so frivolous.
I await my fate and tremble as you slowly remove me from the skewer which binds me
(Again, butts to nuts)
To my dear cousin cousin cousin cousin cousin cousin cousin
(Add a skewer of eight to any entree for $6.99)
For a moment I am at peace.
Yet another role I must play - as sustenance.
I am pleased to yet again be worth something
A prawn of value to the end.
Until you dropped me on the floor
And couldn't find me under the table
Leaving me to rot until closing time, to be stepped on
And ground in the dirt.
I hope my cousins were diseased.
Thank you for eating at Bennigans - please do come again.
And choke.

Dinner-ingly,

Natalie

They'd eat you if given the chance ()

Get Over Yerself Already!

I'm the cheesiest, I really am. Not only have I been mentioned in two audblogs but there have been three people who have had dreams about me.

You wanna hitch your wagon to this star, baby, because I am moving up in the world, uh huh.

Woman of your dreams-ly,

Natalie

Yeah, I'm sick of me, too ()

You'll see that life is a ball again

This post at Craig's List gave me a lump in my throat. (Ganked from the crumbly one who lifted it from the random one)

$600 - Take a step that is new... room for rent.

------------------------------------------
Reply to: anon-16171108@craigslist.org
Date: 2003-09-12, 12:00PM


One room available in stylish Santa Monica apartment.
We recently lost our roommate, and we are looking for a man that is willing to put up with two girl roommates. You must be able to cook, be prone to wacky misunderstandings, and willing to explore your feminine side (will explain later).

Apartment is late 70's style... modern arched doorways, somewhat thins walls (missing one wall, but working on it).. comes furnished, although most of the family room furniture is slightly worn from fumbling antics of previous roommate.

Nice neighborhood, friendly people, close walk to Regal Beagle.
If you would like to check it out, please call 555-2354 or send application to

Mr Furley
32 Palm Lane, Apt 1
Santa Monoca, CA 90232

or, just come take a knock on our door... ask for Janet or Chrissy

I know it's sad but at least I'm not talking about rss again-ingly,

Natalie

We've a lovable space that needs your face ()

Envy Me

At Menards, when I was crawling around trying to find which roll of carpet was ours:

andy: Whoa - when you bend over like that your boobs pop out of your shirt.
me: Yeah, I know - and this is my good bra, too.

Yep, my "good bra". As opposed to, say, my granny-panties equivalent that I usually have to wear. My "good bra" was taking a turn.

It's not supposed to be like this. All of my bras are supposed to be good bras. They should all be sexy and sheer and make me look hot. But the majority of the time the bra I select is based on how bad my back is hurting that day.

You want me now, don't you. I've gone and gotten you all excited. Yeah, I know. Me, too.

I'm feeling worn out - I've turned some corner without realizing it and can now recognize the ridiculousness of youth. I cringe when I think about myself when I was Stupid. Granted, I was probably less stupid than some of my peers since I had that whole mommy thing going on but I had my fair share of immaturity. Not immaturity so much - I can't really put my finger on the right word. You know when you're At That Age when you really think that everything you do is Just Fine and if older people don't like it, it's only because they're jealous that they're not as young as you are anymore.

I know - if I could go back in time I'd be the first in line to smack myself.

Where was I going with this? I know I had a point but I've lost it...oh yeah, I remember. Wait, it makes no sense...all I really wanted to say is that I'm going to start signing my name in comments as "pickle juice" rather than "natalie" for clarification. Too many Natalie-type people are running around using my damn name. (Actually, it's because I forget where I comment so when I see another Natalie I kind of freak because I think, "Oh great, here we go...it's early onset of senile dementia." So I'm "pickle juice" from now on.)

So how did I end up talking about bras? Meh - just one of those days, I guess.

It's the last day I have mister muscles home with me so I should really be putting his ass to work for me on all the tough stuff I can't do by myself but that would involve me actually getting up and moving around.

You know what I need? I need an interactive "to do" list. A little program that can sit on my desktop where I plug in everything I need to do, when it needs to be done, what's involved in completing the task, all of the little details. Periodically a window would pop open and say, "Hey, Natalie, how's it coming on that whole painting of the basement thing?" I'd say, "Well, pretty okay, I guess." It'd reply, "Did you finish primering?" and I'd reply, "No, but I did buy the paint." It'd get a little aggressive and lecture me a little bit..."You'd better get that done while you can still paint with the windows open. It's Minnesota fer crikes sake, it'll get cold soon." This would continue back and forth with task after task until it completely abusive and started screaming judgments at me to stop being so lazy. If I still ignored it my chair would eject me and kick me in the ass, then shoot up as high as it would go, thus assuring my short ass couldn't climb back up.

So how about it, technology? The time for this product has come.

I'm an ideas man.

Lazily-ious,

Natalie

I'll procrastinate later ()

PSA

Listen up, yo. Webgrrlie has a couple of Dave Matthews tickets for the show at the Nissan Pavilion tonight and can't go - if you're in the area and are interested go and send her an email.

That is all.

Why My RSS Feed Kicks Your RSS Feed's ASS!

1. Because I now have a proper title field. This means my first line won't run into my second line and ensures maximum readability, understandability and Rockabillity.* Though I make no guarantees about my content's nonsensibility.
2. It's a full feed, not some crappy little two line teaser requiring you to click through to my page if you don't want to. Yes, I am making it as easy as possible to avoid this page like the plague, I know this. And my hit counter hates me for it.
3. Because my comments field is linked so that the little window will pop up - again, not requiring you to visit the page if you don't want to. One of the many items on my current "to do" list is to get Dame Edna, Patron Saint of Pickle Juice, back in there for your adoration, respect and/or lusting. Because, really, we all need a daily fix.**
4. This also means that my post doesn't show up as updated just because someone's left a comment. I know I mentioned it before, but I really did have an odd afternoon where I thought I suddenly gained psychic powers and was predicting everything that people with inline comments were going to post about that day. I was trying to find a way to turn that skillz into some mad cash but it didn't work out the way I planned.

The only problem I see is that in my feed my comment counter doesn't reflect the number of comments. The stately and rhythmic John (I don't know why I just called him that) is the fella who wrote the code and gave me a suggestion on how to fix that, which worked, but then it messed up the counter on my page. Alas alack - no worries on my part. You're just going to have to deal with the suspense if you read me on Bloglines. "Has a comment been left? Is there a huge conversation going on that I don't know about? The counter is offering me nothing, argh!" That's when you just click, ya see. No reason to stress yourself out about something like that...as my dear old granny used to say, "Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things." Little bit o' wisdom from the Olde Countrie for ya.

Again, doff of the cap to the fishtown blogger for lighting a fire under my ass and pulling me, kicking and screaming, onto the bandwagon.

Oh yeah, and I'm still lying about shutting up about Bloglines and rss feeds and the like. In case you hadn't noticed.

Nose grow-ingly,

Natalie

RSSify and Testify ()

damn...all this big talk and I think I've gone and broken my feed...

*update - my title is still running into the first line of the post. Blame someone besides me. Anyone, I don't care.

**another update - and yes, I know that this post has probably been pulled more than once because of the updates, which negates that whole "my feed rocks because it's not updated every time someone leaves a comment" thing, but I wanted to mention that Dame Edna, Patron Saint of Pickle Juice, is now keeping watch over your comments once again. This is the last update, I swear.

Ladies and gentlemen - in a cluster of days of nothing but bad, bad, bad we have bona fide standage. Which is to say, Nico is now fully erect. I mean, of course, that he's standing up. More than before - before he was doing the start/stop thing but now he's totally up there.

And he's growing teeth. I can feel two 'bout ready to pop through. (Yeah, I know...my kids have always been late teethers.)

For this glorious occasion I thought I'd share with you an audio file (screw you, blogger, and your enhanced audio! I'll take a free .wav any damn day of the week!) of Beanie explaining her philosophy on teeth.

Zoe, why doesn't Nico have any teeth? Because he's stupid!
(Did I mention you get to hear me? Yeah, that's me. Thankfully there are none of the hotbed Minnesota words like...um...about? House? Anything that we tend to eff up. Though I do drop my "u" in "stupid" to make it sound like "steewpid" - I'll blame Andy for that one, methinks.)

It's so wrong to laugh-ly,

Natalie

Toothless and stupid, indeed ()

No real entry today.

Instead I'll share with you my favorite poem in the world...actually, I think this is tied for first place with Gregory Corso's "Marriage" but I'm pretty sure I posted that on here once before.


-----------------------------------------
anyone lived in a pretty how town
e. e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain


e. e. -iously,

Natalie

A song for our times:

Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.

I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.

Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.

It's only seven and I'm well on my way to having one of the worst days of my life. Things just keep getting better and better.

John Ritter and Johnny Cash both died.

If you really want to torture yourself you can go watch Cash's video for Hurt.

I just don't know what to even say. We knew Johnny Cash was really sick lately and when I heard that he was released from the hospital I figured he wasn't long for this world but it still surprises you. Some could say they're surprised he lived to be as old as he was.

John Ritter...I keep typing "Jack Tripper" - I bet that really bothered him that he's most famous for a character whose name so closely resembled his real one...was younger than my parents. He was only 54. 54 is just far too young to die. I can hardly get my brain around that.

It may be early but I'm about ready for a drink down at the Regal Beagle.

John-ingly,

Natalie

Come and knock on my door ()

Reason #157 Why I Love Bloglines

Yeah, I know I said I'd shut up about it. But, no, you shut up. Anway, ahem, reason #157 why I love Bloglines.

Because waaaay down there in my "She's a Lady" category is "Everything That Sucks". Since it's all the way down there it's often one of the first casualties of that wicked thing known as "non-blog time". Gah, I hate even saying that phrase.

But with her RSS feed through Bloglines I can catch up with her. Not to mention reading all of those nasty non-pingers who pretend like they haven't updated - Bloglines eliminates all of that hassle. So get your feed on and use it, mmmkay? You'll find some great folk that you would otherwise overlook. Believe me, for I know of which I speak.

Anyway, Amanda is amazing, she really is - since she's a Salon blogger she's oft over-looked by the rest of the bloggers but she's one of the few S bloggers that doesn't discriminate. Which is to say, she links to me. Now with Bloglines I can pull her feed (oooerrrr, that sounds a bit rude!) and I'm glad of that, as she posted one of the cutest pictures of Kurt Cobain that I've ever seen.

(Have I mentioned how much I love Kurt Cobain? Yeah, I love Kurt Cobain. And Bloglines. Bloglines, Kurt, Kurt on Bloglines...)

But she posted something else about how Jehovah's Witnesses want us dead. For real! I'd link but I'm tired - just go read (in Bloglines). Add her to your blogrolls or your Bloglines (ahem) and she won't disappoint you. She even posts some really interesting artwork, some of which I'd never seen before. Some of which give me flashbacks. But we won't talk about that.

Have I mentioned I saw it all via Bloglines?

Anyway, that's one of the reasons I love BL (as Sol, aka, "Guy in the know" would say).

Catching up-ious,

Natalie

Looky here at the linky loo! ()

I'm feeling supremely conspired against at the moment - it's put me in a funny mood.

At first I thought it was the general 9/11 malaise that we're all feeling but I think it's more than that. Maybe.

I think what set it off is remembering that day - I was actually talking to my mother on the phone when Andy told me the first tower was hit. She and I were talking about what an unfortunate accident it was when the second tower was hit. Before we hung up she warned me, "Don't go downtown!" as if she thought Minneapolis was going to be a target.

I can't call her today. I can't call any of them today. This day when everyone is saying, "Hold your family close"...pah.

I did a mental inventory of who I have left in my life - I don't mean blogging friends - and am ashamed at the small number. My relationship with my best friend has been reduced to sporadic IMing and the odd email...I can't even remember the last time I spoke to him.

My major source of socialization died last week - since I'm out of the game in Illinois I lost not only some of my favorite partying companions but also my built-in babysitters. I was getting to the point before this falling out that I was visiting more and more often even when I wasn't required to cart Sam down to her dad's.

By contrast, Andy's going to England next week to do some work and generally live it up at his brother's wedding with his family. They have a large family and everyone's so cool to one another. I admit I'm painfully jealous. Contrast his life to mine and I might as well be locked in the attic while he's the star of the circus. I just feel so crushingly isolated sometimes that my stomach twists in knots.

I'm not putting up comments on here because I don't want people to think I'm constantly throwing a pity party and wanting people to leave me messages of cheer - it's not like that. I mean, I am totally feeling sorry for myself but not in the way that I want people to rally around me because, honestly, it won't help. I don't know what will - all I can do is repeat to myself, "This too shall pass." Soon, hopefully.

I am just so sick of it.

I've discovered one feature about Bloglines that I hate - with some blogs with inline comments it will pull the same entry every single time a new comment has been left. As far as Bloglines is concerned it's an updated blog.

For a while there I started to feel like I was psychic.

Repeating-ly,

Natalie

ps - here's my button link thing for a one-click subscription - now I swear I will shut up about Bloglines.




Out damn double-read post! ()

I was going to post a huge September 11th story but I've decided against it. I don't want to relive how I freaked out upon learning that the Pentagon was hit and not being able to find out anything about my cousin who worked there, then finding out that he'd taken a long weekend away from work - to go to New York with his family to see the World Trade Center. He made it out alive but since then he and his family have had many problems...survivor's guilt, I suppose. The more fatalist among us might think that his name was on the books to die that day - which is probably why he's now a minister.

Everybody has a story and everyone's story is essentially the same. It's like I said the other day about being abused...the degree of the abuse doesn't matter. We were all hurt. I don't want to talk or read about that.

But I will tell you this - despite my love for sleeping late in the mornings I was awake for the attacks two years ago. This morning I repeated the same thing that I did last year - woke up in a mad panic after a nightmare and raced to the television to see if we were facing deja vu all over again. It's that whole "waiting for the other shoe to drop" kind of thing. I wonder if this is how I'm going to spend the rest of the September 11ths of my life?

I can tell you that never before have I ever been so relieved to find my television screen filled with images of J. Lo and Ben. If that's the most shocking thing that CNN has to talk about right now, well that's just fine by me.

Everyone has their own flying car, entire meals come in pill form and the Earth is run by damn dirty apes!


It only took me about an hour to get completely caught up with my blog reading. I'm stunned.

An hour gave me enough time to read all of my feeds and also to check in here with people that aren't on my Bloglines. I even managed to hit the people who don't ping.

It's like sitting down to dinner at Thanksgiving and the host presents you with a single pill on a plate. Sure, the pill will provide everything that the meal would but it's just not the same.

When the reading was finished and the clicking of the mouse stopped I was met with the loudest silence I've ever heard. What now? Well, I admit that I did go a' snackin' at the real deals (I almost have to, seeing as how skin-crazy some of my links are) and that's taken the edge off, a bit. This will definitely take some getting used to, but I think it'll do wonders for my productivity since I can get my ass away from the computer.

Either that or I'll start adding more people to my blogroll. We shall see.

There have been some comments from people who don't know what I'm talking about with this so here's a brief run-down...that orange button above Dame Edna takes you to a really ugly page. That's this blog in a different form. That url gets plugged into something like Bloglines who then translates the content back to a normal page, like out of a book. You slap all of your links into Bloglines and it automatically lets you know when your rss feeds (that's the funky page) has been updated. If you have a large list of people you visit it's a great thing for managing it - because really, at the end of the day it's about the content, right?

Unless you're only coming here for the orange - in which case I can't say that I blame you. But there are words here, too, ya know.

Since I've freed up so much time I think I'm going to spend a little while trawling for more rss feeds...today I'm feeling like that snake who's eating his tail, have you seen that picture? It's probably already a symbol for something else but I'm going to consider it my new symbol. Just a big ol' snake, eating my own tail.

rssified-ious,

Natalie

It's all about the content ()

These are the drugs that Dan bought.

Note to self - start remembering to think up titles for posts from now on.
Awww, do I have to?
Why yes. Yes you do.
Why? I don't wanna!
Well you have to, unless you want aggregators to grab the first line of your post and make it seem like the title. Your first lines aren't exactly your strongest suit, you know...takes you a while to get warmed up.
Gee, tell me how you really feel.
Oh now, come on! Other people do it all the time.
I used to a long time ago, remember?
You haven't for a while. All you need is a little discipline. You can do it, I'm sure.
Yeah, but that means I now have to think up a title along with a suitable closing and a line for my comments?
I'm afraid so.
Well that just sucks. Can I take a break from my closing and my comments line? Please? Just this once?
Sigh...okay, but just this once.
Yippee!
But I'm warning you - you won't feel like you've completed this entry. It'll begin to plague you.
Shows what you know!...-ingly. Damn.
See, you can't do it!
Can to!...-ly. Drat.
Ha ha! I know you better than you know yourself, which is to say me, and by extension, ourselves.
Wait...are there really two of us?
If there isn't, you're sitting here tying to yourself.
Don't I always?
Pretty much.
Sigh.
Can't figure out a way to end the post now, can ya?
Don't be so damn smug.
Just say it. Say I was right.
I was right. There.
No, that's not what...oh for pete's sake, nevermind.
Nevermind yourself.
Nevermind us.
-Ingly.

update: (Another note to self - make sure to put in a real line break before titles and body. Are you still bugging me? Yes, I am.)

No Comment ()

So having been reminded by the goingest of all the fishy ones I have put my little xml button there at the top, above Dame Edna. But it's orange on an orange background, which might be troublesome for some.

Since I've decided to use Bloglines as my aggregator I've spent some time peeking around for the rss feeds on various blogs. The plus signs next to the names indicates I'm subscribed to their feed. The rest of the blogs either don't provide one or their link is broken - if I missed anyone out then let me know.

This tool is most excellent, as I can catch up on a majority of my blogreading in a matter of minutes rather than the hours and hours and hours and days I usually spend trying to keep up with everyone. And this way I don't have to sit and silently curse at the people who don't ping after they've updated. This is a good thing for me.

I just wanted to let you know that if you notice a drop off in hits from your link here it's not that I'm not reading you any longer...if anything, with the rss feeds I'm probably going to be reading you more often.

If you're not on my blogroll there it's not because I don't read you - it's more likely that I've plugged you into the aggregator and have yet to update my blogrolls. (Note to self: update blogrolls.)

'Sbout it, really.

Worst post ever-ingly,

Natalie

Feed me, Seymore ()

You really don't know what it means to laugh until you've seen a naked baby boy crawling away from you, grunting every bit of the way because he's thinking he's going really, really fast. Because, you see, some hilarious stuff happens when naked boys crawl. And grunt.

Am I so utterly wrong as to laugh at that? Come on, moms of boys - you know what I'm talking about. That's some funny stuff right there.

Baby junk-ingly,

Natalie

Who are you to judge me? ()

Ah, Disney - once again, you've outdone yourself!

Flexplay is a new format of DVD that's just like a regular DVD, only cheaper ($5-$7). That's good! Only there are no extra scenes, alternate endings or director's cuts. That's bad! But you don't have to return it and face potential late fees. That's good! Except it's unplayable after 48 hours. That's bad! But then it's disposable. That's good! Though that means more landfill waste. That's bad! But if you mail it back they recycle. That's good! Which would involve spending your own money and getting your lazy, disposable DVD-ass to the post office. That's bad! But hey, no late fees - you're not even listening any more, are you? I don't blame you.

Though I have to say, I love this idea...(affecting best David Spade accent...does David Spade have an accent? You know what I mean)...I liked it even better the first time I heard about it. When it was called Netflix.

I cannot for the life of me wrap my puny human mind around this. Okay, they have technology available to get the data onto the disk at a very cheap price...then they throw more technology at it to make sure the data is unreadable after two days. How does this make sense? Just leave the fucking data alone and let us buy DVDs for $5 - it's not hard! And that business model would make Netflix obsolete. Imagine being able to buy a DVD for the price of renting one? Come on, Disney! Do that, not this stupid disappearing ink shit.

Honestly, am I missing something? Can anyone give me a reason that puts this disposable DVD thing over the top of the alternatives? Who green-lighted this endeavor? Do they honestly expect people to pay to send their dead disks back so that they can be recycled?

Let's get some numbers, people - how much landfill space is currently occupied by AOL disks? That! That's a number I'd like to know. I get one at least every week, usually packaged in some metal box. Into the bin you go. What is my inclination for sending back the disk for recycling? I'd just get it back next week.

I wonder if the post office would honor the old "return to sender" trick with AOL disks? I'm going to have to try that.

Anyway, my point is, Flexplay is pretty stupid.

Leave the data on the fucking disk for $5-ingly,

Natalie

I am Blockbuster's whore ()

You just can't count on a three-year-old for anything. I asked Zoe to please, please play with Nico while I got some work done she yelled, "I don't wanna play with him - he's too stupid!" If you ask her why she thinks Nico is stupid she'll loudly and proudly reply, "He's stupid because he has no teeth!" I don't understand the teeth/intelligence correlation but she applies it to me as well. I was trying to explain to her one day that the dvd player was broken (because of her) yet she insisted the problem somehow was with me. After a long, weary-to-the-bone kind of sigh she said, "That's it. Sorry, mommy, but you have to give me your teeth. You're too stupid to have them anymore."

So Stupid Toothless Nico had to play by himself on the floor while Zoe colored. Aha, peace at last! Until I noticed that Zoe decided to play with him after all. She was teaching him how to color.

This right here is the face of evil. Whodathunk it?

But Zoe is nothing if not appreciative of her Evil Minion In Waiting. Yes, she's petting him. She always pets him. Yes, I know that's weird.

And this is the face of a boy who's too stupid and toothless to realize that I'm laughing, and laughing does not equal "bad".

Immediately after this he rubbed his eyes once more for good measure, climbed into my lap leaving a lovely trail of green and promptly fell asleep. He's never that easy. I wonder what the hell was in those markers? I should check to make sure they're non-toxic.

Or maybe I'll suck on one myself and join him. A nap sounds good.

Outside the lines-ingly,

Natalie

Show me your teeth ()

Yo, check it - all this talk about slang and here I was, in the dictionary the whole time!



Alright, now hang on for some mad-ass linkage...I picked this puppy up at The Surrealist (n. a person with more than one house or home) whose link adorned the page of the previously mentioned The Presurfer (v. to enjoy things, with no purpose or reason) [ed. That's a bit on-the-nose, wouldn't you say?]

Thing of it is, though, is that The Surrealist (n. a person with more than one house or home) took their inspiration for the page from Teen Lingo: The Source for Youth Ministry (n. mid-nineties term for breasts) that I laughed about with my friend Special Ed (v. to become cute) back on Memorial Day (adj. high-quality but not good) after having found the link on the page of Matt ( adj. tiny or colourful).

What'd I say? MAD-ass linkage. And definitions, yo.

Slang-ingly,

Natalie

comments: interj. casual greeting. "Comments, buddy." "Comments." ()

How mature am I feeling right about now? About this mature:

Professor Poopypants says my new silly name is Zippy Toiletnose! (I used my maiden name...Andy's name came back as Stinky Gorillafanny, so if I used my married name I'd be just another Zippy Gorillafanny. Pah - just too common of a name, dontcha think?)

Yet another quality link brought to you from Melissa by way of Gerard.

Oh, another thing. Remember when you guys all adopted me? I may need to call you on that. See, in the past few days I've been *thisclose* to calling my family for whatever reason before remembering. So what I'm going to do is start running polls - that way you can give me advice and whatnot for things that I would have otherwise spoken to my parents about. Well, dad, mainly. Actually, dad always. Huh - how about that?

Anyway, I was thinking about him the other day when my truck shit out on me (and if you remember it's not been too long since my van shit out on me, thus leaving us completely without vehicle - oh the joys!) and I wanted to talk to him about throwing in a new starter motor and some battery-related issues and whatnot and, well, I couldn't. That really hurt - he's always been my go-to guy. In the brief time since I haven't been able to contact him I've developed an interesting theory about the overflow on my hot water heater, had a caulk query, this car issue and a carpet question. He's always been my maintenance go-to guy, so from now on if I'm stumped or just wanting advice on something I'm going to do a little poll over there at my sidebar. But not yet.

I just really fucking hate having to Google things that used to be a two-second phone call. Seems so wrong, somehow. This, I think, is a nice middle-ground. Maybe. At least, it seems like a good idea at the moment. We'll see. I may change my mind tomorrow - who knows.

Substitute-ingly,

Natalie

I should really be in bed ()

(Doff of the cap to Rita for this article)

Remember that Madonna Britney Christina kiss? You thought that was bad? You don't even know:

Up on stage for the raunchy performance of Madonna's "Like a Virgin" was 6-year-old Lourdes Maria Ciccone Leon. Little Lourdes was dressed in First Communion white, decked out in lace gloves, a crucifix, and a studded belt with the words "BOY TOY." Paving the way for the entrance of Madonna and her entourage of sexual exhibitionists, Lourdes tossed flower petals on the dance floor while a mosh pit of fans writhed in front of her and the porno soundtrack throbbed behind her.

Yeah, her daughter was that little flower girl.

When I first saw that performance I momentarily thought to myself, "The parents ought to be ashamed of themselves" but naturally assumed that there would be no children present during the bump and grind fest. You know - flower girl on the stage, flower girl off the stage, flower girl placed back in the green room to watch some Barney videos. But hey, maybe that's just me.

It gets better.

A fawning People magazine cover story four months ago bore the headline: "Madonna's real life: Once a naughty Material Girl, the pop icon has turned into a doting mom and devoted wife." Friends and "spiritual advisers" praised the foul-mouthed, bare-all celebrity for adopting a "laid-back domestic life" focused on motherhood. "Our whole life is based around the children," she boasted of Lourdes and Rocco, her 2-year-old son with Mr. Ritchie. "We get up with them in the morning. I get my daughter ready for school. I spend time with my son before he goes off to his day care. Either Guy or I am always with them at dinner, and we spend evenings together."
"She's definitely a hands-on mother," choreographer James King said.

Were those the same hands that she was running up and down Britney's thighs?

You know, I have no doubt that she loves her kids as much as any of us do but...what the fuck? Why would you make your daughter a part of something like that performance? I wouldn't even let my ten-year-old attend an event like that, let alone put my six-year-old right in the thick of it. "Boy Toy"? Jon-Benet Ramsey, much?

Next week, she'll launch a line of children's books — five "morality tales"...Explaining her noble motive for delving into kiddie lit, she condemned the "vapid and vacant" stories she was reading to her children. "There were, like, no lessons. ... There's, like, no books about anything."

Oh, I don't know about all of that...my kids have literally bookshelves and closets full of stories about sharing, good manners, respecting themselves and others, et al. I really don't think we're lacking in good kid stories that teach us lessons. Apparently she missed out on reading Aesop - she should check him out - he spins a good yarn.

But here's the bit that really kicks me in the teeth:

Reacting to lowered standards of decency on television last year, she indignantly exclaimed, "People have no morals, I swear to God."

I can only assume she was saying this happily. Like, "People have no morals...so they're gonna love what I have planned onstage at the awards show!"

Having Madonna preach to us about morals is like...well, like having Madonna preach to us about morals.

The whole thing just floors me. Is Madonna surrounded by that many ass-kissers that no one has the balls to say, "Hey, maybe it's, you know, in extremely bad taste to not only do this performance but to include your daughter?" "Perhaps people will find you preaching about morality, you know, extremely fucking laughable?"

I don't know how much I can buy into this whole "devoted mother" crap anymore when she's branded her own young daughter a "boy toy". It's just too much for me to wrap my brain around.

Would ya look at that - I guess Madonna does still have some shock-value left to her after all.

Gobsmacked-ingly,

Natalie


I'm keeping my baby ()

This is, I think, my new favorite blog title: Hi. I'm Black!

Betcha he's really not, though. He uses the word "homey" which, as far as I can tell, is only used by white suburbanite kids and people on the WB.

If you plan to visit him but don't know exactly how black people like to be treated by white people you should check out this primer written by two white people who have been embraced and celebrated by our African-American counterparts. There are some pretty powerful testimonials on there from their black friends, such as, "Sally always says things that make me feel special, like: 'You're so cool, you're different, you're not like other Black people!'" and "Johnny always says: 'I'm not racist; one of my best friends is Black!' I think he might mean me!"

Truly touching stuff, right there. It makes me want to buy a poster of a black hand shaking a white hand. *sniffle*

Diversity-ingly,

Natalie

PS - If you do a search for "Ebony and Ivory lyrics" on Google do not click the first link that pops up...the url that has something to do with "ebony models" in it...even though the title page clearly says, "Ebony and Ivory Lyrics". It's a trick. Those women aren't singing anything at all. How do I know? Because you can't hit the high notes when you're doing "it".

update: Do you have any idea how weird it is to hear a stranger talking about you? Even if he doesn't know who I am - still, that was freaky. I thought I was going to be screamed at, like an internet version of a Howler. That's not a bad idea, actually...when you get supremely pissed off at someone don't just slam your keyboard around typing bad things about them. Get your ass an audblog entry and really scream at 'em. I bet you'd even feel better.

Anyway, our resident Black Glenn (not to be confused with the White Glenn, aka "The Mighty Afro-Whitey" but only by me) mentions the thirty hits he got from me yesterday and another hit comes in as he's recording. A hit, right there in real-time. Thirty-one hits isn't bad for a Sunday, really. That was about a fifteen percent click-through rate - nothing to sniff at in the slightest. I know, I'm no White Glenn, but I was pretty happy about that nonetheless.

Still not sure if he's black or not, though. To pull another quote from "Black People Love Us"..."Johnny is generous enough to remark upon how 'articulate' I am! That makes me feel good!" Glenn, too, is rather articulate - though it took me a few minutes to figure out what he was offering when he said he was going to give me some "pub". Is it marijuana? I know how much black people love to smoke their blunts of chronic!

Well, after a few minutes spent searching online for urban street slang I finally figured out he meant "publicity". If Glenn ever starts a web page, "White Folk Be All Up In My Bidness" I'll give him his first quote: "I love how Glenn will use truncated words when speaking to me because he knows I'm 'street' enough to figure it out!"

Though it doesn't really need to be said, none of this is meant in a serious vein. It's just my sense of humor - I can't be racist, as some of my best friends are black. I wish some of them were around right now - I keep meaning to ask what "fizzle my gizzle" is supposed to mean, and if it's wrong for me to pronounce it "Fiddy Cen'". Cuz, you know, I'm nothing if not down.

Sing it with me now: Side By Side On My Piano Keyboard, Oh Lord, Why Don't We? ()

Hey, you there! Person with the sucky blog layout...don't look behind you, I'm talking to you. Yeah, you, the person pointing to their own chest...oh, don't look so indignant - you obviously think your own layout sucks if you responded to a call of "person with the sucky blog layout". Hey man, it's not my fault you suck - I mean, we can't all have Dame Edna keeping watch over our flocks by night, now can we? No. No we can't.

But you're not a lost cause, not by a long shot. At least not while Melissa is around, anyway. She's come to your assistance with some feck-off fantastic little tools. Don't get all dismissive because I used the word "tools"...well, yes, I do realize that I make it sound like work. Toys then, how about that? Toys. She has fun and sparkly toys for you to play with. Yeah, I thought that would make you happy...you're a little bit 2:45, aren't ya? ("2:45" is my new slang for "short bus" - because the short-bus kids have to leave at 2:45. Doff of the cap to Alex's son for that one.) Where were we? Ah, yes, toys.

To totally gank a line from Melissa...

So go pick your colors, grab a picture, make a banner and the Firdamatic will design your layout for you. How easy is that?

The color toy will even show you coordinating colors to the main one you choose (you know, if you're into that kind of thing). Don't clap when you're holding a cup of coffee - that's just stupid. Here, take your toys - go, and suck no more.

Wish I had this when I was a kid-ingly,

Natalie

Well, what else are you going to do on a Sunday? ()

One of the funniest things I've read all day...

solonor: Oh, yeah, and I want pumpkin pie. Or a nice strawberry/rhubarb one. And glog.
rachel: ...what the heck is glog?
solonor: Sorry, I misspelled it. It's glogg.

Way to clarify there, Sol!

Glogg will, as they say, "knock your dick in the dirt". It's a mix of red wine, port and vodka, only spiced. Very popular in Minnesota, eh. You drink it by the thimbleful if you're smart. Actually, if you're smart you avoid the stuff and the people consuming it. At the very least, you keep people who have consumed it away from open flames and heat sources, as they tend to, you know, ignite.

Hope you're all enjoying your weekend - I have yet to do a single thing, huzzahs! I need to save my energy for tomorrow night when I'll be watching the true hollywood story of Dr. Phil McGraw, yeehaw! You just know that guy's a train wreck...watching footage of he and Oprah stalking together is creepily reminiscent of Liz Taylor and Michael Jackson, isn't it? Should be a laugh, despite the fact that I'm deathly afraid of all things Oprah.

Evil empire-ingly,

Natalie


You don't need flapjacks to shoe a horse ()

After opening a vein on here I always find it difficult to get back into the swing of things so I'm going to ease myself into the water slowly with another Bulleted List With No Real Point. Patent pending, patent pending, patent pending.

• I think the movie "Once Upon A Time In Mexico" looks excellent ("Desperado" is one of the yummiest yum yum films of all time so the sequel can't be bad...right?) but I'm having a problem with the title. I keep calling it, "This One Time At Band Camp", which I think would be a fantastic title for a film but doesn't really fit.


• Something you learn as a mother - the longest increment of time is the space between you doing something and your baby finally reacting to said action. That moment where it can go either way - either a lip-pucker on the way to a full-fledged howl or dancing eyes alight with laughter. It's a tense few seconds that seem to stretch on forever, but it really doesn't matter either way because laughing to the point of tears or crying hysterically makes no difference: kids make some damn funny faces.


• I should probably be more bothered than I am by the fact that Zoe, at the ripe old age of three and a half, prefers to watch "Forrest Gump" over the Powerpuff Girls.


• Speaking of Forrest Gump, I used to get Mykelti Williamson confused with Forest Whitaker. I don't mean that in a racist way, just that I don't know my actors...I get white people confused just as easily as black. Anyway, I used to watch the movie mumbling, "Forest Whitaker, Forrest Gump. Dick Yorke, Dick Sargent, Sargent York". I mean obsessively, like some people wash their hands over and over, I had to whisper that to myself. I've outgrown it now, I think.


• Nothing will tickle this tiger's ass faster than Mikey saying I'm "tha bomb diggity". If anything comes even close to that, it would be the sweet, sweet prospect of sending a long-distance dedication to my very first blog crush. A faux booty call across a time zone at four a.m. would be sweeeet.


• Note to fathers: You should never, ever begin a sentence by saying, "Oh, speaking of 'short bus', your daughter...." That's a really easy way to infuriate someone, right there.


• Teaching a three-year-old to "point and click" a mouse is such a painful task that you will literally be able to roll over your own toes with your office chair and not even feel it. I'm talking huge chunks of skin just scraped off of your toes - nothing. Won't feel a thing. (Note to self - try to convince someone else to help Zoe with her mousing abilities. Then injure them. Note reaction, if any.)


• I have a lovely and most extensive collection of obligations. If I owe you something I'll get around to it as soon as humanly possible. As I'm not quite human, however, I don't really know the ways of your people. How long is one centurganot in Earth time? Google's no help.


• I think I'm mentally unstable. The other day I popped out with, "Hey Zeus, have you met my friend Jesus?" and about pissed myself laughing. I don't know why, as that's not even funny, but fuck if it didn't give me fits.


• My yatescentral email is bouncing to Andy's inbox for some reason. Please refrain from sending me anything vulgar and/or naked for the time being. The guy's heart isn't healthy enough for all of that.

That felt good.

UL-ingly,

Natalie


If you want my sexy and you think I'm body ()

Damn it - I just lost a huge, huge post where I linked to everyone who's been so great to me in the past couple of days. Took forever to write but when I went to hit "publish" Blogger sent me to a login screen. Now I'm all out of steam and emotionally drained, so I'll just say "thank you" - you guys have really softened the blow. I was a sobbing wreck for most of yesterday and am still a bit tender. I had an awful nightmare that my mom was after me, only her weapon was a vagina filled with long, gnarly teeth that was trying to bite me. I woke up in a mad panic - still a little shaky over that.

You know, I often read blogs that discuss very private matters and have thought, "How? How does this person talk about this...and publish it for strangers, no less?" But it's really not that different than a support group, is it? The whole unleashing and unburdening thing can be a really positive experience - and it's here, you know? To read and to reference in the future. Come Thanksgiving and Christmas I'll probably start feeling down about not having my family around but all I'll have to do is peek back in my comments from yesterday to reinforce the, "You know what? Fuck them" mentality. That'll be helpful, right?

As sick as it sounds, I was most pleased to learn there are people out there who share a similar experience. It's not so much that misery loves company as much as it's a feeling of not being alone. If that makes sense? I would never wish this on anyone else just to be able to say, "Oh yeah, well join the club!" Strength in numbers, maybe? I can't articulate what I'm trying to say but if you get it, then you get it.

Used to be I didn't follow this mind-set. I talked here about being robbed and that was hard to do - after it had happened a police officer suggested I get counseling for the ordeal. He told me of his own first experience of having a gun pointed on him and that it shook him to the point where he nearly gave up police work. I'd briefly considered it, until I was telling the story to a friend of mine who cut me off in the middle and told me the story of when he had a gun flashed at him. Of course, the gun in his story was bigger, the criminal infinitely more menacing and the psychological scars much deeper. I wasn't trying to get into a pissing contest over who had the "better" robbery story...well, it sounds stupid now but that experience steeled my resolve to not talk about the robbery again. I mean in detail - I mention it every time someone asks me about my tattoo. Kind of a tough one to hide. But the whole story? Before the other day, precious few people knew the whole deal. It felt good to get it out.

That's something I'm slowly coming to realize, just how personally powerful this here blog can be. I don't have to carry things by myself anymore. Not that I'm going to turn this into a place where all I do is talk about my problems, but the few times that I have done I've met some really great people in the process. When I first posted about my depression I was afraid of what the reaction would be - and yes, I did get some negative feedback about being a "whiner", but that didn't bother me as much as I'd suspected it would. See, I was just writing it for myself, mainly, and for Andy to learn a little bit about what's going on inside my head. But then I started getting emails from people saying, "YES! Yes, that's exactly what it's like for me, too." One very kind mental health professional asked if she could use it in a support group for spouses of depressed people; a teenaged boy said that he could relate so strongly that he was going to tell his parents that he needed to see a doctor...I fucking helped people. I wasn't trying to, I didn't mean to, but I did. That's empowering, to know that you really did make a difference to someone.

I've been helped along the way as well. Solonor has been like a surrogate father to me for a long time now...you know what makes him so utterly amazing? We had two different email subjects going back and forth one day, one filled with emotional stuff and one filled with zingers. It was like the comedy/tragedy theatre masks. He's the kind of guy who always seems to know when to let you cry and when to make you laugh - everyone needs a friend like that.

And thanks to the friends I have in Mike McBride and his wife, Angela I'm at a very different place than I was a year ago with regards to my childhood abuse. See, just writing that, just those words, would have been impossible for me a year ago. I mentioned to Andy last night that there are only two people in this world who know exactly what it was like for me because they witnessed it all first-hand. Why? Why was I never able to talk about it apart from the occassional little snip here and there? Because I thought no one would understand. Because if it didn't happen to you then you just won't get it. And I think a part of me was afraid that the robbery pissing contest would be repeated and I just wouldn't be able to handle that. But Mike taught me that's not the case - all of us who have lived through it are on equal footing; there's no, "Well, I can top that". The degree of the abuse isn't as important as what it did to you as a person. In the beginning I even felt a bit stupid for calling what happened to me "abuse" in light of what Mike's overcome but the only thing that matters, the only thing is that we were both hurt. Again, if you get it then you get it.

Another thing I've come to realize is that I'm not going to make any apologies for what I write here. In the past couple of days I've been delinked more than I really expected but that's fine. I probably have some nasty email waiting for me calling me a whiner but I'm not even going to look at that today - still feeling a bit fragile to take all of that on. But I don't think I should edit myself or what I write to please the masses - sometimes I'll go dizzy from staring into my own navel. Sometimes I'll be funny. Hell, I may start posting lists of interesting items found under my bathroom sink, I don't know. But I do know that too much good has come to me, personally, by writing what I write for me to stop or change. I think the comments from the last couple of days has proven that the majority of you will stick around anyway and even offer support when I need it. Hopefully I won't need to lean on you too often but it's nice to know you're there when I do.

I'm dealing with this by myself but not alone, if that makes sense. Reading the comments, emails and IMs over the past few days have helped to fast-forward the whole "get over it" factor, I think.

Since we're all one big happy family now you're all invited over for Christmas. It'll be great - I'll make pie.

Appreciative-ingly,

Natalie

Mmmmm....pie ()

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child...

I'm in the mood for some blues today. It's been a long time coming, I think, but I've been officially disowned.

I know it sounds old-fashioned but that's the way my family operates. My father hasn't seen or spoken to his second daughter in around twenty years; my brother's been gone for around ten. My family takes the whole disowning thing very seriously.

My uncle disowned two of his daughters...at one point, a daughter found herself living in the same town as one of her brothers. She thought, "Hey, it's been twenty years - surely I can speak to him now!" He looked right through her. She said who she was, in case he didn't recognize her, and he said to her, "I'm going to pretend I didn't see you." He moved his family within a month of that meeting. Ostracizing is swift and ever-lasting.

My mother's ex-husband was disowned to the point that no one told him of his own mother's death until it slipped on the day of her funeral. He attended, though his mother said he wasn't allowed. They forcibly removed him from the funeral.

What were these people disowned over? Money was the big factor but the biggest one was due to a Mafia-esque "disrespecting the family".

Shit caught up with me, I guess. So, I'm out. I'm under orders to return everything my family has given me, including heirloom pieces my grandmother brought over from Europe and china and crystal pieces that have been in my family for three hundred years. I didn't think you could just take those things back but apparently my parents want to give them to my sisters who aren't assholes.

I'm also under orders to inform my parents when I plan to return their camper so that they can make sure they're not around. They don't even want to accidentally see me.

I fully expect to receive a letter in the coming weeks from the family's lawyers telling me that I am no longer executor of my parent's wills. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm written out of their will entirely. I don't think they'd go so far as to say I'm not allowed at funerals but they have told me that I will not be informed of any family emergencies or deaths. I don't think my sisters would get in touch with me, either. I don't know, Ditz might...maybe. I don't know.

It's a horrible feeling, this. Yesterday I had a family, today they don't want to know me. People shouldn't be able to do that, to just cut you out like that. When people turn their backs on you so swiftly and completely you have to wonder if they ever really cared about you in the first place.

Now I get to begin the task of going through everything that's been given to me. There are certain things of my grandmother's that I'm keeping - things that don't have value anyway, like a bookmark she brought back from Jerusalem and the box she kept her food stashed in, but anything of value certainly has been recorded somewhere in my father's records.

I just thought of something that made me laugh - my father was disowned by his own father. I have a large stein depicting the plane that my grandfather flew during the Korean War with his name and rank painted on it. What should I do with that? Give it back to my dad? "Here, dad - here's something that your own father most certainly doesn't want you to have. Happy Disowned Day!"

Nah...including a note would be pointless, as it'd end up in the trash, unread. Geesus, I feel like I've been drinking lava. Is it too early to hit the vodka, I wonder? Wish I had some whiskey or something.

If I don't post for a while you can rest assured that I'm on a bender. I may stay away from here until I get out of my funk - you guys don't need all this shit.

Lady sings the blues-ingly,

Natalie

Wanna adopt me? ()

I have a lot of hate inside of me right now - some of it misdirected, some of it petty, all of it boiling.

I have hate for certain people. Real hate, the kind you can choke on. I have hate for people who link to the people that I hate to the point where I've delinked them. (Hey, I said some of that hate is petty.) I have hate for people that I want to hurt, hurt them badly. Gouging out their eyeballs kind of hate. The kind of hate that leads you to break your own possessions. What the hell has that ever accomplished? Not a damn thing. It makes you feel better, but not.

I'm a giver and a fixer. I give until I don't have anything left over for myself. This drives me to distraction. It drives me to worse.

It occurs to me that I never did tell the stories behind my "two truths and a lie" post. You want to know the stories? Here are the stories. I can't remember which one I'd said I'd write about, but I know which stories I mentioned, so you get a twofer.

One story was about getting my ass kicked around a police station. That really happened. The ass-kicker in question was my mom; the cop was my cousin.

I thought I would run away when I was around twelve. My mother was recently back from her latest rehab and wanting to pull a June Cleaver on our asses - family portraits, sit-down dinners, the works. I was revolted. How could a twelve-week stint in a rehab center remove all of the pain she'd inflicted with her (at least) twice-daily beatings? I don't mean just a slapping; I mean a beating. Like, "hold you against a wall by your throat" beating. Garbage cans emptied on your bed while you're sleeping kind of beatings. She was a cunt, plain and simple. She'd get coked up and drunk and call me out from my bed and tell me about some trick she'd turned, how huge his cock was, all in front of my dad. He'd finally snap, punch her in the face or break something (like a table) over her head and then all hell would break loose.

Yeah, I wanted out.

So I ran away. I went with a friend and we made it a couple of miles out of town when she said she remembered an old friend of hers who lived around there. We stopped in (you know, on our way to hitchhike on the interstate) and thought, Hey, wouldn't it be really funny to call home? See what our parents say?

My partner in crime called home and we all three listened in...her mother's answering machine picked up to a very hurried outgoing message: If this is S then leave a message and we'll come get you. We're checking the machine every ten minutes. We're looking for you. Hang on baby, we'll be there.

Awww! S was in tears. But I thought, "Shit, my family is WAY more dramatic than theirs! My family will be even better!"

We called my house and my sister, Boob Job, answered the phone. We had our friend, K, do the talking. She asked for me, and Boob Job said, "Hey, where's Natalie?" My mom answered in the background, "Oh, she fucking ran away." Boob Job said into the phone, "She, um, ran away, I guess." K thanked her and hung up the phone. I was thunderstruck.

I think, up to that point, I was running away for the attention. When I realized no attention was forthcoming I decided to run away for real. I wanted to jump into the first car I saw on Interstate 80 and hope against hope that the driver was an escaped mental patient who would kill me in a horrific, gruesome fashion at his first chance. I told S and K good-bye (S was going home) and trekked out across the final field to the interstate.

That's where the cops found me. My cousin, no less.

"What the fuck are you doing, huh?" he screamed as he dragged me by my hair to the squad. "Looking all over for your ass. There are real crimes, you little bitch! Get in the fucking car!"

I was bleeding from the mouth then but managed to bubble that S was back at K's house. Turns out, they'd already collected her - she'd phoned the cops herself.

S and I were at the police station, where her mother was already waiting. S's mother swooped down on her and they were a mess of tears for a good twenty minutes. "I love you, don't do that again, I love you too"'s were all that could be heard beyond their sniffling. Again, I thought, "They don't hold a candle to the drama of my own family. Wait until mom gets here!"

I waited for over three hours. Mom didn't come. We lived four blocks from the police station - even walking backwards, she'd have made it in three hours.

The cops (not my cousin - he was gone by then) literally handcuffed me to the desk while they left for lunch. That's where my mother found me, and proceeded to kick the ever loving shit out of me. I mean "kick", too, in the literal sense.

"Why the fuck" wham "are you doing" wham "this shit" wham "to me" wham. "I snorted" wham "a fucking gram" wham "myself" wham "before I came up here" wham "I've been clean" wham "so fucking long" [six months] wham "and you fucking" wham "ruined it!" Wham.

All I thought was, "Yeah, bitch, keep kicking me. Fuck, I'll lean into it. Just keep kicking me until the cops show back up." They never did. Not until my mom went to fetch them.

My head had dented and splintered the wood - the blood seeped into the veins. I wouldn't have noticed this had my mother not pointed it out. At family reunions, my cousin told the story of how he points to that spot, telling suspects, "Do you want this to happen to you?" when trying to persuade them to confess. I wonder how many little criminals know that stain is the result of some of what my mother calls "tough love".

They recently had an auction at the police station where they sold all of their old office equipment. My mother, laughingly, told me on the phone, "They sold T's desk - and you won't believe this, but it's still bloody!"

Hardy fucking har.

The other story, about being robbed, was true.

Before I was Ms. Big Time general manager of the hotel I worked at, I was a lowly night auditor. A lot of accounting, a lot of Mountain Dew. It was the perfect job for me.

One night I heard the bell ring on the door and emerged from the office to see someone I thought looked very badly burned (it was a mask). I felt immediate sympathy for this guy, until he reached the little half-door that separated the back desk from the lobby and saw him pointing a gun at me. A huge gun. I'd later learn that it was a .44 (Dirty Harry gun) backed up by a .38 snub-nosed revolver (Saturday Night Special). But I wasn't worried about the back-up gun in the back-up man's hand. I was looking down the barrel (literally, down the barrel as the thing was level with my head. Pointed between my eyes, actually.) of this fuck-off big gun and I was scared.

I don't know dick about guns but I do know that the amount of money in the register was less than half of what these guns cost. I was aware of this much, at least. Which worried me, as I immediately thought that these guys were there for something besides money.

I was ushered back into the office (you'd be surprised at how automatically you'll raise your hands when faced with a gun - they never said, "Put your hands up" but that was my immediate response) and told to sit down in "Cindy's chair". Cindy was the woman who managed that hotel a year or so earlier so my brain engaged. This was a former employee...he had to know that we keep less than $200 in the register at night. So what was his focus? I immediately thought "rape and murder, of course!" This was reinforced when I saw the duct tape.

I was tied down to the chair with the tape. First my ankles, then my knees. He paused long enough to shove his face into my crotch and sniff deeply while moaning. Then onto my wrists. I wanted to distract him from me so I said, "The key to the cash drawer is in my pocket - take it if you want the money. The money? Do you want the money?" To this day I am amazed at how I tried to play this.

As he was taping up my wrists his gun kept poking me in the stomach. I thought to myself, "Great - he's going to shoot me in half and won't even mean to." I honestly thought that I was going to die. That's only happened to me twice in my life and both times I've had the same calm, cool reaction. Hysterics are only allowed if some part of you knows that you're not, in fact, doomed. When you're feeling it for real it's a whole other story.

Mr. Saturday Night Special then called from the front, saying that the cash drawer was locked. Well, fucking DUH. Mr. Dirty Harry then went to the front and shot the drawer open - so I knew that his gun was not only loaded but that he felt comfortable using it. Things were not looking good for me.

They pulled the $100 or so in cash and the rolls of coins - all told the haul was worth $140. But, aha! They took the safe, too! The safe, a two-hundred-fifty pound behemoth of metal. Yes, please do take the safe...which, I'm sure, was filled to the brim with cash the last time you worked here with Cindy but was now filled with lunch receipts. (The current manager was a bit corrupt.)

I heard them remove the safe and leave the hotel - it was only then that I tried to lift my arms and free myself from this ancient duct tape. It fell apart like dust. I hurdled the desk (used to be in track and field - I have a good hurdle) and slammed the office door. I called 911 and the cops came. They found the guys, blah blah blah, I was unscathed.

I tried to testify once against the guys but lost it. I couldn't go back.

When I finally finished with the police that night it was well after nine a.m. (I was robbed at one a.m. and was due home by seven.) My then-boyfriend was irritated at me until he heard my story. A brief version of my story, as he was two hours late for work and was borrowing my car.

He left me that morning because I was "safe". I hallucinated seeing Mr. Dirty Harry walking down the hallway, pointing his gun at me. I still dream about that.

That was the day that I stopped loving him. For leaving me like that; for thinking that it was all okay.

My tattoo is a reminder of that time, of that event, and should have kept me on my toes against awful, self-absorbed people. I ignored myself. And I have paid.

Some people will use you and fucking use you with no sense of apology. They think that somehow they've earned that right. Then they wake up and are really fucking surprised when no one who cares is there for them. Awful people, ignorant fucking people, people who don't even realize that you have value and you should, therefore, be valued. But you can only be walked on if your dumb ass lays the fuck down in the first place. Never lay down. Never let them do what they feel is their right to do. They fucking suck, and they will pay for it. For all of it. They're worthless, and they don't even deserve a second consideration, let alone your time or energy. Be true to yourself. It sounds easy and trite, but follow that principle. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" is a crock of shit right there. "Do unto others as you suspect they'll ultimately do unto you" is better. Fuck that "holier than thou" shit. They'll piss on you and not give it a second thought.

There are people in this mortal coil that I absolutely loathe. But only because they've made me loathe myself for putting myself last in a list of dickheads who didn't deserve my attention in the first place.

Pricks and dumb mother fuckers have gotten way too much of my time already-ingly,

Natalie

Like I'm really expecting any ()

(link ganked right off from lovely Rita meter maid (I think she hates it when I say that) of Repsi Ispsy Lookoutbelow or however you pronounce her blog's name)


Praise be to the A-double-lizzle-to-the-A-to-the-hizzle, Allah! Allah's in the house, woot woot!

I had to link after reading this post:

According to Popdex, Allah's is currently the most popular blog in all the Dar al-Harb. You might think this would please Allah, and insofar as it is a rebuke to the false god, the most profane Elder of Zion, it does. And yet, Allah's site is only ranked ninth overall. He is once again trapped behind the goddamned time travel article on Wired, among other things, and Allah did not get to be where he is today by settling for ninth place. So this one time Allah will swallow his pride and engage the Jew in the activity Jews love above all others: He will bargain. In the fine tradition of the shameful Christian Oral Roberts, Allah hereby vows that if enough infidels link to his blog to make him number one on Popdex, he will "call Yasser Arafat home." Word is bond, kufr. This is your chance to make your fondest wish, the smiting of Abu Ammar, a reality. And if Allah should reach number one on Popdex, Daypop and Blogdex, he will throw in the added bonus of smiting Sheikh Yassin by rolling him off a mountain. So act quickly, Hebrews! Allah's offer will not last forever!

So link now! Operators are standing by.


Akbar-ingly,

Natalie

Does the infidel dare speak? ()

I haven't spoken to my mom in a while so she decided to email me about what's up with the family. Like anything major is going to change - I just saw them a couple of weeks ago - but she likes to keep me "in the loop" as it were. Everyone is the same as the last time I was there, with one notable exception:

"Your sister, Boob Job, is now working at a really exclusive gentleman's club and made over $300 in tips alone one night!"

To which my response was, "I know you're really proud of Boob Job being a stripper and everything but, to be honest, that's not something that most people would brag about. That's like saying, "Yeah, my kid's a really fantastic drug dealer - she sells pounds of coke!" You may want to keep quiet on the whole, 'My kid shoves her tits in guy's faces for money' thing. Just a suggestion."

I didn't think much of my comment - my mom probably wouldn't even notice what I said, as she tells anyone who will listen that she wishes she could have been a stripper (yeah, thanks for that one, mom) until I got this in my inbox from Boob Job herself:

"Strippers are like drug dealers, huh? You're stupid! No one kills someone over stripping and no one kills no one for money to give to strippers and strippers are GOOD because if guys didn't go to strippers then they'd probably be out raping people! Did you ever think of that stupid?"

Yeah, genius - you've just called your paying customers potential rapists. (Did ya hear that, Mikey? You're a potential rapist! Get thee to a strip club, post haste!) And she continues...

"I know for a fact that you've gone and seen strippers so if strippers are so bad why did YOU go?"

To stop me from raping people, of course.

I don't think I've ever seen strippers in any serious sense. I've gone to the shows of friends in a non-sexual way, I've gone to shows hosted at the country club I used to work at, and I've seen male strippers at the gay clubs. Funniest thing is that not a single male stripper I've ever met has been gay, but say they do the gay club circuit because the tips are better than in straight clubs. Which is something I totally didn't understand - I would think that women would tip the guys better than the guys tipped the guys but I was wrong. As it turns out, gay men are the best stripper tippers, followed by straight women. Dead last are straight men tipping women. Gee, I should tell Boob Job that she should become a male stripper for gay men - then she'd really be raking in the cash.

You're just pissed off and jealous because I'm getting paid so much money and you're not getting paid anything and I bet you still have to show your naked body for FREE sucker!

Damn, you have a point there. All this naked time with my husband, man I love who respects me, and he's yet to shove a sweaty dollar bill in my thong. Man, am I getting robbed or what?!?

I made $300 for doing five hours of work!

Yeah, and before too long I wouldn't be surprised if you were earning $300 for five minutes of work. Can you see where I'm headed with that thought? Do ya get it, sister o' mine?

So you can just shut the hell up and stop trying to make mom feel bad for being PROUD of the only kid she can feel PROUD OF!!!

Let's do an inventory, shall we? There's Hippy, a recovering drug addict, to be sure, who has been clean now for years and is pretty much single-handedly raising a daughter with autism and a son with behavioral problems - all while working her ass off at a shittly little salesclerk job at Wal-Mart and somehow managing to make ends meet. Right - nothing to be proud of there!

Then there's Ditz - okay, another recovering drug addict who, again, is raising her son on her own and working her ass off as a bartender. She got herself out from under a rather hefty drug addiction on her own, which is a tough thing to do, and is one of the best mothers I've ever seen in my life. Nothing to be proud of there, either.

Then there's me.

Mom told me you call me Boob Job on your stupid web page and you can knock that shit off RIGHT NOW!!! I'm more than just a boob job and now that I had a boob job I have CONFIDENSE (sic) and SELF RESPECT for myself and no one calls me Itty Bitty Titties anymore and B (her husband) doesn't get Playboy magazine anymore because I look better than they do!!!

Sigh. There are just too many things wrong with this for me to even comment.

You know, in all honesty I've not said much bad against Boob Job for her choice of vocation. However, I think it's wrong to put some kind of healthy spin on it, especially when you don't see your own kids for days on end because you're picking up extra shifts that you don't need to pick up. She's not poor - they make enough that she doesn't have to work if she doesn't want to.

You know what she was going to do before she started stripping? Open a day-care. I shit you not. The choices were daycare or stripping. "Ah, yes, I'm either going to take this job as a patent clerk or I'm going to apply at the Grease Monkey as a lube tech. Haven't decided - it's a pretty tough call."

The thing that bothers me is that she's being held up as a shining example of Who To Be and a beacon for women's rights. I just don't see it, myself.

Sure, everyone likes attention and wants to be told they're beautiful and desirable, but if the only way you can get that in your life is to become a stripper...well, you have bigger problems than I can sort out.

And if you would spend $6,000 on a boob job because your husband said that if you did that he'd stop getting Playboy...again, bigger problems than I can sort out.

Ah well - to each his or her own, I guess.

Proud?-ingly,

Natalie

How sexy am I now? ()

Ah...I'm choking on the irony! (link via TUSK!!!! Wait, no, sorry - link ganked from The Scribble.)


STEVIE NICKS - Well lucky you, Belladonna, you're
the most successful solo artist to come out of
Fleetwood Mac. Maybe that's becuase you handed
out your "resume" to a lot of
famous Rockers (do Don Henley and Joe Walsh
ring a bell?) or maybe your free spirit and
wild Gypsy attitude kept everyone coming back
for more, but without a doubt, you're one
famous lady. Congrats on kicking the coke habit
and for making amends with Lindsey... still
though, let's try and keep the corset fastened
and the bloomers fully ON during this tour, ok?


Which Fleetwood Mac alumni are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that Quizilla just called me a coke-head slut.

I'll be over here bleeding myself if anyone needs me.

Tusk-ingly,

Natalie

No, you go your own way ()

So I added a dozen or so new subtitle thingies up there under the pickle juice banner but guess what? They all suck because I made them wrong. Stupid sub-optimal .gifs, grrr. I'll fix 'em but not right now.

As for the voting stuff - well, despite Stevie Nicks being slightly ahead I've decided to declare it a tie because those who voted for Fleetwood Mac's version have obviously had their judgment clouded by their reverence for Stevie Nicks. Understandable, even acceptable to a degree. But you're wrong.

I was so sure that Billy Corgan would come out ahead on that one. I really don't understand that at all. Maybe people voted for Stevie Nicks because they thought it would be funny to annoy me? Yeah, that's what I'm going with. You just enjoy it when the little vein pops out of my forehead and my eyelid twitches. Sick bastards.

Since it's a tie I guess that means that Andy and I will go back to doing what we already do - simultaneously playing our respective versions at full volume until the kids complain.

If he gloats over this, though, I fully reserve the right to beat his ass. I'm allowed anyway - it was in my wedding vows - but thus far he's escaped the whoopin' he so richly deserves.

Today is the greatest day to go your own way-ingly,

Natalie

Oh yeah? Says you! ()

Are you sick and tired of voting and voting and not making an ounce of difference? Well I'm here to remedy that one - your civic duty awaits.

This is an issue that plagues Andy and I, literally, every single weekend. And you (yes YOU) can make all the difference here.

We have a bit of a war going on over who does the best version of the song "Landslide". The two frontrunners are Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks (the original) or Smashing Pumpkins/Billy Corgan. (The Tori Amos and Dixie Chicks versions do not even rate so don't bring them up unless you want me to fold your thumbs back so far that they catch a peek up Ms. Pinky's skirt.)

Now, I don't want to skew the voting by, oh I don't know, mentioning what a god I think James Iha is, or what an over-rated hack Lindsey Buckingham is, so we'll just leave that one alone.

You decide, we'll forever abide by your vote. (Andy doesn't know this yet.) It'll be good for us, as we've come *thisclose* to throwing down and smacking one another around the room over this. Think I'm joking?

Which is it - Stevie Nicks or Billy Corgan? For reference, it was pressed on the Pisces Iscariot cd for the Pumpkins and was on, I don't know, Rumours or some other shit cd for Fleetwood Mac. If you want to be really democratic and want to hear them both side by side just email me, as those mp3s are in heavy rotation and and readily available for you to judge.

Zero-ingly,

Natalie

Speak now or forever hold your peas ()

In my dreams, I am King!

Last night when I was sleeping (yes, sleeping at night!) I had the most fantastic dream. I dreamed that I was vacuuming my floor and managed to do such a quality job that there was nary a dog hair to be seen. I was overcome with a tremendous amount of satisfaction.

That was it. The whole dream, right there. I wonder what that symbolises?

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar-ingly,

Natalie

update - You know the worst part about being married to a geek? There's something that geeks do, this power-trip thing, where they want you to be dependent upon them so that they may mock you for it. I'm totally not joking - for as much bitching as they (as in the true geeks) do about how stupid people are, and how frustrating it is to deal with them (I deal with this daily simply for running Windows XP on my machine - yeah, it makes computer-related conversations really pleasant. "Andy, my cd burner is dead" - "You shouldn't run XP - that's half your problem right there") they would hate it if, one morning, everyone woke up with the knowledge to run Linux and troubleshoot their own machines.

What's that? You want a real-life example? Well, sure!

Case in point - since my blog is hosted on our domain Andy has the ability to, you know, get in there and mess around with things. Even if I put something in my template in Blogger he can still get in on his machine and change things. Now that's just fine - he's saved my butt a number of times by doing that very thing. The trouble is that even though he changes it, it doesn't reflect the change in my Blogger template nor in my entries. So I have to go in and download my own template and paste the new changes over the old template, then upload it all over again.

Except for when he does stuff like what he did yesterday. I have the comment script thing but I don't know if it's going to work, and his ass is still asleep.

What do you do when your geek's not available? You wing it and try it yourself, half-hoping that you break it really good. You know, to give him a sense of satisfaction and let him know that you're at his mercy for all of your computer-related issues.

That's the theory, anyway.

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