Entries from August 2005 ↓

I would tongue the skins of unpopped popcorn kernels between my teeth and gums for the entire night. My skinny, tanned thighs spread over a rusted metal chair, I’d shove my hands into the red and white, waxed paper bag full of bright yellow puffs. A coke in a small, clear plastic cup was twenty-five cents and it came over that cylindrical, textured ice. I hated being there. Layers of cigarette smoke clung to the wet, hot air like a stain even the giant fans could not get out.

A man on the microphone up front spoke quickly and on purpose, his booming voice punctuated with numbers and prices slowly escalating. Everything was going once, going twice, then sold. The concrete floor was where I kept my eyes most of the time. We went every weekend. I can’t understand why. It was mostly cheap, dirty stuff no one before us wanted. Old, broken clocks, handsaws, toilet seats, and dusty rugs. Only in a place like that could a fairgrounds auction be the preferred end-of-week activity.

At least there was popcorn and coke with that ice that made it taste like a slushie. And there were unicorns. Majestic, wonderous creatures who came in glass and porcelain and wood. Figurines were the only thing I ever asked for, and occasionally I got them. I acquired a small but well-selected collection. I only asked for figurines of true unicorns, not white horses with a horn.

I kept those figurines for far too long. Until I was like 16 or so. One by one their horns broke off. Sometimes a unicorn would become an innocent victim in the fights Amy and I had. Eventually I was down to three unicorns when I sacked them all, replacing them with Smashing Pumpkins and Tori Amos posters.

They say never date a girl who is into pegasuses or unicorns. No explanation needed. I think if I came across a unicorn figurine that I really like that I would buy it. Maybe it would remind me of a time when I kept an eye out for flashes of silver in the woods.

I hope Biscuitson Gravy doesn’t get too jealous about the new puppy. I got Biscuitson when I signed up for an independent bank that was one month later bought out by Sun Trust. Way better than a toaster, Biscuitson Gravy has been a silent partner, a comfotable pillow and the keeper of the apartment while we are away.

I see no reason why Biscuitson and the new puppy can’t get along famously. Oh, and by the way, my mind is made up. We’ll be getting a younger pup from this place a couple of days after we are settled in. I’m thinking Lady might be a good choice, although that name would have to go.

I like the name Donut, but judging by the look on the boyfriend’s face I’d better keep thinking.

I haven’t written in a week because we’ve been looking for a house. Not to buy, sadly, but to rent. Buying is our next step. For now we just have to get out of this tiny ass apartment.

We sort of got roped into this place. We went there to meet with our current landlord after checking out the open apartment. We live in a house, a nice old one, in a great neighborhood, but it is just so little. And our neighbor smokes cigarettes like the rest of us breathe air, so the whole place stinks. We share heating ducts. And the air conditioners are shitty wall units. I could go on. But this is about how we got roped into this place.

As soon as we arrived to talk more about the apartment we’d seen he whipped out two ten-page leases and before I knew it we were signing up. I have to admit I fell in love with the charm of this place. And we had been looking for a while to no avail. So when this guy was willing to hand over the small but adorable apartment I jumped at the chance. The boyfriend wasn’t so ready, I learned later.

And the landlord here is fine. He stays out of our business and doesn’t meddle, and that is my top priority after a nightmare of a landlord who in no uncertain terms called me a slut. That bitch was crazy. Anyway, it’s not him, it’s this house. The hot water heater can not accomodate this entire place. He’s over-rented this house for what it can do and how many people can comfortably park here. It fucking sucks.

But check it out, y’all. We found a house. And it’s so great. Really great.

• It’s in East Nashville where shit is still affordable. But I’m only a 15 minute drive to work tops.
• It’s three one mile from Shelby Bottoms Park.
• It is two bedrooms with a den and a dining room and little kitchen. With hardwood floors. And the walls are already painted colors I would choose for myself. And there are hookups for a washer and motherfucking dryer. I will have to try hard not to make love to the washer and dryer once I get them, it will have been that long.
• There. Is. A. Bathtub. Ladies, I know you are going to feel me on this. I haven’t had a bath in 15 months. Only showers. No luxurious soaks. No shaving sitting down. None of that. I’m going to spend half a day stewing in that bathtub right out the gate.
• There is an attic to put all the heaps and piles of the boyfriend’s things. I’m nomadic and keep very little. Only the most important things. The boyfriend not so much. Now he has a whole empty house on top to keep all his cords and stuff.
• We can turn the music up as loud as we want.
• The new landlord says there is always an ice cream truck that runs up our quiet street. Like, every day. I see nothing wrong with that.
• Our new neighbor to the left of us likes NASCAR. I can’t decide if that is worse or better than my current neighbor’s adoration for The Queens of Comedy. But I don’t give a shit, because I won’t be able to hear the NASCAR like I can currently hear Mo’Nique’s loud-ass mouth screeching from across the hall. No more Mo’Nique.
• I actually have money now to buy some nice things for my home. Like a new couch maybe. Or materials to build a dog house.
• Cause hey, we’re getting a dog! There is a fenced in back yard. That was one of our requirements. And the allowance of pets. We pulled up to the red brick house to check it out and saw three dogs barking behind a fence in the back yard. We knew we’d found our new home. The new landlord is even waiving the extra $25 a month pet fee, just to be nice. He said we seem like good people. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He is doing that despite my telling him we are getting a puppy.
• We are getting a puppy! Not a dog, but a puppy. I’ve never owned a dog of my own before. I have always been a cat person, and I still am. I love kitties. But over the years I have grown so allergic to them. Even the cat I once lived with now brings me to tears within minutes of entering my mother’s house. I thought I didn’t like dogs, but the boyfriend assured me I just didn’t know dogs. So we’re giving it a shot. The boyfriend insists we have to have a dog before we have a baby. That was all I needed to hear.
• We can’t decide if we should get a puppy from the pound or this 4 month old puppy the boyfriend’s friend found under his house. He found a momma dog with a litter of beautiful puppies, none of whom look alike. He is trying to get them adopted without resorting to taking them to the shelter. And there is one the boyfriend and I both like (we’ve only seen a picture) named Gidget. She looks like she might have a little lab in her, but she is the runt. I want a small dog and the boyfriend wants to trick me into as big a dog as possible.
• I’m going to stop with the ordered list now.

I’m torn between Gidget and a pound puppy. I’d like to take home a dog a lot younger than 4 months. However, tiny puppies are more likely to be adopted, so perhaps I should suck it up and take an older dog less likely to get picked.

Any of you dog people out there have any suggestions on which might be better? I know very little about dogs. I want a medium-sized dog that doesn’t shed too much and isn’t a freak. You know the kind, the extra hyper dogs that bounce around and bark too much. Fuck all that. I would like a chilled out dog, not a Jack Russell Terror.

But yeah, we found a house! To live in comfortably. To bathe in and launder in and play loud music and stuff. And to raise a dog in. We move in ten days.

Mr. Angevine is dead. I told you about him before. He was my Latin and German teacher. Our nickname for him was Beaver. Actually, I think just one other girl and I called him that. He had a thick dark mustache and bushy, long eyebrows. Wirey gray hairs sprung from them. Sometimes he wore a toga over his suit for no reason. Like, once a month.

Mr. Angevine was really smart. My friend Aaron once said he thought Mr. Angevine had two brains and that is how I’ve thought of him ever since. Aaron and I used to try to figure out a way to cash in on his endless vault of trivia and knowledge.

He was so smart. When it was his turn to monitor the gates at basketball games he could be seen reading novels written entirely in German. That blew my mind. Remember I went to school in rural Tennessee, a public school, so my education was lacking at best. But there were definite bright spots, and Mr. Angevine’s class always challenged me.

Everyone in Latin class signed up for the Junior Classical League. Then we’d actually go to the events. It wasn’t one of those clubs people joined just so they could get more page numbers next to their name in the index of the yearbook. He made you do shit. Like take the National Latin Exam. And go to the Classical League Conventions. Once we went to Memphis and competed in the mock Olympics. It was disasterous. There were all these games that our poor country school didn’t have. Like swimming. We sucked hard at the athletic competitions. It was embarrassing. But we did okay on the quiz games and exams because Mr. Angevine was passionate about language. Like few people I have ever met. And he made us love language too by showing us the direct link between Latin and our own native tongue. I can credit a lot of my desire to write to him.

He was funny. And a little bit pervy. And there were rumors he was not nice to his family, but I never heard anything but gossip. But overall he was fascinating. And he told us the most amazing stories. He told us tales of singing sirens and Trojan fleets and tragic betrayal. He required huge passages of reading each night for homework, words I ate up with fervor.

My senior quote in the yearbook was about the most pretentious thing I can think of. But it was inspired by Mr. Angevine. It was, "Damnant quod non intellegunt." Horrible, I know. And frankly, that is about all the Latin I remember now. We rarely spoke it in class. What was the point? No one else did. But we read it and we wrote it, and it gave me a whole new appreciation for this language from which it has evolved. Latin is not a dead. It lives in my language, these words right here.

But Mr. Angevine is dead. And that’s too bad.

• "How ’bout them apples?"
• "You can’t beat that with a stick."
• "Out of my kitchen."
• "You’re getting too big for your breeches."
• "Dry it up."
• "You must be smokin’ wacky weed."
• "If you are not going to do something right, don’t do it at all."
• "Good night, don’t let the bed bugs bite."
• "Because I said so."
• "I got this on sale."
• "Feet on the floor."
• "None of your business."
• "Get out of my light."
• "I don’t care what all the other kids get to do."
• "Ask your Daddy."
• "Be careful."

Check out these photos taken in an art gallery in Brisbane, Australia. (Thanks to Xuxu for the photos. Click to enlarge.)

I puke so much. All
the time. I have the weakest stomach of almost anyone I ever met. I puke,
on average, like once a month. Back in February I woke up at about 2:30 a.m., lay
nauseated in bed for half an hour, hurled, brushed teeth, had water and went
right back to sleep. No idea why. I woke up the next morning with tiny broken
vessels all around my eyes (that always happens), but otherwise I was fine.

Well, I barfed again yesterday. The boyfriend and I drove down to
Chattanooga to visit his family. His mom was kind enough to give us tickets to
Six Flags in Atlanta so on Saturday the boyfriend, the boyfriend’s sister and I
took his mom’s Explorer to Hotlanta (temp: 102) to ride the roller coasters.

You can tell from my
biography page that I like roller coasters. Even though they come last, I
really, really like roller coasters a whole, whole lot and so does the
boyfriend’s sister. We were both dancing around like eight year olds
impatiently waiting for the boyfriend to get ready. The boyfriend’s sister is
not the most exuberant girl I’ve ever met. She’s great, and really funny, but
once I overheard her on the phone to a friend. She said, "I’m so excited
to see you. It’s been so long." And I was like, "Was she just being
sarcastic?" The boyfriend was like, "No, that’s about as outwardly excited as she
gets." I like it. I’m high strung and edgy. She’s always cool as a
Christmas in July, whatever that means.

Anyway, the boyfriend and his mom made us scrambled eggs and turkey bacon
(I’m back on the meat.) and bagels and mmmmmm, Ethiopian High Priest coffee.
That coffee was damn good. His mom set out travel mugs, 16 oz. ones, so
I filled one up. It was gone long before we sat in the hellacious 285 Atlanta
traffic. All those freaking cars should have been a huge sign of what lay
ahead.

We parked and walked into the park with a mass of other people. As the
boyfriend’s sister put it, "I think every person who worships Jesus in the
state of Georgia was at Six Flags yesterday." We walked in behind a group
of about 150 people all wearing the same T-shirt with a big cross on the front. Once inside the park we
noticed that there were Christian-themed shirts everywhere. A girl wearing a
black baby doll tee that said "Satan Sucks" was a personal favorite
of the group.

There were so many fucking people there, oh my God, I cannot stress it
enough. By the end of the day I was threatening to push children and squirt
them with my $3 water bottle. It was also Kids Something day which meant
approximately 70% of the park was 18 and under. And there is this water slide
ride called Skull Island in the Six Flags park, so all the kids were wearing swimsuits. And when I say kids I’m
talking about your skanky teenaged daughter. Parents, please, make your
daughters put their tits away. And their vaginas. Because we can see their
vaginas you know, in those ridiculous swaths of clothing with a drawstring they
call shorts.

I should stop here to tell you about T.O.B. We were standing in line for the
Monster Plantation ride, a ride we never actually rode for reasons I will
explain later. Just in front of us were three teenagers. One was a tall young
man in long denim shorts to his ankles with a gold chain with a medallion of
some sort, a huge fake-ass looking diamond earring and a trucker hat turned
sideways. With this young man were two young women. One girl’s name was
Bridget. We knew this because it was airbrushed in hot pink on both the front
and back of her t-shirt as well as on her white, side-cocked trucker hat. The
lettering of her name made it look like a graffiti tag done in three shades of pink. Why  was Bridget wearing a hat when it was over 100 degrees out?

The third
companion was T.O.B. She wore long jeans and a black t-shirt with that
obnoxious cartoon bunny rabbit on it. It said, "It’s all about me so just get over
it." I gotta tell you, I was so over it. On her head was a sideways white trucker hat with a
rose airbrushed in hot pink beside the word(s) "Tig-O-Bitties."

Yes. Her hat said Tig-O-Bitties. The boyfriend’s sister noticed it first.
Naturally, we all had to check out this girl’s proclaimed generous assets. I’m afraid home
girl was frontin’. I knew I had to get a
picture of this hat. The boyfriend’s sister volunteered to pretend to pose for
a photo so I could get a quick snapshot. I couldn’t get her full on, but I did manage a decent side view.

But even T.O.B. was not amusement enough to keep me in that line any longer.
The air was stifling. It was sickeningly humid. It’s like attempting to breath
in a dishwasher. Just walking from the vehicle to the front gate had me
sweating balls. And I never sweat. Nothing short of full-on running makes me
sweat much unless it is blazing hot outside. Salt just spring from my pores,
sans moisture. Makes me all crusty. I also cannot regulate my body temperature
very well for some reason, which might a reason why I vomited in front of
people beside a bush.

First we rode the The
Mind Bender. We waited in line for 40 minutes in the shade so it wasn’t so bad.
Don’t get me wrong, it was still hot as shit, but it was pleasant compared to
the direct sunshine. While waiting in line though I started to feel a bit nauseated.
This is pretty much a daily occurrence for me, so I waited for it to pass. It
didn’t. When I don’t feel well I turn into a total whiner. I am annoying in
many ways, no doubt, but I don’t really consider myself whiney at all. Unless I
don’t feel well. If I feel bad and you are near me you are probably going to
hear all about it.

The roller coaster was badass, but my nausea increased a bit after all the flip-flops.
We went straight away to the Batman
ride right next to the Mind Bender. The tons of people waiting in line were
herded through much like cattle into a poorly ventilated room with shit for air conditioning.
It just wasn’t enough to properly cool those hundreds of hot, sweaty people. (Surprisingly,
there was very little body odor. That is rare for a theme park of any ilk.) The
real problem was it was hard to breathe. We were all sucking that same muggy,
recycled air. It made me dizzy and my nausea was kicking in pretty hard by that
point. I was scoping out emergency exits and crouching with my head between my
knees. The line was endless. I think I started hallucinating. I kept
envisioning we would all be gassed on the other side of that open door. To my
horror I found more waiting. But at least it was outside.

The ride was incredible. So fun. But when I came off that ride I knew I was
going to hurl. But I thought maybe, just maybe, if I got something to eat I could
do something about all that gourmet coffee sitting on my stomach. We couldn’t
find food before I almost passed out on the steps of this diner place with no
A/C. They showed me to a bathroom, but just I climbed up onto a rock wall with my
back to everyone and waited. I knew I  going to lose it. The question was when.
There was a long line at the women’s restroom. But I couldn’t wait in that line. I just
huddled discreetly and when the time came I started the spitting. Once there is
spitting it is inevitable that something will come forth.

Meanwhile the boyfriend was looking for a Sprite for me to drink, but was
getting denied all over town. The 50s diner was full of people, but the line
never budged. It was so insanely hot inside that the boyfriend nearly fainted himself. So he got in line at an outside vendor for water. Once he got to the front she
held up her hands and said, "I’m out." By the time he arrived back steaming pissed I had already mopped up my face
and was feeling much better. Which is to say shitty, because before I puked I was double
super sick.

Our next mission was food. We saw $7 foot long corn dogs and $8
sodas for sale. So we settled on a Mexican joint where we found a table (!), adequate air
conditioning (!!) and $8 nachos with beans and rice and cheese and sour cream and
guacamole and jalapenos and black olives (!!!). I’d say we got the best deal in the
park. I managed to force down 1/4 of my meal. I really just wanted Saltines. It was next that I tried to
wait in line with T.O.B. for a non-roller coaster ride, but I just couldn’t
hang. I needed to at least be in a seated position. Sadly, the boyfriend and his sister later
decided it wasn’t worth waiting since they’d both riden it before.

By that time it was late afternoon and everyone decided to ride one more roller
coaster. Superman:
Ultimate Flight was their choice. I knew there was no way I could ride
another roller coaster. I waited as they had what they claimed was a thrilling
experience. I’m so fucking jealous. I wanted to fly over the park like
Superman.

But it was cool overall. I was just glad to be feeling better. And the people watching
was PRIMO. Like I said, tons of pre-teen girls dressed like sluts. What I found truly
phenomenal was the lack of attention teenaged boys paid to these skimpily
dressed tarts. I like to watch girls, then watch the boys watch them, but to my
amazement they were not fazed. I practically saw this woman’s nipples, both of
them, and not a guy in sight noticed. I’m like a damn eagle with the people
watching. I may not be subtle (though I think I am), but I am thorough. Have
young men become so desensitized to slutwear that it has killed their dicks
completely?

We left after The Best Ride Ever That I Missed Out On Because I Can’t Not
Puke. Still, though, it was fun. When you contemplate punching a kid for
stepping on your foot you know you’ve had a fun day.

Check out the tiny photo gallery from our trip. The boyfriend took most of them.

I fucking hate the word blog in all its facets. First of all, blog sounds like barf. Or something that has plopped out your butt. Don’t act all prudish like that is not exactly what is sounds like–a blob of something from somewhere gross.

And what is with the word blog also being (part of) the verb? "She blogs." "Ralph is blogging." I mean, what the shit? Take this example for contrast: A blog is somewhat like a book in that it is read. It would be ridiculous to say "She books her book." No! She writes her book.

Here is the shit that really pushes my buttons. Who are the people who blog? They are motherfucking bloggers. So, bloggers blog on their blogs. Is that right? Well, bookers don’t book on their books, so why don’t we bloggers get a little more creative in the naming business. Because some of us have to say these words with a straight face.

"What do you do?," I am often asked. "I am a blogger," I say and watch their eyelids go lax little and their eyebrows come together as they try to make sense of the sounds that just came out of my mouth. The conversation that comes after that is sometimes long, sometimes brief, but nearly always awkward and unsatisfying.

I can’t come up anything better though. I sat here a good three to four minutes and tried. But I open the floor to suggestions.

Wanna see me on t.v.? Just go here then click on "News 2’s resident blogger works within new world of information."