Crackahass Crackah

Initially, I had planned on sharing this on MySpace only but (surprise surprise!) MySpace won't allow me to post the player so I decided to share it here.

This is an interesting voice mail I received about a week ago, and it disturbed me for a few different reasons.

The first one being that this person called from an unavailable number, because I definitely would have called the racist shit back.

Second, I had just finished reading Your Blues Ain't Like Mine and was already feeling white and guilty.

Third, and most importantly, my son has a girlfriend, and has announced this to many. A sweet chocolate chip with the softest eyes and longest dark eyelashes, for whom he has promised to buy a pink teddy bear. And I found myself wondering if her family disapproved of him giving her his digits (my digits, my cell number) and could this be a sister of his girlfriend? A disapproving sister? I did realize just how racist this was for the thought to even occur to me, or rather cynical, but hey I'm honest, and it did pop into my head.

However, any negative thoughts I had over the voice mail were quickly pushed aside by my child. After I finished recording the voice mail into the mic hooked to my computer, my son meandered over and began to pretend he was making announcements over his school's PA system with my mic. Unbeknownst to him, I recorded one of these announcements.

It had been raining for the entire week, and lightning was close by, yet there I sat clicking away on my computer. This was his warning. Takes a minute to load and blow your eardrum out.

How could I possibly stay pissy about a stupid voice mail when my son is so cute? And, no, my kid didn't hear the voice mail.

Happy Tuesday.
Housewives tonight!

Dick Tricks

To say this is a dry spell is an understatement.

I'm going on nearly a year and half now without having sex. I do realize some marriages exist on less sex than I've had in the last two years but this is getting downright ugly. Of course, by admitting to the penii famine I've been experiencing, I'm setting myself up to be perceived as "easy" and that I will take any old cock off the street.

That's not the case. So, any old cock out there, this blog is not an open invitation for you to mail me with your measurements and request to free my schedule next weekend. I do have standards, which is probably part of the problem, but when I'm asleep there's no telling what I will do.


Last night my dream had Demetri Martin standing over me on my knees and slapping me in the face with his dinger. This is the comedian from the new show Important Things with Demetri Martin which I mentioned in my last blog. If you haven't watched this show, definitely give it a chance. His deadpan delivery is hilarious and his witticisms will make you outright laugh.

So back to Demetri's dinger slapping me around (did I mention it was monster-sized? No, no unrealistic expectations here...never) making me feel like Linda Lovelace, the part that disturbed me was that I enjoyed this dream, like, REALLY enjoyed it. Enjoyed it so much I slammed my fist down on my alarm this morning to gather just ten more sweet minutes of snooze time, hoping to return to the dick slaps.

Now like a lot of women I like to get dirty in bed, I enjoy taking charge, I enjoy being dominated. I'm all about the dirty talk. However, spooging in my face, hair, eyes, or making me get on my knees and whinny like a pony or bay at your balls, well, that just isn't me. I don't think it ever will be me, unless you are Demetri Martin thrusting your veiny monster in my face, then there is no telling who I will be.

My child's father used to offer the relief I needed without obligations, and most importantly, without guilt. This is the father of my child, I used to tell myself, I have nothing to feel ashamed about. He knows what I like, I know what he likes and it works. We used to live together for cripes sake, this is not some stranger I'm taking to bed.

But when he moved 1200 miles away from his only child, resentment and anger began to boil inside of me and any sexual attraction I had towards him was quickly quelled in seeing his true colors. He was no longer accessible in this sexual manner for me, both physically and mentally, and so began the dry spell.

It's not that easy to say, 'okay, I'm going out to have sex now' especially since I am older and raising a little boy on my own. Priorities become realigned when you are a single parent and before you know it, you're going on two years without so much as a spank.

The worst part about a dry spell (and women do have these just as bad as men even if they refuse to admit it) is your mind starts to play tricks on you.
Dick tricks.

That pudgy mailman with the black knee socks pulled tight across his stubby legs begins to look like Brad Pitt after a while. Okay, maybe not Brad Pitt, but you begin to find something attractive if not for the mere fact that he is a male toting a unit in those tight navy knickers, and it's not your cable bill.

Your brother's perverted, womanizing friend who has always disgusted you with his unmitigated advances toward the opposite sex actually begins to sound like Don Juan, and you wonder if he's any good in bed. Does he like to be tied up? Is he noisy when he climaxes?
Dick tricks.

Maybe I just need have some dick sense smacked into me.
Maybe that's what Demetri was doing last night in my dream.

Why I Love My Child's Teacher, A Dave Update and Mistah Kottah's Smiles

We remember this, right? Of course we do, it wasn't that long ago. She did e-mail me back, promising me she did not see the crack of my ass but she wasn't sure about the other teachers. However, she did want me to know the e-mail made her laugh and she needed a good laugh that day.

(__|__)

This morning I dropped my child off at the front door of his classroom, grabbed the sheaf of papers (his work from the day before) from his cubby and made my way back to my car. As I flipped through the papers I came across this




which is the front of the worksheet. Then I flipped it over to see this



on the backside (pun intended).

I laughed and put it up on the fridge at home, after scanning it in for you all to see of course.

Later that morning I attended Journalism class where we went over public relations writing *yawn* and though the lecture was boring, I've been really pleased with Mistah Kottah lately. He's been smiling more, and seems to welcome my questions now. Also he did accept my friend's request under my "school facebook account." Maybe I'll send him a real request next time, ya know, under my real account.

You can learn a lot about a person from their Facebook page and I learned that he actually does have a sense of humor. After I clicked around and gathered some juicy details about him, and watched a few funny videos of his two-year-old, my verdict is in. He's not so bad, though he does "employ a heavy grading pen" (his words), he actually seems like a pretty cool guy, and I realized that perhaps I jumped the gun. Plus it helps that he gave me an A on my first major paper. Special thanks to one of my favorite badass writers Buddha Mama for proofing my first draft for me.
*does the I-got-an-A-from-the-teacher-who-rarely-gives-A's dance*

Last on the list of updates is sweet Dave. He is home now after being diagnosed with canine diabetes. We're still trying to get his sugar level down but he is completely back to his old self again, begging for food, getting into the trash, taking a random dump in Kellen's bedroom when he's not home.

I can't tell you how absolutely touched I was with all the e-mails I received from my readers both here and on MySpace. And the stories a lot of you shared with me made me feel I wasn't so alone. Of course some of them made me bawl like a bitch but they still comforted me, and I truly appreciate all of you reaching out to me.

I'm back to chugging Red Bulls and running on the treadmill. And I can't get enough of this new show on Comedy Central.

Life is good. Thanks, yawl.

A $5,000 Gift

My son is giving me $5,000 for my birthday.
I know this because he told me I will be receiving this lump sum as his precious gift for the May 28th birthday that is my own.
I know this because he had me enter him in the Cartoon Network Clone Wars contest Friday night and proudly answered the displayed queue question from the Clone Wars finale.
I know this because he told me he doesn't want me "broke" on my birthday, and he'd like the toys that come with the $5,000 please.
I know this because he said no one else will be getting on "that computer right there" and "signing up" for the $5,000.

I know this because what he doesn't realize is I've already won...a $5,000 thought and the sweetest little boy in the world.

How Can You Not Feel That?

I've gotten chubby. Like really chubby. Not cute and pudgy chubby but, well, okay...fat chubby. My rolls hang over my jeans now like thick dough. I jiggle when I walk, like the jelly inside of a fried donut. It's disgusting and it started with that phallic object above.

Actually it started when my beagle got sick about a month ago. I stopped running on the treadmill. Just like that, done, cooked, fineto...and fat.
My only concern was getting home to Dave after my classes, and sadness consumed me. My mind rapt with the realization that I might lose my dog, I just became sad and withdrawn from everyone over these last few weeks.

And I began to eat...and eat...and eat.

Usually when I am depressed all I do is not eat yet shit constantly, my innards all twisted with tension and worry leaving me to run to the bathroom with...well, runs. But for the first time in my life, food soothed my sadness and made me feel everything would be okay.

It was okay. My dog came home, sans a few of his own pounds of chub, but feeling better and acting like his old self again. He was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. Life was back to normal, somewhat.

But my addiction to these chili drenched pig lips and assholes was already in full force, and I continued to stop by the small white hut that flashes its neon "HOT" light when those bastards are fresh; the kryptonite that is Krystal's.

Today I had a scheduled parent teacher conference with my five-year-old's petite and attractive teacher so I showered and applied perfume. I blew-dry my long hair straight and down my back, I even put on mascara. When it came time to slip on the pants I planned on wearing I found myself breathing heavy as I yanked and pulled, fighting with the denim to squeeze my dough in safely. I was beyond uncomfortable as my Cuddle Duds panties wedged in my ass crack.

When I was pregnant and barely able to wear any pants other than sweats, I refused to wear underwear. The bigger the ass, the bigger the crack, and the bigger the crack the more likely the undies will take a ride up the dark crevice between my buns.

I decided to shed the Cuddle Duds and go commando under my tight jeans with a loose top hanging over my hips. Comfortable but cute, I thought.

The meeting went well. I was told my child is bright, catches on quickly and despite missing the first three months of school, he was doing quite well and chugging along just fine in kindergarten. I walked out of the meeting happy and smiling. There was a bounce to my step and not just from the jelly in my hips, but sheer pride.

On the way home, I praised Boogey and relayed all the positive to him that came from the conference, and he beamed from his booster seat in the back.

It was not until we were home and I was undressing that I suddenly felt an unfamiliar draft of air as I yanked off my top.

No, oh my god, no. Please no.

My hand flew to the seat of my pants and my cool fingers landed against my bare skin. The rip was nearly six inches in length. I ran to the mirror and there was the crack of my ass, clear as day. How could I have not felt the draft on my ass?! When did this happen? How did this happen?

Before the conference, Boogey's laces were untied when I met him at the front of the school, and on bent knee I had squatted in my oh-so-tight jeans to securely tie them. It must have been then. It had to have been then.

I e-mailed his teacher, mortified and profusely apologizing. The same teacher who I had accidently e-mailed before from my TitsMcGee gmail account. The same teacher who had just finished telling me how proud she was of my son, how much she's enjoyed him this year. The same teacher I had just exposed the crack of my ass.

I haven't been this embarrassed since I was 10 years old, and bent to pick up my napkin in Steak 'N Ale, letting a fart slip that was so loud it practically shook the table. Or when I was 15 and my first crush played keep-away with one of my maxi pads on the school bus. Mortified. I blush even as I type this. There is no recovery from something like this, only time can dull the memory and even then I will always question just how many people saw the crack of my fat ass on parent teacher conference day.

Diet starts tomorrow.

Old Man

I'm watching you lay here next to me.

Your snout is white with gray now, your belly protrudes from your ribs.
How did you get old so fast?

Sure, I've seen you stumble down the brick steps outside our front door on your way to relieve yourself. I've watched as your energy for chasing tennis balls and Chew-Eez has pretty much vanished. Of course I've noticed how dry your nose has become, and the age spots that have appeared on your pink belly, and numerous times my fingers have grazed the small, stray cysts beneath your tri-color coat. I knew you were aging, but would never have defined you as old.
Not until recently anyway.

And all I can think as I watch the rise and fall of your warm body next to my thigh is, don't leave me...not yet, old man.

You've been with me for the last eleven years, mine and only mine.
I realize how stupid it is writing this about you, and that you are only a dog, an old dog with bad teeth and runny eyes, but you're my dog, mine.

Through boyfriends and breakups, worry and disappointment. Through failure. I always knew you would be there waiting for me when I opened that front door, greeting me with your languorous stretching and loud yawns, the wag of your tail thumping on the floor.
Mine.

I'd bawl into your neck, and if I began talking aloud to myself, weeping, the sound of my voice would send your tail thumping again, and I'd laugh. Then I'd ask myself how it's possible to love an animal as much as I love you.

Just reading that last sentence on the screen makes me cringe. I'm not the sentimental type. I don't gush over girly movies. I don't give random hugs. I don't cry at weddings. Even at funerals, I've been known to remain stoic. But when it comes to you, old man, and thinking of that day I will come home and you will no longer be there, it's unbearable for me and I cry like a bitch. In fact, I downright sob.

You were mine from the beginning, a fur ball of puppy who could sit in the palm of my hand, so tiny and sweet, you were always mine.

Everyone who met you wanted you for their own.

"A dog like Dave."

I can't count how many times I heard this over the years.

This morning in the vet's office a white puppy tried to play with you but too weary you barely lifted your head. Exhausted from being poked and prodded, you stood by the door with your tail curled under your hind legs. You were just too tired. Too old, too worn.

I should be studying for my exam but I can't stop watching you, checking on you, making sure you're comfortable. I can't stop worrying about how I'm going to pay for your double daily doses of insulin shots or the numerous vet visits to come, the testing and more prodding and poking. I can't stop thinking whomever said when you have a child your love for your pet wanes because they freaking lied.

You are mine, old man. And I'll just have to find a way.

Stalked by a Meter Maid

Let's back up, shall we? Over a meter maid if we're so lucky. Haw haw.

Last Thursday I missed History class...again.

I skipped History on Tuesday as some of you twitters know because I overslept, whereupon waking, found my child wearing only guilt and his Superman underoos. He sat on the floor playing the Playstation with the volume muted like a slick rick, making sure not to wake me. We both played hooky that day.

My intention was to attend Thursday, really it was, but as I pulled into the small lot behind the health center I noticed a meter maid nearby, watching me. He stood with his legs apart like a guard, staring at the rear of my vehicle then pulled out his gay little pad from his back pocket.

That sumbitch is going to give me a ticket. Come on, you bastard, what are you looking at?

I should probably mention why I park behind the university's health center (*cough* where my mom is a practitioner *cough*) when the sticker on my bumper clearly states my lot is 41, way across campus and nowhere near my History class.

Because I can, that's why.

Because my mom works there. Because she gives me passes to park there, bright red ones which I slide on my dashboard, and tokens to get out of the coin-operated gate. Because damn the man! And damn the cold weather that can turn my skin into a sleeve of hives since having Kellen, and damn the parking office assigning me a parking lot that feels two miles from my classes! Wah.

Imagine my surprise two weeks ago when I saw a yellow citation flapping beneath my windshield wiper. Double checking to make sure I had placed my red pass on the dashboard, I launched into a litany of dirty names for the meter maids, and marched inside the health center to shove the ticket under my mom's nose.

"Those assholes!" I cried. "Look at this! This is the second ticket they've given me and I have the red slip in my window. They know they can't give me a ticket. I'm here visiting. Those fucks!"

My mom raised an eyebrow. "Second? You didn't tell me you got a ticket before. Let me call and see why they're giving you tickets. That doesn't make sense because as far as they know you're a patient here."

So this passed Thursday, like a chickenshit, as Mussolini Meter Maid watched, I circled out of the lot and decided to go home instead risking a ticket. Over the phone, after hearing her lecture on skipping class and not blaming a meter maid for my own decisions, I asked my mom if she had called about the two tickets.

"Yep," she said with a sigh. "I'm not giving you slips anymore. Apparently, the meter maid looked up your schedule. Probably the same one you saw this morning. He's been watching your vehicle. He knows when you're in class, Julie."

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

My mom went on to tell me the woman on the phone cleared out the tickets from the system when she learned who she was speaking with, and what relation she was to me. However, my mom was already spooked by that point and insisted I was going to get HER in trouble. Never mind the fact that this was my mom's idea to begin with.

What irks me about this situation isn't that I was "caught" but that some piss ant meter maid is looking up my schedule. The day I bought my parking pass (you know for the lot in the boonies) they told me I needed a copy of my schedule since they couldn't look it up on the system. I had to run all the way home to print out a copy to come back and pay 75 bucks for a decal to park in the sticks.

So why is this meter maid accessing my schedule? Or rather how?

I haven't decided if I am going to call the parking office and inquire about this, but I'm pissed. Yes, I was caught abusing the system, the system my mom works for, the system that refuses to give free tuition to spawns of their employees, the system that obviously employs stalkers for meter maids.

Eat it and shut up because I have no grounds?
Or should I call and find out how and why this asshole is accessing my schedule?