Because You Deserve a New Post

We're a frightfully loyal bunch--
aren't we?

What would I have done this year without you?

Did I Skip Yesterday?

I think I did.
2005 has sucked in so many ways--
I'll be glad to be rid of it.
And on to the future!

I'm reading Toni Morrison's _Beloved_
at top notch speed--it took me 9 hours yesterday
just to outline the first half of the book
and write out questions.
I'm finished with _Awakening_ and _Warrior_.
Think I should write a paper.
And be a famous scholar.

Too bad my discipline ran out so early.

Orientation today at one of the branches.
I'd go if I weren't such a recluse.
I mean, what would I say to all the stiffs?
Better to not say anything at all.
I've got a decent shell,
let them think what they will.
I've been out of town . . .

My research on wikipedia continues.

I'd contribute if I wasn't such
a lazy b*stard.
And I am--a b*stard that is.

My parents met in 19**--just
11 months before I was born.
My father had a broken leg
and was renting an apartment close to my mother.

He was married with three children.
Did she know? Care?
He had recently asked an acquaintance
for a pistol, so he could kill them all.
Yeah.
His young wife had apparently stepped out on him.

My father was so smug this year--having all his
children at home for Christmas.
All except my 2 half-brothers and older sister.

They, being my parents, never married until 19**--
I was almost a year old. A b*stard, my friends.

I told all of this to the Maytag guy
yesterday when he came over to give us an estimate
and saw the stove--he smiled, "who got mad?
you or him?"
(not that we are staying here--I've told you that
--six months tops).
We talked for about an hour.
Nice guy. Tatoo of a cross on his right pinky.
Probably a couple years out of prison.

He's got three children
by three different women
and wants his oldest, at 15, not to get pregnant,
but to go to college.

He didn't stay long after he learned that I taught
(although, I must say that I am low key,
almost to the point of embarassment); I didn't tell him what
since he was having trouble spelling
and writing down directions. After that he dropped his pen alot.

I'd teach _Bastard Out of North Carolina_,
but I wouldn't even know where to begin.

Green tissue paper
and a WWII Kimono
tossed aside
in a room filled with flying dragons
and jigsaw kittens

I can't even begin
to read _Woman Warrior_
without wondering
what I'm buying into

Hello Kitty seems more the fashion
as I pass women every day
huddled and giggling with dyed red hair
speaking in words I can almost catch
with the swing of a hip, flash of an eye,
or jut of a chin

Different but same.
Different but same.
I must find our paths
snaking around these books and essays,
and world economies,
without getting lost in all the exotic foliage.

Reality Slowly Sinks Back In

I thought it was 8:30 am.
It's 10:02.
I can't seem to possibly wake up before 10.

Next week is going to kill me;
I have to be at the University, teaching at 8:00am.
I will have to leave here at 6:30.
Six days a week--well not the same times.

I'm dead.

Plus, I have NO IDEA what I'm going to do for 10 weeks
in front of my WS200.
No clue.
I don't know how I'm going to put 10weeks, 5classes
together here in the next few days.

Further, I put off getting together with friends
until this week . . .

I'm dead. Dead.

I'd write some more Christmas moments,
but that slate is already wiped clean . . .

It IS Over--Yipee & On With Our Lives!

8:04 cup-o-joe and a moment's post.
Mush, mush little puppies mush--

My almost best Christmas moment?
Waiting in the dark drizzle,
giving driving directions to an old HS friend
on how to reach my parents' home--
watching him pass the house repeatedly
while we all stood out on the front deck
making him do money tricks, you know,
like flashing his lights
to show us when it was him . . .

My almost worst Christmas moment?
My brother regailing the story of how I pushed
him into a tree, broke his glasses and chipped his tooth.
Ha ha. Great story.

Maybe ten years wasn't long enough
to avoid this group of psychos.

Best toy of the season?
Pin art.

Worst toy?
Beside the fact that people are shouting
for me to join in a game of TWISTER,
the worst toy would have to be a JAMES BOND
ANARCHY COOKBOOK. Helloo?

A blogger friend cracked the SQMOJO code
and sent me the yummiest jar of Rocky Road
Brownie Mix--it was quite the shock!
Can you imagine? I made sure there was no hash
in the bottom of the box (yeah, kindof disappointed
about the lack of psychodelic enhancers--
but shipping that stuff across state is a fed-offence,
I hear). I suspect the marshmellows
are potent. It came from Swartzenegger Land.
If I die from muching on it--either
by brownie over-dose or because it was laced--
this blog will turn into a Who-Dun-It.

Otherwise more Christmas news to come . . .

Is It Over?

And why does everyone keep wishing
me a Merry Christmas?

The first time was nice . . .
the second and third made me feel like:

"Ehem. 'Merry Christmas.'
Ehem, Squirrleymojo, you should, ehem,
stop posting you know. I mean, it's Christmas and all.
We all have lives.
Oh, oh, and I'm sure you do too.

It's just that we, ehem,
have, uh, Christmas stuff to do now.
With real people.

Not that we don't love you but,
ehem,
'Merry Christmas' (wink wink nod nod)."

Then I just realized that I've misinterpretted--
you keep replying "Merry Christmas"
because you keep checking your blog,
your blog circles, your blog dramas too.
You, my friends, are sneaking quick nervous peeks--
jotting snippets of thoughts,
trying to snatch at normalcy
amid all the red and green just as much as I . . .

Merry Posting Christmas!

It's 1:15 and all is well!
I imagine that if I
really did have three children,
one girl age 13,
twin boys age 6,
that this would be the moment I would
finally be finished
with the last of the bows . . .

and that I would have never
touched Atwood all day.

And that I would be happy.
Full of Hope.

[until Christmas fatique and anti-climax
set in at about 8:00am--
then I'd see a broken toy,
lost pieces, missing batteries,
heaps of papers and ribbons,
my partner dozing on the sofa,
chocolate smeared faces,
and the cinnamon rolls quietly burning in the oven]

Christmas Wishes and Birthday Fortunes

Atwood's _Handmaid's Tale_ just arrived--
must read it immediately after blogging.

Is it just me, or was Amazon & Co. particularly
slow this year??

Also, I've always wondered how
my Grandfather recovered from TB back in the 40s or 50s.
I thought one died with TB.

He was to have been in the hospital for 32 monthes.
His children were dispersed to various uncles and aunts.
I learned that it was a traumatic time for my mother.

Dad: We just wanted to call and make sure
you were coming down tomorrow--

Me: Yeah, about 3--

Dad: We went and saw your grandmother Thursday.
She's not doing too good.
She saw a picture of your grandfather . . .

Me: Uh-oh. . .

Dad: Yeah, I don't know why everyone keeps
telling her he's gone--

Me: I think it's cruel to tell her over and over--

Dad: Well, she's always saying things . . .
I guess she says:

"I know he's with that woman [in an
adjacent state] . . . He'll be sorry, I'm not taking
him back this time . . ."

Uh. Hello? Who's the other woman?
Um. I don't think dear gramps had TB.

More Holiday secrets to come . . .

Strange Packages

arrived today. Can't wait to open them.

I was born about an hour from now.
I have one year left.

My nose is cold and I wish we were all trapped
at the lodge with those whom we love,
four feet of snow, tons of pastries, wine and cheese,
and of course a nice toasty fire.
Presents wrapped with shiney bows would be sweet,
but not necessary.
I can see the glowing embers through the bubbly now.

Your warmest wishes are most heart felt;
thank you for for a terrific year
of the greast blogging friendships.

xo

Thanks Fred

http://ww12.e-tractions.com/snowglobe/globe.htm

WikiMojo

It's my job as an American citizen
to tell you:

Figgy Pudding consists of Lard and Bread Crumbs.

[I'm sure you knew that,
but believe me, there are those who don't.]

I'm NOT All That

Last night,
shopping.

I didn't have the ovaries
to wear my antlers.

My antlers rock.
They jingle. They're soft.
I look good.

Still, I couldn't imagine
being stared at
and making merry out there in shopping land.

I so disappoint myself.

[I will do it. I will blog it. If I get another
chance. I do need to renew my license.]

Guests will be Arriving in Less than Five Hours

Let's Blog!

No birthday cake.
No punch.
No decorations.
No silver.
No music.
No clean toilet seat.

Just blog, blog, blog . . .

It's true.
And perhaps that's the explanation
you've been waiting all year to hear--
the origins of my oddness, so to speak.

I haven't had access to television programs
for at least 6 years, if not longer.

And no, I'm not blogging from prison.
I hear they have cable there.

I have lots and lots of reasons
for not watching television.

I suppose this is a good place
to begin sorting those reasons out.
Let's see (perhaps in no particular order):

Two distinct situations arrived
that kept me occupied for a while . . .

Then I believed that TV was distracting me
from my work--particularly when I began my MA . . .

But these aren't entirely satisfactory . . .

Probably had something to do with my EX
and that last affair reducing me to a snivling heap
on a couch watching 80s & early 90s sitcoms
for six months into oblivion . . .

Maybe it's the shock people give when I tell them?

Definately my disenchantment with this world,
this culture . . .

Humph. I guess my reasons are too personal
to explore here after all--

Please Forgive Me, But This Is Really Creepy

http://news.yahoo.com/photo/051221/1911/u122111aujpg;_ylt=Au6XXBD.gbUr3wbN0HKp5w0DW7oF;_ylu=X3oDMTBiMW04NW9mBHNlYwMlJVRPUCUl


FIRST HE'LL TAKE OVER THE SENATE;
THEN HE WILL KILL ALL THE JEDI . . .

Recycle Your Ribbons

You ought to.

Did I mention that I don't have TV?
Yet one of my focusi is Cultural Studies.
Ironic, eh?

Did I mention that I am using Wikipedia
to set up part of my WS class?
Of course I am checking facts . . . kindof . . .
A new age of myth emerges . . .

Why must _I_ go out to buy Thomas Jefferson
crickets?
I knew this would happen.
My sister thought I was cruel
not to replace my partner's anulls (did I tell you?
they escaped--or one was eaten by Dragon)
when he seemed so utterly desolate.

But I knew.
Now the lonely, half-staved gecko
waits for food--from me. As if I don't have enough
mouths to feed.

Jean Pierre, my psycho-Canadian-serial-killer-BIL,
has just this day been granted his VISA
from HomeLand Security.
My government fails me yet again.
SIL admitted to me and only me
that she wishes none of this had ever ever happened.
Too bad.
Her mail-order-hubby is on his way now.
Did I mention he looks like Harry Potter?
Harry Potter in knee-high bobby socks
and sandels.

DELL scared me yesterday. We ordered ink Tuesday evening,
about 7pm, and Wednesday afternoon, about 12:30pm,
an unmarked white van appeared outside.

Knock knock.

A small package. I picked up the package and
looked for some type of identification on the van.
Nothing.
UPS? FedX? Nothing.
I thought it was a bomb.
Or anthrax.

Remember when we all used to be scared of anthrax?
Those were the days.

So I got my ink in about 17 1/2 hours,
without special shipping. No DELL warehouses
around here that I know of.
I think our printer's bugged and they were waiting
around the corner . . .

I'm finished entertaining you today.
Go home.
Make love to your lovely lover,
the only and best love you've got.

Happy Birthday Love--Wishing You the Best

Nevermind the Mastermind: More Spoilers Too

A friend persuaded me
to go back to the nickelodeon
and see _The Family Stone_.

She thinks we need to see more chick flicks.
At full price.
On the big screen.
Yuk.

But, because I don't get out enough,
I've been sentenced to humor her.

Well, I enjoyed the film--
[a film's success must be all about expectations,
because my expectations were zilch].

The only scene I want to share
my thoughts about is perhaps
the most pivitol scene in the flick:

Diane Keaton, who is simply marvelous--as
always--in her role as the mother,
has cancer (naturally in this genre).
She lays in bed with her partner
and finally admits in a moving scene
that she is scared,
scared of leaving her children alone.
When they begin to make love,
she unbuttons her blouse--

and admittedly, my first thought:

"No! Don't show old boobies!"

***Why would a women's studies teacher continue
to have such thoughts? The cultural ideology
is meshed into our "instincts."***

But instead of Diane Keaton's "old boobies,"
we learn what type of cancer she has--breast cancer.

The scar from her mastectomy is simple and clean;
he reaches for her as if she still had her breast
and they kiss passionately with tears in their eyes.

What I do _love_ is the fact that older actresses
are taking on roles that reveal their aging bodies
to audiences in new ways. Diane Keaton never looked
more beautiful to me than in that moment.

Is our culture reshaping how we see
and value the spectrum of women's bodies?
I think so.
Another quick example: Jamie Lee Curtis.
After popping the myth of _True Lies_,
she made _Christmas with the Cranks_.

Not only did she wear that awful holiday vest--
quite popular in the mid-west--
but she consented to several full body shots
in a bikini
without airbrushing.
That takes courage. To me, that's an American woman.

Test of the Emergency Broadcasting System

So I saw _Kong_ with mixed feelings
this weekend.
I was completely captivated with the story line,
with the particular film Jackson shot in,
with the incredible sensitivity of the acting,
all until the natives of Skull Island.

[Warning: Spoilers Beyond this Point]

What was Jackson thinking?!?
The "natives" were so utterly offensive--
so over the top (which my partner liked to point out
may be the emphasis)--
what dignified actor could submit to that type of
casting in 2005?
And I think of the politics of New Zealand and
Australia--particularly in regards to the Aboriginies--
perhaps I've simply studied from a Post-Colonial
framework for too long--
within the diegisis of his own film,
producers ask Jack Black's character
if he would capture any "boobie-shots, the people
love native boobie shots," this characterization
of the Hollywood pricks at that time
seemed depicted quite acurately--
in this way, Jackson certainly
works a post-colonialism discourse into the the film--
which is precisely why I can't understand the island--
all of the "eye-rolling" ect . . .

The effect made me uncomfortable . . . angry . . .
I'm not sure what happened here (and I realize
this post is half-*ssed and not coherant),
but I will have to give it more thought.

[The _Heart of Darkness_ allusions further
complicate my reading of this film . . .]

Further. this has been the only film in ages
to irk my "logistic" sensibilities.
On the one paw, sure what's so logical
about an island of giants and a silverback gorilla
who climbs the Empire State Building?
Got it.
But, on the other paw,
some how the tone of the film implied
a set of _Kong_ logistics that Jackson breaks
without system; particularly:

1) capturing a bat's leg to fly to safety
2) Jimmy using a machine gun to ward off
the insects from his friend
3) Ann not grabing a coat in the middle of NY winter
when going to face Kong
4) Kong not leaving an impact crater
from his fall at the end.

I know! Riduculous points to be irked at--I know!
These are artistic choices! Who cares? What's up my butt?
Yes, these four points are utterly insignificant--
but they bothered me to no end (and normally
people who bring up these tidbits bug me--o the
irony).
For instance, I love the fact that Jackson simply
ignored the question of transporting Kong back to NY.
He handled that splendidly.
But Ann was freezing on top of the Empire State Building,
and that's all I could think about.
We're talking hypothermia.

But I liked the flick. I guess.
The iceskating in Central Park
was lovely . . . Ann's background in comedy
was a nice touch . . . the bar/cage imagery suggesting
that the true savages were those
who seek to destroy nature for profit was good . . .

Ho hum.

I also watched _Manchurian Candidate_ last night.
Excellent film. And I so believed _everything_.
Seriously.
Bush has been hardwired by Halliburton--it's so obvious now.
Thank you Johnathan Demme for reviving Frankenheimer's
prohetic vision--now that we all know, what to do?

On a side note, Meryle Streep's clothing was to die for.
She looked so young and powerful.
Streep and Kong? Yes, that would be interesting.


If I had children,
I probably would have watched the Rankin/Bass _Rudolf_.
Can you imagine?
Especially the part where the Donners want to go look
for Rudolf and the Narrator-Snowman says,

"Naturally Mrs. Donner wanted to go look for Rudolf too,
but Donner said, 'No!'--That's man's work!"

My entire family would spit chocolate milk from their noses,
and turn to me in barking laughter--
"That's man work!" They would gleefully mock.
Then we'd spend the entire evening
making _Mystery Science Theater 3000_-esque jokes.



Oh! And the partner and I had another huge row.
Then we went for Chinese.

My fortune said:
"Great adversary leads to truth."

His fortune read:
"Someone beautiful is with you tonight.
Confide in them."

Except for the lack of pronoun agreement,
I thought the fortunes might have meant something . . .

Add Your Own

I just know my house is going to burn down this season.


Did I ever share how
I speak the worse senerios?
Because what are the odds of
such senerios really happening
if I've already uttered it?

Especially in print.

Will the Phone Ever Stop Ringing?

One aspect of myself
that I am learning
about with age
is to trust my instincts more.

What are instincts?
Not so much genetic, located
in the webbings of DNA, but more so
internalized interpretations
of our immediate environments . . .

Learning to distinguish between friend and foe,
what benefits, what harms--
the opposite of instinct?

Tearing down these binaries
only to discover:

[. . .] individual protest is potentially self-destructive, and only communal protest is capable of subverting symbolic structures. (Emma Parker 11)

Speaking of Acts of Love and Service

Who fluffs the tree in your home?

Perhaps my greatest act of love
during the holiday season is to fluff the tree.

May I be so bold
as to suggest that there is really only one way
to fluff the tree:

Start at the bottom
in a spiral motion going up the tree
take each individual branch
and fluff every spree
as if it were reaching
for a sun never seen--

[sorry, carried away by the simple
rhyme of eeeeee]

anyway. The whole process
is tedious and scratchy--
particularly if one's hands
are often dry this time of year.
Lotion doesn't always help (it can
magnify the pricks, actually).

But if I didn't fluff the tree,
someone, no doubt, would attack the thing
with arms out stretched, from the top down,
willy-nilly, until the poor thing
looked, well, half-*ssed.


Oh look: it's snowing at the picture window.
How appropriate.
Is 9:47 really too early for wine?

The Glare of Holiday Lights Reflected on My Monitor

Our 6 1/2' Aspen is finally up
with 600 lights and 1,195 branch tips.
So I'm told.
Yes--it's artificial (I can't kill trees
unless I absolutely need to do so).

I have found an excellent essay on Morrison's
_Beloved_ concerning hysteria
that I can't wait to share with my WS200;
also, an interesting essay on the valoration
of literature using Chopin's _Awakening_.

One point I will be trying to make:
Instead of simply throwing out the feminine
construction of servitude as seen in romantic lit,
why not expand that to masculinity
and work to redefine the value of service?

It seems increasingly odd to me
that our American culture, as of lately (60s on),
continues to place such emphasis and value
on self-service and individualism--
surely this is destructive?

Some Clips from Tonight's Postings

please tell me that the UK phrase "washing my hands in the basin of the pub toilets" means "washing my hands in the sink at a bar" in US speak . . .

I mean . . . you were drunk.

awww. this sprang from the depth of Flower the Skunk I bet--you know, Bambi's Boy-Flower-Skunk-Friend,

I like sisiggy's read too . . .

[do you know who this is?!?]

again, keep Heir 2 away from the chocolat.

Then I became sad. And stopped surfing.
But look here: If I post a pic of my favorite ornament,
would you?

Anonymous Revealed

The Faun and I have a few dreadful
secrets in common:

not that I'm in service to the White Witch
or anything too obviously as disagreeable as that,

but I'm simply not the Squirrel all of you
supposed me to be.

It's true.

I've stored practically no parcels or packages for
Christmas.

When it comes to gift giving, I have absolutely
no Mojo at all. Zip on ideas.

See, I panic. I think, "Oh. How nice. A mat
in the shape of pretzel for my MIL; she loves
the chocolate kind." After years
of seeing THAT LOOK on friends' and families'
kind, holiday faces after they open my gift . . .
well, I simply can't bare another round of it.

How much spiked eggnog can a Squirrel's BMI tolerate?
Swig.

THAT LOOK, you ask? Well, it's hard to describe.
The first few couple years of adulthood beheld
many of merry cheers with soft candle light in the background.
A laugh. A toast. And on with the festivities.

But then, a change in tempo. A look of puzzlement.
A forced grin, cocked head,
followed by a quick shuffle of tissue paper.
"Anyone want more cheese from the kitchen?"

Each year the gift-giving ceremony feels,
to my way of feeling, more contrived, more strained.
Is it my imagination, or did she
leave my gift until last, lock her jaw when opening it?
Knock over the glass to distract herself
from facing the gold-ribboned contents? (Who
doesn't love the smell of gasoline in a wax candle?
Wrapped in wool socks?)
She mentioned the aroma once . . .

Me? I continue to receive dazzling gifts--
hand-etched wine glasses and tickets to the theater,
baubbles of stained glass and pieces of gems--
fully printed blogs of a year's work--

but what do I give? Gifts that make people cringe
and lie through their clinched teeth (swear
to my MIL in the hallway where they think I can't hear).

Next year: no more original gifts.
I'm asking for lists and sticking strictly to them.
This year? Well, I'm never alone on Christmas Eve,
shopping in shops full of strange men.

My Latest Crave

Haystacks

11oz Nestle Butterscoth Morsels
3/4 c creamy peanut butter
1 can (8.5oz) or 2 cans (50z) chow mein noodles
3 1/2 mini marshmellows

Wax paper

Melt butterscotch (on stove or in microwave) until smooth, stir in PB until well-blended; add chow mein noodles and marshmallows until coated; drop into "haystacks" on wax paper; refrigerate (optional--I think). Nuts optional too.

Oh my. I'm not a fan of butterscotch, but this flavor (combined with the crispness of the noodles and marshmallows) is novel and divine.

I Should So be Watching _Kong_ Right Now--Why aren't You?

Indecisiveness will Kill Me Yet

I'm making my syllabus for next quarter;
the ENG classes went swimmingly,
but the WS classes are wrecking me.

Should I quiz?
Instead of all the exhaustive writing
(read grading)
perhaps I should buckle and simply quiz?

Will the students engage in the readings
more or less?
Will they learn more or less?

How can I maximize their output
while minimizing my grading?
Aiya--five classes should do me in.

On another note:
My partner has begun to print off my blog.
He suspects it will take 4 reams of paper.
You should see January and Febuary--
complete with your comments . . .
and cute little avatars . . .
[anything you'd like to say to the near future?].

He contacted a few printing places,
which wanted to charge $40 an hour plus .35 a page.
I almost feel badly . . .
watching him slavishly printing away . . .

Symbols

He took her to the laundrymat.
I suspect she had her rainbow pouch
slung over one shoulder.
I see her sit in a metal/plastic chair,
the blue one away from the window,
and hunch over a Gameboy.

He stuffs his underwear, socks,
tees, and jeans all into one washer, thinking:
"How can I connect?"

He takes out a 5x7 sketch pad
and a #6:
"Draw" he offers. She wants
to ignore him, she's on level 13--
a very difficult level to say the least.

He pushes at her
and she resigns. He takes a ball point
out of his checkbook and begins to sketch
what's around him. Not in his head.

During the spin cycle
her mood changes:
"Here. I want to show you my sign."

He looks down
at a loopy, wobbly enclosed shape.
Frowns.
"Here. Let me show you how I would."
He takes the #6 from her hand
and the pad--

I don't know what he drew;
I only saw her eyes afterward.

What If I Said "No"?

Yikes--Don't Screw with Wikipedia

I just read this short:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051212/ap_on_hi_te/wikipedia_fake_bio




Thank goodness the Squirrelymojo entry is [mostly] true.


But seriously, who would actually use
this site a credible source?
Admittedly, I use it as a research tool,
but every fact must be double checked.

A Bit of Work Today--Why Not?

Ethos
When a writer appeals to her own ethos, she is attempting to persuade her audience and validate her claims by building trust between herself and her reader; she fortifies her evidences through her own credibilities and perhaps her own experiences.
A writer using ethos
= demonstrates she is knowledgeable
= claims authority
= writes in the appropriate tone for the genre and/or
= pays close attention to details such as conventions and format.



Pathos
When a writer appeals to his reader’s pathos, he is attempting to persuade his audience and validate his claims by establishing an emotional connection with his reader; he strengthens his argument and/or point of view by appealing to the “heart.”
A writer using pathos
= attempts to arouse emotions
= causes his reader to empathize/sympathize with the situation and/or
= makes writing more memorable and engaging.



Logos
When a writer appeals to her reader’s sense of logos, she is attempting to persuade her audience and validate her claims through appeals to traditional forms of “reason”; she bolsters her arguments by providing evidence to what she claims as “true”:
A writer using logos
= provides “hard” facts such as statistics, surveys, polls, and “outside” studies
= appeals to cultural assumptions that may be taken as “common knowledge” and/or
= writes in an authoritative tone often from one particular world view, ideology, or perspective.




[Compiled with aid from Lunsford’s, et. ali., Everything’s an Argument, @2004]

Whispers

We sang Christmas hymns
last night,
and I honestly haven't slept that peacefully
in a week.

A new day dawns--not to be grand--
but how shall we spend the remainder
of this Monday?

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Baby Bunnies go Hop Hop Hop!
Send me to a land where the sun don't
Pop Pop Pop!

Shower down the blessings
before I Flop Flop Flop!


I try to remember _The March of the Peguins_,
I REALLY DO!

Happy Dandilions! Happy Dandilions!
Go Roaaaarrrrrrr!

The Keys are Cursed

Really. I’m typing this into Word
right now because my server is down–
apparently it couldn’t take 4 inches of snow.
D*mn AEP, I suspect.

For the first time ever,
I dread the sight of my PC,
and I’ll tell you why:

WEDNESDAY

The awful appointment arrives–
my partner must undergo conscious-sedation
at the dentist office because of his mother.
Yes, I said his mother.
Laugh if you will, but she’s scarred him for life–
in the most banal ways
if you ask me--
but he does have bifurcated nerves
that do not, well let's just say,
respond well to injections.
Add that all to a history of hard candy
and dental appointments are never pretty.

So, being under conscious-sedation,
my partner forgets that our lives together
are really all about me.
Well. It is.
On my own I must negotiate him home–
his unconscious size intimidates me. But honestly,
this time he was quite fun.
He made little jokes about
cutting off the ears to a Mickey Mouse hat
and hanging gallows of his mother there instead.

Don’t ask me to explain that image–
it was just funny, can’t you see?

Back to me.
I was in pain. The worse pain concerning
my back, neck and shoulders yet.
Stress pain, to be sure.
We had an hour drive home with little
ninjas stabbing their daggers into my spine.
I could have cried.

At home, I fed him some type of soup
and sent him to bed.

The next 36 hours were spent
in a haze of Flexeril on the sofa.

THURSDAY

Hello? See the last sentence.

FRIDAY

My sister brings her brood over
to exchange gifts, eat and be merry.
She bought me socks. Socks.
And not cute character socks, either.
White Haines Your Way anklets.
What did I ever do to her?

We head over to the cinema
to catch _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_.
Sigh of exasperation.
Yet another failed attempt at putting
Lewis’ story on film.
It is/was a disaster. All except the White Witch
who was marvelous.
And I didn’t want to be dazzled by her--
she's the bad guy . . .
no variant on shots, little character development,
ridiculous CGI (I had an urge to stand up
and shout: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, I Love You!) . . .
I’d go on, giving a splendid review,
if it weren’t for the ache
creeping between my shoulder blades.

It’s the cursed key board.
I really don’t want to be near it–
even if I so enjoy the sound of my own voice
sputtering here . . .
But d*mnit, I hurt!

And I am also avoid my PC
because 2 students are still emailing me
about their grades–I don’t know what to make of it.
I’ve never had this happen before.
But the entire situation in complicatedly stressful.
My conscious is pricked.
But it’s so hard to think under this haze of pain!

Oh! And one last thing:
I take on the mood of whatever book I happen to be reading.
So, reading Chopin's _The Awakening_ for my WS200
isn't really ideal for the holidays . . .

Root Canal--Wednesday @ 8:00am--Partner, not Me

I Hope You aren't Too Lazy Today

I think you will enjoy this poem
on ParticleBoard:

http://sundress.net/stirring/millers.htm

by our dear friend Avacado, published in _String_,
I believe.


I have decided to teach Chopin's _The Awakening_
in my WS200--only I've never taken a day of French
in my life. In fact, I've avoided it rather successfully,
to my newest chagrin.
I wish I had my partner's tongue.
Uh, er--you know what I mean. My partner can get the gist
of most languages.
I want to teach this text, it has been essential
to my experiences,
but I don't want to stand and stutter over the names
in front of a class--what to do?
AHA! I will see if I can get this book on audio tape.
Duh. Thanks sooper blogger buddies.

Off to work now--more later if I can.

I May be on the Wrong Path

Do you think kids
still try to avoid
riding the bus these days?

Do you think they
forget to set their alarms,
poke around in the bathroom,
avoid eating breakfast or wearing
a jacket?

I wonder.

++++++++

I pretty much flipped last night:
while writing in my journal
I began with the lone, desperate howl:

"How did I get _here_?"

I wrote for a few pages,
depressed myself further and stopped.
Bored, I flipped through the back logs--only to find this entry:

Monday, December 9th, 2002
"[. . .]How many times will I ask,
how did I get here?"

I freaked.

I flipped through all of my
first-week-of-December entries:
they all held pretty much the same thoughts.
Then I usually skip out until January.

Does this mean I can interpret the future???

No; seriously, listen:

If I run in such horribly obvious cycles,
perhaps I can crack the code?

Perhaps I can study this journal,
as me, myself, right now,
figure out her next move
and head her off at the past?

Before she self-destructs--
or does something even more stupid
(like absolutely nothing at all)
sound like a plan?

Maybe I can even change my life.

Link Not Included

Has anyone noticed
that POST SECRETS
seems to be going down hill?

The editor seems to only find
secrets written on women's bodies
worth publishing . . .

Or maybe the editor
isn't getting anymore fabulous secrets?
or art work?

Or maybe I'm just tired of the site?

You Rotton Readers! [& Old School Gossip]

You!

You people read much too closely!
I'm aghast that most of you have discovered
something so personal at last!

Next thing you know, we'll all be having coffee--
or better yet, holiday drinks at the Hyatt . . .
discussing eachother's inner most desires
and theories for a better society . . .

Speaking of a better society reminds me
of the dregs and rabble of society,
my dear long-time friend (not
that she is a dreg or piece of rabble)
confided in me that she had,
indeed, been invited to work on the details for our
XXth High School Class Reunion.

Imagine!

Me? Never, of course. But! Apparently this said group
of cheerleading individuals [alas, another secret unraveled,
I am not, in fact, a cheerleader and never was]
had already spent every dime of the Class budget
on the 5th year reunion!

It gets better.

So! What to do? Why, ask everyone to pitch in 20 bucks
so that we can rent the High School _Caffeteria_ (!!)
for the occasion! Is that hysterical, or what?

One More Just to be Safe

"Not another credit card!

You didn't--nuh uh--

And certainly not for this much!

And not around the holidays!

Are you insane?!?!? . . . . . . .



Oh yeah, let's live the good life, baby--

where are you taking me??

Let's get away--"

The Dangers of Intimacy

I never considered
the impact my medications might
have on my partner.

My doctor gave me a script for WellBrufin now,
and I never hesitated.
I have become such a pill popper.

While my partner over-cooked the pasta
last night, he slipped:
"[something somethin] you'll have to take
even more medication just to stand living
with me soon [blah blah]."

There was a bit of hurt in his eyes.
More damage.

I didn't know what to say.
Because it's kindof true.
Not _him_, you see, but the situation
I find myself in during this portentous year.
He does know me. Oh so very intimately.
And I wish he didn't have to see
what he finds there.

Which Fragment, Role will I Play Today?

I guess I'll go shopping today--
my friend turns 33 and wants to shop.

We've know eachother since second grade.
Her birthday is 22 days before mine.

The 33rd year is so portentous . . .

She doesn't know me. Not at all.
She thinks she knows me better than anyone in the world.
She's told me so. When I had (begun?)
my identity crisis last year.
We are like sisters, true.
But, really, she doesn't know me, at all.

[I think I'll bury this post a bit--
so only the squirrliest of readers
will do the math . . .]

The Conversation to My Mind

Freud: You know, I think men are afraid of women.

Irigrary: Oh yeah? Why so, pray tell?

Freud: When a little boy first learns that girls,
particularly his mother, do not have a penis, I think
the little boy assumes that his father has castrated them.

Irigrary: Really [bored] . . . you arrogant, pompus twit?

Freud: Oh yes, oh yes. You see, the little boy seeks
to replace
his father some day, but his father still
holds all the power and has access to the mother . . .

Squirrleymojo: Ah ha! So when the little boy
first learns about the cycle of blood,
well, then that explains it all: A GAPING WOUND.

Scary sh*t for a little boy, don't you think?

Irigrary: You know, I read this much much differently.
We, we are an ocularcentric culture, no?

Squirrleymojo: A who?

Irigrary: An ocularcentric culture that focuses on
what can be seen--our sciences--our value systems--
all on the *presense.* When Freud farted out his theory,
he placed a traditional emphasis on the penis
as what can be seen to indicate power between the different
sexes. You see? The only difference in Freud's mind
is the penis; therefore it must be all powerful--

Squirrleymojo: So a woman needs a penis to, erm, well,
"fill" her *nothingness,* her, forgive me, "hole"?

Irigrary: Precisely! Now we are onto something dear girl!
Only, lets take a moment and theorize outside the penis,
if you will . . . what if, and lets take a huge leap here,
what if instead of "nothing," a woman had two?

Squirrleymojo: Two?!?

Irigrary: Yes. Yes, two lips that constantly caress
eachother and satisfy the woman without a man--he then
becomes an interruptor--a violent intrusion
into woman's own autoeroticism.

Freud: That's absurd you fiendish nitwit! I've listened
to you two chatter like monkies--

Darwin: Told you so--

Freud: Long enough! Now listen here, it's like my PAPpa
use to tell me--If it bleeds for three days and
ain't dead yit, must be evil!