I really want to go to law school?

It used to be a certainty.

Without question I knew that once certain obstacles were surmounted that I, yes, I was going to law school. That was what I wanted above all else.

And then it hit me. This morning, right between the eyes came the thought.

Court TV is fucking boring.

And just as a point of consideration, if I were to pursue law school and in fact become a lawyer, wouldn't at some time I be expected to appear in court for something?

It's going to take me at least seven more years to be finished with my undergradutae degree and law school. I can retire from this soul sucking job that I hate in ten years. If I spend too much time thinking about this, I think my right eye will explode.

Things are pretty fucking uncertain for me right now. I feel lost.

Just because it's time to celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus doesn't mean I'm going to wake up anytime soon and like hazelnut candy.

Hazelnuts, or as we used to call them, filberts.

I hate those fucking things.

I don't want them in candy, cookies, cake frosting, actually, all of the hazelnut trees could wither and die right now and fall off the face of the Earth en masse and I wouldn't be bothered.

So when one of the guys from the second floor office came down offering everybody a fabulous gold wrapped, our commercials are to haute for your t.v. but we'll show it to you anyway because you are such a heretic that you insist on saying the word filbert, piece of ground up hazelnut in some chocolate, I just smiled and said "no, thank you."

Could have heard a pin drop. As it was obvious that I was the ONLY person in the office who was not acquainted with the virtues of this filbert-based concoction, one of my co-workers sets out to convince me of it's worthiness.

"But you like chocolate." This statement makes perfect sense to her, it doesn't really follow for me however that just because I like chocolate means I am socially required to accept candy that I don't want. And the fella who is obviously trying to get rid of the filbert filled foulness smiles hopefully as he thrusts the little plastic tray back towards me.

"Well, yeah, but I don't like those." The fella with the tray looks at me like I'm crazy, then says goodbye as he walks off with his single piece of crusty crap filled chocolate glace crappola.

And all of this left me to wondering...

If that candy is such hot shit, why is he trying to get rid of it?

I skinned 2 cats alive this weekend.

I skinned 3 cats alive this weekend.

At least that's what anybody walking passed the house would think, in reality everybody got a BATH. They needed it, too.

But good Lord, listening to the three of them carrying on like they'd been placed on the rack and stretched out, I started to ask myself if it was worth it. Could I put up with a little bit of smelly rather than put up with a whole bunch of hollerin' and spittin'? Then I stopped to consider how friendly my middle baby, Harlow is. She gets up in my lap and purs when I'm reading, watching t.v., trying to do homework, etc., etc.

Nope, sorry, your behind is getting a scrub. She was the first victim, and while she raised Holy Hell through the floating clouds of non-tearing cat shampoo her little sister ran off for parts unknown and her older brother, who isn't very bright, came into the bathroom to see what was happening. He hung around watching the proceedings until it was his turn to get dunked, and that was when he started pitching a fit, trying to scratch and bite his way out of the tub. The little fucker got loose once and took off across the house, but his back feet slipped on the tile floor and he knocked himself even stupider (stupidest?) against the bar. I wagged a wet squalling cat back across the house and finished the operation.

The little one, June Bug, well, we had to find her before we could scrub her. There was no way she would answer repeated calls, whistles or chuck-chuck sounds we made. Whatever wookalars we were feeding her brother and sister to would just have to be satisfied with a two cat snack. I finally located her up under the dining room table and flushed her out with a broom towards the ready clucthes of my mom, who dunked her butt in the tub just like everybody else. Thank goodness June Bug is just too fat to heft herself out of the tub because that little beast put up one hell of a fight.

Of course, now that she's clean she's also the prissiest.

Beasts.

If you think that possibly I am busy and don't want to be bothered, you're probably correct.

Especially if I'm listening to a CD. Yep, the possibility exists that Neko Case and her Boyfriends are more interesting than you.

As a matter of fact, I'd say it was a certainty.

Hell, a Woody Woodpecker cartoon from the 1950's is more interesting that 99.9 % of the people I work with.

Humbug.

I screamed "Goddamn" a few minutes ago.

I shoved a door so hard on the way back to my desk that it shook on it's frame and then I was hateful to the twit on the other end of the line.

I feel so much better now.

Hows 'bout a tall, frosty glass of new and improved "Shut the Fuck Up"?

My co-irker talks. Constantly, about nothing.

Sometimes she just really annoys the shit out of me.

This shit is my career?

God, how I fucking hate this job.

I hate the work. I hate a good number of the people I work with. I hate all the people who utilize our services. I hate the pay, the hours, the working conditions and politics that exist in this scrubby asshole of an office.

In twelve years I can retire with full medical benefits. Given that I have a medical condition, I need to keep this job.

In twelve years I can finish my graduate degree. That shit takes a while going part-time at night.

And then I get to start all over working someplace else.

I just wonder how long it'll take me to start hating that job.

This shit is my career?

God, how I fucking hate this job.

I hate the work. I hate a good number of the people I work with. I hate all the people who utilize our services. I hate the pay, the hours, the working conditions and politics that exist in this scrubby asshole of an office.

In twelve years I can retire with full medical benefits. Given that I have a medical condition, I need to keep this job.

In twelve years I can finish my graduate degree. That shit takes a while going part-time at night.

And then I get to start all over working someplace else.

I just wonder how long it'll take me to start hating that job.

Ok, I am not down for revisionist history.

I was also raised to not speak ill of the dead, and although I don't always remember my upbringing the way I should, I am inspired to remark on the passing of Ronald Reagan.

Former President Ronald Reagan is dead.

Add that to the list of things that I won't be loosing any sleep over.

I lost an earring.

I've lost an earring.

People assure me that I'll find it when I get home because it probably fell out when I got dressed.

I know it was here at the job.

And of course it was part of a cute pair that I bought for myself, not some crappy pair that somebody else bought for me.

Damnit.

I feel like throwing a screaming fit right here in the middle of the office right now.

It wouldn't do a shit bit worth of good though.

It would only serve to reinforce some people's opinion that I really an a psycho-bitch that needs to be medicated.

Everybody please fuck off now.

Shut Up, Will You Just Please Shut The Hell UP?

I know, ok. I know.

Tony Randall is dead.

I'm sure he's more upset about it than you are.

Yeah, that soldier got a year in prison and a shitty discharge.

Hey, he got punished for being a dick and helping other people act like dicks, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it.

Ok, Texas executed a mentally ill man last night.

And I'm wondering what Danny Glover and Jesse Jackson are up to this afternoon, they sure ain't catching a flight outta the Lone Star State.

What I did last night that I look so tired today?

What I did last night isn't your fucking business, m'k?

Politics and Breakfast Sam-itches.

There is a little place in town, it's been here for as long as I can remember.

It's called the Do-Nut Hole, and used to be owned by a family that lived here in town forever, in fact, I went to high school with the owner's daughter. Many a day my Dad would drive thru to get me a bag of holes and a chocolate milk for the road. Unlike other kids who got hyped up on sugar, it mellowed me out.

Anyway, a few years ago the original owners sold out and hit the road. Can't say that I blame them, anyway a Korean man bought it, kept the same old menu for a long time and went on about the business of selling do-nuts. Lot's of people scoffed, the place would go down hill, it'll be closed in a year, won't be long before they start selling egg rolls.

And ten, maybe fifteen years later, Mr. Kim is still selling do-nuts. (Hey, the sign reads "DO-NUTS"), he's also selling the most wonderful croissaints stuffed with a slice of cheese, a pile of bacon and the thinnest, saltiest, pepperiest scrambled egg you've ever seen in your life. They are a heartattack wrapped up in a napkin, and every morning there are pickups, mini vans, clunkers and beaters lined up at the drive thru with people waiting to purchase the fine wares that Mr. Kim churns out of his kitchen.

That would be kitchens, becuase not only has Mr. Kim kept the original place going, he's expanding.

And there isn't an egg roll in sight.

Ok, two things happened at belly dance class last night.

First, my right foot started hurting like a mutha, at one point I really wanted to cry, or throw up, either way, I was sure that one or the other would happen. Niether one did.

Second, my instructor asked me if I'd ever thought about performing. Um, well, yeah, as a matter of fact I have, even though I had no plans to ever share that fact with another living human being.

So with that knowledge she hands me one of her weighted veils so I can practice what we've worked on last night, and tells me she'll bring some finger cymbals (zills, said either zi-ll or ze-el, I'm not sure which) next week because she'd really like to start me working on that. She would have let me borrow a pair of her dance shoes if possible, but given that she was blessed with (to me) freakishly small 7 1/2 feet, they won't stretch over my size 10 puddlejumpers. This woman is so generous with her personal possessions it's absolutley awe inspiring.

And I'm also supposed to find a piece of music I'd like to work with, something that's about three minutes long or something that we can cut down to three minutes. Oh, and she's bringing me some videos next week to watch. She's got all kinds of performances on tape and thinks they'll help me. Maybe we could do some improvisational work next week if we get through the lesson. We almost always get through the lesson because I'm the only student taking the six-thirty class.

But, honestly, I've never minded being the center of attention.

So, I brought my new Natacha Atlas CD to work and am listening to it, but everything is at least five minutes, so that ain't gonna fly.

I'll find something.

I wish I didn’t have all of this computer shit at my desk.

I just really do. I waste too much time looking at the internet, goofing off with Paint and the games that came installed in this stupid fucker and all the crap that people send me via e-mail.

Enough already. I don’t want a visit from the “Wishing Frog” or whatever the hell the good luck e-mail for this week is. If I actually had ten friends who went for that kind of shit to send it too, half of them wouldn’t be speaking to me at any given moment of time and the other half I would have no respect for because they pass around that internet spam shit. Please, please don’t send me any scanned images of prayer cards, if God really wants to send me a message, there are plenty of bushes in my front yard, he’ll set fire to one of them, thanks.

That spiteful pest known as Harlow Beans PhD., bit me this morning. It was my punishment for doing something so hateful as to spend the couple of extra minutes I had talking to her. Damn me. I ran my hand down her back and gave her tail a little twist, just like I do every Saturday morning when I don’t have to literally jump over her and run out the door. Anyway, I do it on a Wednesday morning and that spicy little tart latches onto my leg with her front paws and bites me. Look cat, the Sunday paper is still on the dining room table, maybe you should check the ads for a job and a new squat, cause if you keep this act up, we may have to re-evaluate your position in this organization.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I can’t concentrate on much lately. I need to be studying for that fecking Algebra exam instead of killing time with this shit and listening to Sarah Brightman. Shit, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra voluntarily. Jeez.

Ok, along with other things in the realm of impossibility, I have developed a silly-assed crush on a local human-interest reporter.



Now, why exactly this is, I don’t know. I’ve even found myself getting out more on the weekends and trying a couple of things I’ve seen in his reports, like belly-dancing. It’s weird, even for me.

Probably shouldn’t have even bothered to go there.

Lipstick stains on the remnants of a pineapple enpamada. The yellowy-rusty sweet bread makes the lip prints appear a much darker shade than the lipstick stains on my glass of Diet Coke.

Natacha Atlas is belting out her heart and soul in a language I don’t understand in the disc drive.

Sounds like she’s dying a slow and painful death. But it’s got a good beat and I can definitely dance to it. As a matter of fact, I’m practicing my rib cage slide right here in my chair. I didn’t go to my dance class last night as there is an Algebra exam on Thursday night that I haven’t adequately freaked-out and panicked over yet.

I need at least one sleepless night before any sort of exam that involves any sort of mathematics.

I am so looking forward to Spring Break next week. All I have to do is go to dance class and hope that I don’t sprain something.

Because, try as I might, I’m not very coordinated.

Lots of little things I need to do, make a bank deposit, write the water bill (with the frickin late charge), reapply my lipstick.

It’ll all get done.

Eventually.

March 2, 2004


I do not want to spend the rest of my life in Houston.

That being said, I really don’t have a lot of choices when it comes to finding someplace that I consider affordable where I could actually purchase a home.

I would like to have about twenty-five acres in the hill country. Some place that has lots of hidey holes that the bats could hide out in during the day, and then I could sit on my back porch in the evenings and watch them fly out on their nightly bug ingesting missions. Hence the need for twenty plus acres, the house has to be far enough away from the bat cave, as it where, so I didn’t have to smell bat guano. That stuff is kinda rank.

Anyway.

I need a big enough place to house a kennel for the dogs. I would like to give homes to at least a couple of retired greyhounds, and they would need to have a lot of space. I also would like to acquire a couple of pit bulls.

My reasons for wanting the pit bulls are not altogether altruistic. I like dogs, I actually think pit bulls are pretty and I understand that they are high energy dogs that need a lot of attention, exercise and socialization in order to be a good family dog. I firmly believe that your average shit-bird that would hop the fence and start helping themselves to whatever wasn’t nailed down or molesting the livestock does not understand that. I would like the sign that reads “My pit bull can make it to the fence in three seconds, can you?” would be enough to keep anybody off my property, and if someone decides to take the chance, I want something fierce and powerful coming after them. A running pit bull is concerted mass of sinew, muscle and raw energy, it is a beautiful thing to see.

A trespassing shit-bird getting the ever-living shit scared out of him is funny as hell to see.

That’s one nice thing about a three strand barbed-wire fence in Texas. That’s posted. Although, there are some shit-birds that don’t take the hint, and that’s why there is another fence inside that one. That’s the one that let’s you say, “one step further and I’ll blow your head clean off” with a good deal of confidence that no grand jury in Texas would indict you. That’s “whatever goes on inside of this fence isn’t a damned bit of your business”, so you really need to take your agenda on down the road.


I think I might like to have a couple of alpacas also. They are some funny looking creatures, but they also appear to be very sweet and serene as well. There’s a place outside the town I live in now that has some and every time I drive by I slow down to take a look at what they are doing at that moment.

All I’ve ever seen them doing is eating grass. Sometimes I just sit there in the truck and watch them eat grass. Every once in a while one of them will look up and watch me watching them. I wonder if she would let me pet her, but that would require me to trespass, and that’s something I just won’t do.

March 1, 2004

Just the other day, as I was standing between the stack of books at the local Barnes & Noble, I was wondering just how much of my so-called disposable income could I afford to drop on books at that very moment.

I had to choose, would it be One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or An American Tragedy, and Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. A newly minted copy of The Orchid Thief mocks me from it’s cardboard stand. Yes, I do want you, I want you in the worst way, I want you almost as badly as I desired Batman comic books when I was a kid and all my parents would buy me where Betty and Veronica.

I remember what desire tastes like now. It tastes like the bitter disappointment that comes from finding onions on your burger when you specifically asked your dad to tell them NO ONIONS and smells like the ink from ball point pens that where boosted from the post office. Pens that I used to draw moustaches and beards on Betty and Veronica, well, I visited a special kind of torture on Veronica. I blacked out her teeth and drew glasses on her face. I especially hated Veronica. She had cooler clothes than me, she got to wear high heels and lipstick, like I didn’t. And she lived in a house that was something like I knew I would never get to live in.

Bitch.

Anyway.

I knew in my heart that I would not feel fulfilled if I left the store without one of them. I had already picked them up, I had already fondled the spines, examined them for fingerprints and found them spotless and smelled the clean crisp smell that comes from a brand new book having it’s pages flipped open to a random section for a preview read.

I really should choose. I’m not in the position where a few dollars spent in books means that anybody at my house will be cast out into the street, or that my four-legged dependants will do without. Really it comes down to a matter of time and space.

If I could sit down and do nothing but read for eight hours a day, it would probably take me six months to get through my stockpile.

I am also ambivalent about choosing an Oprah book. I was reading a long time before she said it was cool, and I certainly don’t want to be lumped into the throngs of people who started reading just because Oprah said it was cool. But then it dawns on me, that thingy is just a sticker, and stickers can be peeled off.

No one would have to know when I actually bought the book.

Or, if asked, I could say it was a gift.

Or, if asked, I could say, bugger off and quit poking around in my books.

That is the response most people would expect from me, after all.

I have singed up for my second course of belly dance classes.

I used up two bottles of shower gel and tossed the empties this weekend.

I put supper together Saturday night, thereby eliminating the need to put supper on the credit card. I'm praying for more nights like that as I would really like to go to London next year.

There is an old chair sitting out in front of the garage that will go out to the curb tonight for the garbage men to haul away tomorrow morning. This was more a product of my mom's frustration than anything else. As the chair was really her auxilliary closet it really didn't bother me.

I am close to using up some of the stock piled shampoo that has been haunting the confines of my bathroom closet for years. Seriously, I have moved some of this stock piled crap twice. Had Y2K been the major disaster that some kooks thought it would be, I could have been clean for decades. I would have gotten pretty damn tired of eating grass and leaves, as I did not feel the need to stock up on canned goods, but I would have been clean and my clothes would have been clean. Even if I would have had to wash them in the river with a rock. May not have had electricity, but by damn, I would be the cleanest person sitting there in the dark.

I threw out some knickers that where put together wrong at the factory and never fit right. I really think they where two butt pieces sewn together. I did this in a clandestine manner, otherwise my mother would have wanted to make a rag out of them. No, hell no, throw them fuckers out.

Why she will argue over throwing out a lousy pair of knickers but put a serviceable but somewhat scruffy chair out in the rain for three days until the garbage men come on Tuesday is beyond me. Even though it was dark this morning when we began our commute, I could tell she didn't appreciate the "crack house" remark I made.

And these are the most positive things I can report about my life right now.

Ok, am I the only one who thinks this was monumentally stupid?

I work with a woman who's parents live in Mexico, and she went down there last week because her mom was having knee replacement surgery.

The good news is that Mom went through her surgery fine and other than the amount of time it'll take her to fully recuperate, she's good to go.

The totally fucked-up news is that Ms. Co-Worker went and got her eye-liner tatooed on while she was in Mexico. She has spent all day dabbing on antibotic ointment with a q-tip and checking for signs of infection. Not that her spending a lot of her day looking in the mirror is anything new, but to spend most of your day looking in the mirror at your newly tattoed eyeliner is just little much.

And never mind the getting it done in Mexico thing, I wouldn't get it done ANYWHERE! Excuse me, but evolution provides you with one, count them, ONE set of eyes and you should really take good care of them. And even though the eye lid and the eye are two different body parts, they are really fucking close together. Hello! Infection spreads.

She said it really hurt, but it only took about an hour to get it done.

No fucking shit it hurt. I've never had a tatoo on my ass and I know that it would hurt, and the skin on my ass is a lot thicker that the skin on my eyelids.