Thursday, November 27, 2008

"Cutest Blog On The Block"


Bad title. Very cool site. Over 300 free backgrounds for your blog. I just did it and it took seconds. The basic, center layout remained the same, so I didn't need to reconstruct the page. Each background comes with a bit of code, which you copy and paste into the HTML/Java Script screen. It's wicked easy. The following has been copied directly from their site.

1. Sign in to Blogger. This will take you to your Dashboard.
2 Under the blog you wish to change the background for, click on Layout.
3. You are now in the 'Add and Arrange Page Elements' screen. Click 'Add a Gadget'.
4. You are now in the 'Add a Gadget' screen. Scroll down to where it says 'HTML/JavaScript'.
5. Next to that, click on the (+) sign.
6. You are now in the 'Configure HTML/JavaScript' Screen. Under Content you'll see a large box, paste the entire following HTML code in that space.
7. Click 'Save'.

http://www.thecutestblogontheblock.com/index.php You guys are gonna love this. They'll even design a custom banner to match your background for $30. Wicked talented chicks.

Want To Catch Some Lunch?


Last month, I saw one of these, in person. Tail feathers all fanned out. Wicked ugly red thing hanging over its beak like, like some wicked ugly red thing. It was fricken huge. It looked so much like this that at first I thought it was a card board cutout - an advertisement. I didn't see it in a petting zoo or up at The Polar Caves. This thing was posing on the side of route 3 south, right next to a bunch of wild turkey women. Traffic whizzing by at 80 MPH. While not as flamboyant as this guy, these gals were much better looking. Lean. Subtle. Disinterested. Tom, over there all gobbling and flexing and shit. Them, looking at each other and rolling their eyes.

The thing is that one day, many moons ago, someone looked at this thing and said, "Hm. I think I'll eat that." Now, in order to make this happen, they had to catch this ugly, ill tempered creature. Since I've never had to chase anything in order to eat it, I find this amazing. The thing is, once you catch it, you have to ... do something with it. I'd starve.

While I've never seen one of these on the side of the road, I have seen them in the grocery store and they don't look happy to be there. They've got ugly down to a science. Almost without exception their claws are bound with elastic bands. That's because they will pinch the shit out of you if you give them the chance. Long ago, someone took a look at this thing and for reasons we will never know, saw lunch. Now, not only did they have to find it and catch it, they had to go under water to do it. This means they had to get their hair wet.

If lunch was up to me, my gene pool would have died off a long time ago. I'm only here because someone in my distant past was hungry enough to run or swim, and resourceful enough to know what to do next. Those who follow me will be the result of more contemporary foraging skills. Drive up.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Do I Have To Touch It?


Thanksgiving, 2000. I'm married and living with my new husband, his son and mine. The whole gang is coming over at 2 pm. A week earlier, Dad stopped by with a huge frozen turkey and stuck it in my refrigerator. We have an arrangement. He cooks. I clean.

It's 7:15 am. I've just finished washing the floors, cleaning the bathroom, ironing the table cloth. The phone rings. It's dad. He's still making pies and won't be over until later. Will I put the turkey in the oven?

Crap. I've never done this. I don't want to do it now. "Do I have to touch it?" I ask. Jesus Christ, he mutters. Of course you have to touch it. Just take the god-dammed thing out of the wrapper, pull out the gizzards, rinse it out, put it in the pan...He drones on. I'm not listening. I'm on my knees in front of the sink base, searching for my rubber gloves. No fricken way am I touching that thing with my hands.

I slip them on. Open the refrigerator door. It's sitting in a pink puddle on the lower shelf. Plink. Plink. Bacteria laden droplets slide across my kitchen floor. I dial the phone. What do you mean inside? Inside the turkey? Je-sus H. I unclamp the legs, no easy task. Reach inside its neck. Waaait a minute. This is not the neck. Stick my yellow rubber hands up its butt. Fricken great. Whatever is stuffed in there - it's still frozen. I fricken hate this. I am so going Veg.

My turkey is actually is a success. The whole family is ga ga over the fact that I actually cooked a turkey. If I don't think about its rubbery, pink pimpled skin and its head up its ass, I find that it tastes pretty good. They all get huge mileage out of the rubber glove thing. "Do I have to touch it?" has become the quote of the day. Consensus is that next year, I should have more fashionable cooking accessories - mayhaps something with leopard cuffs?

They laugh because not one of them has ever spent four hours sitting on a toilet, vomiting into a trash can after eating bad chicken. Four hours of laying on the bathroom floor, alternating between sweating and freezing. Four hours of wishing I would hurry up and die already.

Eight years have passed. My penance for refusing to ever touch one of those foul creatures again: Hours at the sink, wearing rubber gloves, while the rest of them are passed out in the living room. I'm full. I'm happy. I'm cleaning.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Things I Learned Today . . .


1. People are idiots.
2. I'm a snob.
3. Our juvenile system is screwed.

This morning, he tucked in his shirt without my having to ask. Combed his hair to the side. Took out the trash without rolling his eyes.

We are the second to arrive. The first is a mom and her twin sons. I take a seat as far away as them as I can get. I can't stop staring at them, which horrifies my son. The boys are dressed in torn jeans, sweats and t-shirts. One has a green stud in his tongue and keeps rolling it in and out of his mouth. Mom is huge and in back leather. She has drawn dark black circles around her eyes.

I cross my legs and wipe dust off of my suede heels. I stare at her knee heigh boots, wrapped with straps and buckles. My son elbows me and mouths "stop staring." I can't help it. I'm wondering if she looked in the mirror before walking out the door and said "This will look good in court ." And before coming to that conclusion, did she stop one of her boys and say "Sure, wear the ones with the big hole in the crotch. They'll make a good impression." 1. People are idiots.

A half an hour passes. They're arriving in droves. Moms and their punk, gangster looking kids - kids in backward hats, ass dragging jeans, hooded sweat shirts, with the fricken hoods up. A dad with a daughter showing six inches of cleavage. I want to smack the shit out of all of them. My son surveys the room. Leans in and starts telling me their names. That one can't read or tell time. This one calls his mother a slut. The big one beat up Wilfredo. Just wonderful. I'm in a room full of losers and my son knows them by name. 2. I'm a snob.

A probation officer comes by. Hands me forms to fill out. Explains how it goes. This is the arraignment, she says. The judge will read the charges. When he is finished, he will ask if they are true or false. Just say "not true." I cast her a skeptical look. "But, they are true," I say. "He did what they're accusing him of." My son nods his head and looks solemn. I did, he says. The rest is blah blah. A formality, due process, blah blah. Just say not true. We will appoint a lawyer to represent him. She takes the clip board and walks away. 3. Our juvenile legal system is screwed.

The judge is in black. The prosecutor has a shiny silver badge hanging from a chain around his neck. We stand together, mother and son, on one side of the room. Them on the other. He reads the charges. When prompted & as instructed, my son says "not true." I'm handed a piece of paper with our court date and told our court-appointed lawyer will contact us. We exit the room & down the stairs.

I start the car then turn to look at him. His eyes are still round. "That was stupid," he says. "I should have just said 'true,' taken my consequences and gotten this over with. " We talk about what is wrong with a system that counsels the guilty to deny it. The lesson that kids learn - argue your lie well enough and you won't have to be held accountable for your actions. He turns and asks me if I'll call someone and tell them he wants to change his answer to "true." I squeeze his arm. He settles back in his seat and looks out of the window. "I'm not gonna be a punk," he says.

I let out a deep breath. I know.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

The Camera, She Doesn't Love Me.

You probably don't know this, but I am standing on the very brink of fame. I have an agent. And as if having one isn't cool enough, yesterday, I actually got to say to someone "you'll need to talk to my agent about that."

Last week, I got the contract in the mail along with a list of things my agent needs in order to "launch" me in January. Completed W9. Biography. Signature. Media. Photo/Head Shot.

Head Shot. Crap. I am chronically un-photogenic. How ever gorgeous I may want to think I am in real life, there is absolutely no photographic evidence to support this. See the expression on my face up there? That is the disgusted result of my having taken well over a hundred photos of myself today, each more frightening than the next. They were scary even when I was trying to look pretty, which is fricken depressing.


This is Lolita. She has an agent, too. You'll see her stuff in every gift shop in the free world. She's Practically Famous. Rich. Elegant. Sophisticated. Photogenic. Pretty. I wish I'd never seen this picture. I hate her.

As soon as I saw it, I started planning my own glamour shot. I'll be wearing black - it's a very artsy color. Probably a turtleneck - that's both artsy and will cover my chicken neck. A straight skirt, just above the knee. Those awesome black heels I bought last year that are completely impossible to walk in. I'll be holding an artistically arranged fist full of paint brushes. Wearing new, funky, cool glasses. Sitting on a white cube in front of a mottled grey screen. Striking a Diane Keaton-esque pose. The pottery version of Lolita. Can you see it? Don't I look fabulous?

Wait. I'm an artist (pronounced aah-tist, in the Bostonian accent I can't seem to shake.) The only time you'd ever see me in a black skirt, nylons and heels in my studio is, well...never. OK then. I'm in jeans. The same black turtle neck I was wearing in the last paragraph. A chunky necklace - probably one of my own creations. My favorite cowboy boots. And ooh, I know - one of my huge signature scarves (that I was wearing long before Oprah made them cool.)

This is Karim. He and I have the same agent. While he is not beautiful, he does look cool. If I can't have pretty, I'll settle for cool. I'll have to pay someone. Because if today's session was any indication, pretty and cool can't be forced out of a camera handled by an amateur. I'm payin' you. Make me pretty, damn it.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Shameless Self Promotion.







It's almost that time again. Peace. Good will. Wandering around the mall for hours, buying useless stuff you can't afford for people who don't need it. Stuff they won't even remember once the wrapping paper is cleared away. My new attitude goes like this: Give gifts they can't help but remember. "Oh." Silence. "A Fuck You mug. How nice. Thank you dear."

This year, join me in spreading my particular brand of Christmas cheer. Go to my very cool site http://www.musewarepottery.com/. Whether you decide to be naughty or nice, use the code broad when you check out & receive an incredibly generous 50% discount. Since I'm pretty sure that I only have about three readers, what may look like generosity is actually a bribe. Convince me that you should have one for free and I'll have my people contact your people. (I love that expression.)

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Dickheads Yesterday. Delinquents Today.

It's Tuesday morning. I'm sitting in the Day Surgery waiting room with my middle aged siblings. The room is full. I can feel the air conditioner blowing cold air, but I'm having one hot flash after another. I want to be naked. My niece's cell phone keeps going off, "girls just wanna have fun." She moves in slow motion to answer it. Studies the phone number. Everyone is looking at us. I want to dope slap her. They do, too.

Mom is in chemically induced dream land. She's getting a new hip. She's 73 and has spent the last 6 months hobbling around with a cane. She looks like she's 93. Every time I open my mouth, I hear her voice come out of it, so I've been watching her decline with a strange sense of premonition. My hands on the key board look exactly like hers. It's almost creepy. I'm sitting in a too-soft chair on an ass that's almost as wide as hers. I wonder which hip will go first.

Someone is calling my name. I look up. A police officer is standing in the door. Her badge is not shiny like those on Law and Order, but she looks like a cop to me, and to everyone else in the room. Detective Barbee - the one who arrested my delightful 15 year old son three weeks ago. She's come to deliver his invitation to court. They all watch as I step out into the hall with her.

The papers say Order and Notice of Hearing. Juvenile Petition. The block next to Delinquency is checked. Next Monday at 12:45. Be there. Because my son thinks the rules that keep us from kicking the shit out of each other whenever the spirit moves us - those rules don't apply to him.

Three weeks ago I was beating my chest and lamenting Oh! What a world! My blue eyed boy in trouble with the law because the mean old Principal got into a chest thumping match with him. Put his hands on him to keep him from storming out of the office. Called the police when he jumped out of his office window (relax - first floor.) This week, I want them to lock up his ornery ass so that he can get a glimpse of his future. This week, I'm hoping the judge will decide teach a lesson to a kid who spews venom & threats when things don't go exactly his way.

He's been pretty docile for the last three weeks. Gets shitty with me when I say no, but is getting used to hearing it & is quick to apologize. He can see the change in me. I'm done. Done protecting him, making excuses for him, giving in to him. These days, the only thing I say yes to is food and shelter. I'm preparing him for his stay at the Big House.

http://www.thetotaltransformation.com/. Saw it on TV the day he got arrested. Eight CDs and a work book. Actual guidance for parents with kids at risk. I listen to it all day at work. In my car. Make him listen to it. He hates it but admits that some of it would make sense if it weren't so stupid. The information is no-nonsense. Concrete. Say this. Do that. Parental salvation for just over $300. Every parent should know about this.

Monday, November 17, 2008

I Suck At This.

Seriously. Suck. At. This.

Veasey and Thystle manage to impart wisdom on a daily basis. Me? I got no wisdom, cause I got no life.

I work 80+ hours a week, live with Mommy, have an delinquent son and a clueless boy friend with a big dick. I work impossible hours because I'm convinced that one day, I will be rewarded for my diligence and actually be able to afford an apartment or at least one more pair of fat jeans. I drag my son through life every day because I know that one morning he'll wake up and say "Oh! I get it! If I don't figure this out, I'll be talking to visitors through a plate glass window." And as for Ireland? I admit that the man-toy was a most effective distraction for several months (and that's not why I dropped the L-Bomb.) But after days, weeks, months and now years of "who did your hair?" followed by comments about how much fatter my ass is now than when we first met - his dick is looking more like a long rope I'd like to wrap around his fricken neck.

Sure. My ass is fatter. I'm down to one pair of jeans and am about 5 pounds away from a daily wardrobe of sweat pants. And, in spite of the fact that he believes that short hair on any woman is a sign of latent Lesbianism, I cut it all off. Jesus H. I think I'm already starting to like girls better than boys. I'll never again iron another one of his shirts only to have him tell me I missed a spot. And if you think I will EVER clean his bathroom again so that he can tell me I forgot to wipe down the top of the light fixture - screw that.

It's Monday. I think I'll spend the entire week sitting on my fat ass in front of the computer experiencing the endless joys of web site optimization. I'll wait to hear from the police department about my son's court arraignment (another post.) Drink a delicious case of Slim Fast for breakfast. And another for lunch. Start packing for another move.

As for dick for brains - he's away on business. Maybe the gods will smile on him in Detroit. Maybe after he's done playing with his robots, he'll find an attractive, intelligent 53 year old woman with great tits, a fine ass, some Windex and a sponge. Maybe She'll clean and iron for him. And all without back talk.

Crap. Do I sound angry?

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Sharing my politics even though you didn't ask...


I am a creature of habit. I'm up every morning at 5:30 and out of the door by 6:30. I drive across town to my favorite diner, Chiggy's Place and walk through the door at 6:45. If I'm late by even five minutes, they all look up from from their morning paper. Gaze at the clock. Look back at me. Like I've broken some unwritten rule and upset the order of things.

I love the blue collar population, the conversation that switches back and forth from French Canadian to English, the fact that Alicia brings me coffee without my having to ask. There's a real constancy about our collective morning ritual that I find comforting.

Recently, my table neighbors were joined by an out of state couple. They winter in AZ and summer in NH. Knowing that politics and strangers don't mix but apparently unable to stop myself, I mention Palin. One thing is certain - whether you think she's a fresh breeze or a fricken idiot, most people have an opinion about Sarah Palin.

This handsome, silver haired man with the smooth, tan face man looks right at me and says "Well I don't care what they say about her, I ain't votin' for no coon." My mouth drops open. I stare at him like a cock roach just crawled out of his nose. "Whoooah," his little wifie says, "she didn't like that too much." Didn't like it? I can't believe my ears. "I don't care," he continues, "I hate niggers."

WTF? Did he just use the N word? What, am I in fricken Mississippi? This may seem naive, especially coming from someone living in NH, the whitest state in the country but who talks like that? I was so stunned that I launched into an immediate hot flash, left my barely touched breakfast and walked out of the diner.

This morning, I broke tradition. Instead of crossing the bridge to the West side, I took a left & parked in front of the Beech Street School. I proudly walked past a gauntlet of sign bearing enthusiasts and into the school cafeteria. I stepped behind the striped curtain and canceled out that dipshit bigot ass hole's vote.