The Temp

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Home, Finally

After 2+ years of searching, Mr. S. & I have finally found a house out in E-town! Earlier this summer I had become dispondent and resigned myself to the the idea that we'd be stuck here in the York Ghetto for the rest of our natural lives. Then, last weekend after a disasterous trip to Dutch Wonderland in which Mr. S. ended up in the emergency room at Lancaster General, we found a house all by accident. We were due for something good to happen.

After 2+ years of baby-momma criticizing us for not living in E-town, she is now horrified that we will be living 1.5 miles from her (at her parents house) and the walk-in closet that she keeps the boys in. She has convinced them that it's their room. She really needs to get her shit together. But since that won't happen thanks to the Russians and their potato products, we have worked tirelessly to get our shit together. Now it's all falling into place. I couldn't ask for a cuter or more spacious cottage. It even has a huge play-fort for the kids right in the back yard. The thing I really like is that the back yard is fenced-in, which means no more dogs in the house! Yay-squared! My poor dogs don't want to be in the house any more than I want them to be in the house.

I feel the drama and bad luck coming to an end. We've just kept our heads down and kept on going. It's been a rough road. I had a feeling that our hard work would lead us to at least one good thing, and it looks like it's happening. We move in Oct. 1st. Baby-Momma called us special yesterday to tell us that she won't be letting the boys visit us on days that aren't our custody days. That's cool, because since we live so close now, we're filing for more custody! Besides, she needs to look at their little faces and tell them no herself when they ask if they can go over to daddy's house for a visit. I don't know why she called us to let us know that. Maybe it has something to do with her being an el-supremo-twit.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Oh Criminy

I just woke up from another strange dream. Some dude gave me a tattoo that covered my left foot. It was all flames and the Rolling Stones Tongue (never been a fan) and then some racist insignia that I couldn't quite make out. I could see in it my dream, but I can't see it in my mind now, so I don't know what the symbol(s) was/were. I was riding around town on a bicycle with this foot tattoo. I liked having the tattoo, but there were parts of the tattoo that I didn't like. I'm not a racist that I know of, but then that's supposed to be the first sign, right? Denial? No, really, I would know. I think I have it figured out. I want a tattoo...but I think of tattoo artists as racists who will hi-jack my foot and scrawl whatever they want all over it. That's probably the issue going on underneath the surface here. I know it's not logical, but since when do dreams run on logic?

Saturday, August 13, 2005

A Nod To Jim Jones

I've recently made an almost complete switch from the world of Mtvs 1&2 and VH1 and all their barfy, blinged-up associates. I'm now a CMT viewer. Somewhere along the line, all of music turned into Life of the Rich and Famous. I'm a little tired of hearing people "sing" about how great they have it, and that following their dreams is what separated them from the rest of us lemmings. I gotta call bullshit on that notion and everything that goes along with it. I'm tired of the vapid leading the daft. I got out of that line, finally. Who needs it?

I'd rather watch a Kenny Chesney video that features a surfer girl who looks like she probably doesn't wipe. I sit there in disbelief, sure, but it's refreshing.

I'm tired of seeing products splashed all over music. I've sat in a Maybach. It smelled AND looked like a hospital room. No thanks. Hell, you could buy a whole lotta hospital care for a needy stranger, or you could be a greedy putz and buy yourself a shitty car for an MSRP of $350K.

Everyone I know has a faux Louis-Vuitton. If I actually could afford a $7,000 pocket book, I'd carry a LeSportSac from the Wal-Mart. Seriously. Luxury products are only interesting when your ability to own them is questionable.

Having come up via hard-core, thrash, punk and all forms of rock and rap, I feel as though I've sorta traded in my religion. Now I can kinda understand how people got fed up, turned in their lives, and headed South with Jim Jones. I've always mentally categorized country music fans as a sort of weirdo cult. But now I'm starting to get it. Country is offering me something my old fave musical genres were not offering. I'm through with bling bling & rock -n- snore. Pass the punch & crank the Waylan baby, Mama's becomin' a convert!

Friday, August 12, 2005

The Evolution of the Horse-Face

I've been referring to myself as a horse-face since sometime in the early 90's. This happened because of Camille Paglia. I read her essay about being a woman and Elizabeth Taylor and the opposite of Elizabeth Taylor: Meryl Streep.

I suppose because I'm tall, thin & blonde, people have always compared me to one of 3 very unattractive celebrities: Meryl Streep, Princess Diana (c'mon people, she was a dog - nice maybe but a real bow-wow!) and Darryl Hannah. The day I read the line in which Paglia described Meryl Streep as a horse-face, I thought, how perfect! That's the exact description for Meryl Streep's face! And by default, it's the perfect description for my face as well.

This week, someone took my own description of myself and used it against me on a web page that bashed me. I guess I've arrived, no? someone actually taking the time to code me into infamy? How sweet.

Well, that's my story on how I became a horse-face. I became horse-faced by my own hand. What's Omarosa's story? How did that piece of vapid scuz become such a Mr. Ed?

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Texas Hold 'em Under Water Thursday

Oh Disaster!

Okay, so against my better judgement and will, we got fish for the kids about a year and a half ago. I didn't want fish because I already have two dogs, 20 or so plants and a man to take care of. And the bird. Then there's me. I have to take care of me too! I predicted...catastrophe has struck via the fish! Our oldest platy, Mike, has puffed up like a puffer fish. He's lolling around the tank, sick and helpless. He looks like an orange tennis ball. It is soooo sad! I kinda want to euthanize him. He doesn't look like he's in pain though, he just looks kind of embarrassed. The whole thing is really stressing me. My heart can't take the possibility that he might be in pain. It's not like I can take him to the hospital though, because his health insurance has lapsed. Plus, I think he might be a Mexican.

I wish I could be more like the dogs. If the dogs were me, they wouldn't think twice about the situation. They would just eat him. Raw. Eyeballs & all. I should probably just reach down in the tank & pull Mike out and if he doesn't explode in my hand, I should toss him on the kitchen floor and let the dogs go to town on him.

I can't do that though. I feel bad for Mike. Plus...I fear catching imaginary fish to human diseases if Mike does explode. I wonder if his blood is red or orange?

Summer and More Summer and More Summer

Summer's dragging. I'm ready for fall. The days are hot and blend together like dirty socks at the bottom of the hamper. I'm in a rut. I've been staying up late and getting up early. Every day has begun to feel like one long, hot night. It's all dishes and cooking and laundry and work and reading and writing. I'm never sure what it is that I'm supposed to be doing from one minute to the next. I've begun to have fantasies about getting tattoos. I think I'm entering a new but familiar phase of my particular type of insanity. My perception has become nothing more than uncomfortable asshattery.

I would go to the doctor and ask for Lexapro, but Percocet is just so much more effective. Plus, I learned my lesson about Lexapro and weight gain. It DOES cause weight gain. I'd rather be nutty than chubby. I don't have Percocet of course, all I have is the razor-like 10-grit sandpaper of reality to suck on. Day after wandering day. I'm in the guts of a novel I'm writing. If I were at the beginning or the end, I would have hope and anticipation or relief. Instead, I feel like I'm drowning in my own head. I'm a big fan of comedy and all things funny, and I find myself in a particularly unfunny mood. All the time. I know it'll pass, but I wish I knew when.


Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Troll Baby Snack T.V. Time

Last night I had a dream that I had a baby. I was in a fast food joint (which is weird because I boycotted fast-food after I saw that Spurlock flick, Supersize Me) and the baby just came sliding out of me. My mom was there and I was there and the baby was there. There were probably some other people, but the whole event was kind of fuzzy... that is, until...the "baby" came.

The baby was one of those troll dolls with black hair. It was the size of a real baby, but it was made of rubber and was decidedly inanimate. I don't know why I have dreams like this, but I have always had vivid, strange, strange dreams.

I wonder why these dreams happen - but for example: right now it's 1:15 am. What am I doing? I just finished eating a jerry-rigged taco I made out of week-old sloppy-joe meat and mozzerella cheese topped with Frank's Red Hot Sauce. I'm also watching Dog the Bounty Hunter. I always get confused as to which guy is the wife.

But anywayz, I think you can see mebbe why I have strange dreams. Did I mention I'm wearing a blue and white ball cap that says "Big Dogs" on the front of it? I will never know why I'm sitting in the house at 1 in the morning, wearing a ball cap with my hair hanging out the hole in the back. Just watch. Tonight I won't have any dreams at all.

Should Some People Choose Crack?

I know Kirsty Alley's story is that she smoked crack, found Dianetics, quit smoking crack, became a famous actress, became a shiny satin tent spokes-model for Pier One, became a fat actress, ate Jenny Craig...

My question is, would it be possible that maybe Kirsty would have been better off sticking with the crack? If she'd stayed with the crack, she wouldn't be embarrassing herself in gigantical satin tent dresses on national tv. That's something to consider. I also don't think she could be any more obnoxious than she is now. K.A. is a walking, breathing, whining human hair shirt. I say tune it down K.A. Go back to the crack. Crack is wack.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

New baby!

New baby i met recently. Her interests are eating, sleeping, & smiling. She`s cool.