Exceeding my bandwidth on the word ‘vagina’

At the risk of causing massive worldwide labial growth, I’ll post my vagina music playlist.  But, seriously, don’t hold me responsible when you indeed grow a vagina from merely reading the song titles.  Or, ladies, you sprout an extra.  I’ve given you fair warning.  Proceed at your own risk.

Make your own signs free of vagina here

What do I consider vagina music?  Well, first and foremost, you don’t have to sport a vagina to create vagina music.  No, no.  My playlist is a fairly equal mix of sausages and clams.  And, if you’re expecting a list stocked with Enya, forget it…she’s beyond vagina.  She’s…I don’t know…clitoris music.  I don’t do Enya.

While I certainly don’t speak for all the vaginas in the world, my vagina music is comprised mostly of forlorn tunes.  Sad, yearning for love vagina…music.  The set is great for driving as it’s mellow enough to put the kids to sleep yet soul-stirring enough to keep me lost in thought and awake behind the wheel.  Score.

Let me add that I’m not stereotyping vaginas by any means.  I would love to hear how your vagina music is all Rick James…Give It to Me, Baby and Super Freak.  (ya nasty freaks)

I’ll stop beating around the bush and get down to business.  I now give to you my vagina music.

1. Nothing Breaks Like a Heart – The Pretenders
2. Love – Paul Simon
3. Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell – The Flaming Lips
4. Hounds of Love – Kate Bush
5. I See Monsters – Ryan Adams
6. Glory Box – Portishead
7. Hide & Seek 2- Imogen Heap
8. Do You Feel Me? – Anthony Hamilton
9. Wild World – Cat Stevens
10. Like a Star – Corinne Bailey Rae
11. Walk Away – Ben Harper
12. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
13. Thank You, Louise – Ryan Adams
14. Beautiful – Me’Shell Ndegéocello
15. Hungry Heart – Minnie Driver
16. To Make You Feel My Love – Billy Joel
17. Let It Die – Feist
18. Comin’ Back to Me – Jefferson Airplane
19. The Heart of the Matter – India.Arie

First line of Nothing Breaks Like a Heart, “You don’t love me anymore, I can feel it”….vagina music.

Paul Simon’s Love…I love the lyrics to this one.  “Makes you want to get down and crawl like a beggar for its touch” and “Makes you want to laugh out loud when you receive it and gobble it like candy”…I do love me some candy.  I always had an opened bag of Skittles in my majorette jacket pocket all through high school.  Gobble, gobble.  I want candy.

Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell…by The Flaming Lips.  I guess with a band name like that, you could classify all of their music as vagina music.  (i couldn’t help it!  that was a gimme)  The lyrics “I was waiting on a moment, but the moment never came”…ahhhhh, vagina music.

Hounds of Love…by Kate Bush.  (okay, i won’t go there)  This has always been a favorite to belt out alone in the car, flying along the interstate.  (which, i know, negates the whole aforementioned mellow vibe…i don’t crank it with the wee ones in tow)  “I’ve always been a coward, and I don’t know what’s good for me”…vaaaagina music.

Ryan Adams’ I See Monsters…  Ryan Adams pops up three times on my vagina playlist.  I bet he never thought himself a vagina musician.  Hey, buddy, sorry about that.  But, a lot of your music does appeal to the forlorn vagina crowd.  I See Monsters…one of my head-trippy songs.

Ummm, Glory Box.  Do I need to say anything beyond the title?  “For I’ve been a temptress too long.”  “I just wanna be a woman.”  This was around the time on our return trip home from Nashville that I advised Gav to crank his own tunes.

Imogen Heap’s Hide & Seek 2.  I just love her voice and the continuous hum of whatever’s in the background.

Do You Feel Me? Often asked of my va….  I like this groovy Anthony Hamilton tune even though it sometimes kinda sounds like he’s singing through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.  I still dig his soulfulness.

Wild World by Cat Stevens…any song that starts with a series of la-la-la’s?  Vagina music.

Like a Star…me and all the 13-year-old girls of the world sway to this one.

Ben Harper’s Walk Away…FORLORN.  Really, take your pick of any line in the lyrics, any.  “It’s time that has taken my tomorrows and turned them into yesterdays.”  Punch me in the gut there, Ben.

Come Pick Me Up…I admit this is probably my favorite Ryan Adams’ tune.  I noticed Gav singing along to this one on the Nashville drive knowing every.single.word.

“How do you know this song?  Please don’t say Family Guy.“

“Well, duh.  You used to play it ALL THE TIME back at the old apartment.“

Oh.  Woops.  I do that with songs I really like…play them on repeat while I lose myself in whatever fantasy I’ve got going on.  And, now my 13-year-old son knows all the lyrics to Come Pick Me Up.  (i kinda find that awesome, actually)

What better way to follow a Ryan Adams song than with a Ryan Adams song.  Thank You Louise is just a pretty song with pretty guitar playing.  Pretty pretty.  (and that wraps up our ryan adams vagina music for today)

Beautiful by Me’Shell Ndegéocello who I understand enjoys va…  This is just a beautiful song, not so much forlorn.  Just one of those Ahhhhhhh tunes.

Yes, I have a Minnie Driver song on my vagina playlist.  I like her cover of Springsteen’s Hungry Heart.  I wouldn’t include his version as part of my vagina music.  But, Minnie slows it down and makes it more…vagina, I suppose.

To Make You Feel My Love by Billy Joel.  I’m actually fond of all versions of this Bob Dylan tune.  Go to the ends of the Earth for me?  Hold me for a million years?  Vagina music.

Feist’s Let It Die…Major vagina tune.  Heck, Colonel vagina tune.  Lieutenant General vagina tune.  General of the vagina tune army.  “The tragedy starts from the very first spark, Losing your mind for the sake of your heart.”  Say it with me…vagina music.

Oh, Jefferson Airplane’s Comin’ Back to Me…I admit that I have bawled my eyes out on occasion to this number.  Heaving, writhing, I’m gonna dehydrate through my eyeballs kind of bawling.  This is one of those songs, much like all of Nick Drake’s music, that’s good for crying.  And, crying music can’t be penis music.  No, it’s vagina music.  “One begins to read between the pages of a look”…ohh man.  “Scatter my love like leaves on the wind”…man oh man.  “A transparent dream beneath an occasional sigh”…sheesh.

Lastly, India.Arie’s remix of a Don Henley tune The Heart of the Matter.  Forlorn with a positive spin, I suppose.  Geez no, I did not pull this from the Sex and the City movie soundtrack.  I have a couple of India.Arie cds around.

ωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωω

There you have it, folks.  You didn’t realize you were getting yourselves roped into my own therapy session here, did you?  I seriously would like to hear your vagina playlists.  I show you mine, you show me yours.  Or your penis playlists if you prefer.  I realize many of you write blogs that your parents read.  Aaaand, your parents would not approve of you airing your musical genitals out in public like that.  (my brother J is still my only family reader…he’s accidentally seen video footage of me and my breastfeeding jugs…he can handle the vagina music)  So, call it your Gardening Music.  Or, your Snatch List.  Whatever.  And, don’t be shy if Le Freak tops your vagina playlist.

My eyes are open

Continuing on with observations from the Coldplay excursion.  You know, because observing is my thing.  Pro Bono Publico Observer at your service.

The Butt Shaker.  I have very few actual complaints about the show.  Sure, our ears were numb (i can’t feel my ears!!!) and my 80-year old granny back was breaking and the Earth came to an abrupt halt as the multithousands of us tried to exit two doors at the same time.  All to be expected.  What Gav and I could not handle was The Butt Shaker.  Ohhh, The Butt Shaker.  Gav and I wanted to headbutt The Butt Shaker.

Directly in front of me was this blonde chick wearing a black tank top that showed off her pealing back and a short white skirt that showed off her sunburned yet surprisingly not pealing legs.  The very white skirt was easily visible at all times in the darkened venue.  And, that very white skirt shook left to right to left to right to left to right and so on and so forth throughout the entire show.  Fast song, slow song, mid-tempo song…left to right to left to right at the same accelerated frequency.  God yes, the butt shaking wasn’t even matching the rhythm of any song being played.  It was maddening.  I would look over at Gav’s clenched jaw as he roared, “Mom!  Please make It STOP!!!“  I could only clench my jaw in solidarity and mutter, “I know.“

I imagine some dude at some point in The Butt Shaker’s life complimented her wiggle, “It is so cute/sexy/adorable/hawt/a turn on/mesmerizing/hypnotizing the way you shake your butt side to side like a rhythmless two-year old just discovering she has hips.” Dude, you are such a liar.  I hope It was worth it.

The other annoyance that got our cranky goat was all the flippin’ Public Displays of Affection.  PDA out the MFA.  Go ahead, give me the tsk tsk for criticizing the hand-holders/back-rubbers/face-lickers of the world.  I’m sorry but it grosses me out.  I might be persuaded to hand-hold if I were in a hubba-hubba relationship (which i never am), but I seriously doubt I could ever be cajoled into public tonguing.  Ugh, and all the fleshy massaging.  ::shudder::  The horrors.  The creepy crawling hands across mounds of flesh horrors.  (no, i don’t have issues; why do u ask?)

Now that I’ve shook that out of my system…

The three-hour drive home after the show was the only thing I kinda sorta worried about.  I kinda sorta worried about it to the extent of dreaming that Gav and I were sleeping side-by-side on the side of the road the night before.  And, I kinda sorta like an idiot told Gav about the dream but kept emphasizing, “We were SLEEPING, not DEAD! We could wake up anytime we wanted.” Seriously, we were just sleeping.  The two of us. On the side of an interstate somewhere.

So, despite having an arsenal of Family Guy dvds to watch or big comfy seat to snooze away the drive, Gav insisted on seeing my open eyes all 200 miles.  His eyes were very wide open the duration of the trip.  I was the drowsy one fiddling with a digital camera while doing 70 mph along the interstate.  Sleeeeeeeep, come to me on the side of the road.

The better to see you with, my dear.

Gav had a few Keep Mom Awake tactics up his sleeve.  There was the constantly looking at me for one.  I know that was simply paranoia on his part, so let’s watch her and make sure we don’t end up asleep on the side of the road.  I could feel him staring at me.

What?  What are you looking at?

Just making sure you’re not falling asleep.  You’re not asleep, are you?

Well, I’m talking to you, aren’t I?

Yeh, but are your eyes open?

An actual planned tactic of his – see that iTouch there in his hand?  Being the King of iTouch applications, he has any and every free app you can imagine.  Yo Mama, Bikini Clock (gav constantly checked the time), Dog Whistler (a lot of unhappy dogs along I-65), Urinal Test (i never got the chance to see what stance i would assume at the urinal, me and my imaginary johnson),That’s What She Said (which is just that, some dude saying, “that’s what she said”…gav was constantly weaving the conversation so i’d say something like “i only got my hands on one ball” re: the bouncing balls during “yellow” at which point i’d hear his iTouch quip, “that’s what she said”).   There was the matchmaker app that predicted a high success rate of Prince and myself working out as a couple.  (hella yes!)  And, Gav’s prized Keep Mom Awake app?  Shotgun.  You simulate cocking and firing a shotgun.  He would quietly prepare the “shotgun” while I was caught up in some song and than CRACK!  Off goes the shotgun in my right ear.

Gav!  We’re going to “sleep” on the side of the road NOT because I fell asleep at the wheel but because you startled the SHIT out of me with your shotgun app!

Are your eyes open?

My tactic to stay awake?  Singing along to my vagina music.  (whoa! was that a typo?) (no)  I have a mix CD of songs I refer to as my vagina music.  It’s all girly, you know. Girly like a vagina.  I warned Gav that he might want to crank his iTouch and listen to his own music for a while,

You know, Gav, you’ll grow a vagina by the time we reach Birmingham if you continue listening to my music.

Because I’m fairly certain he’s satisfied with the random male gender he was assigned in utero, he would periodically sing OVER my vagina music with his own I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers.

Gav knows every single word.  Even words he didn’t understand.  Haver – Scottish speak for babbling on.  I do quite a bit of havering around here, eh?

I was having another Conway Twitty moment.  How the heck does he know these lyrics from 1988?  When was he introduced to The Proclaimers?

Oh, The Proclaimers were on Family Guy singing with Peter Griffin.

Oh.

Enough of my havering for one day.  Know I’ll enjoy my vagina music later as I sleep not on the side of the road but in my own bed free of Butt Shakers and shotguns.  (that’s what she said)

Nashville, it’s been a while. Did you miss me?

Back about 2000 and 9, I left Tennessee very much alive.  And, hard of hearing.  And, with an achy breaky back.  And, very, very sweaty.  And, flustered with stagnant midnight traffic.  Okay, remove the very much and let’s just say I left Tennessee alive.

Mister Gav was my red-hot date for the Coldplay show in Nashville last Saturday night.  Gav’s first concert.  ::sniff sniff::  (or as he clarified, the first concert of someone he actually likes…i took him to see the holiday/winter touring trans-siberian orchestra back in december for all the high hair and guitar shenanigans and PYRO out the wazoo…you have not truly experienced o holy night until you’ve had your eyebrows singed off your face)  Coldplay!  Snow Patrol!  Howling Bells!  (or as my 13-year old gleefully called them, Howling Balls!)  (we have moved past the age of fart and poo jokes to all balls, all the time)  (howling balls…that is some funny imagery, though, you gotta admit)  (i’m so tempted to doodle a quick set of werewolf balls for your illustrative enjoyment)

Nashville will always hold a special place in my cold, cold heart as I met my friend, Mr. President, and his posse there ten years ago.  The New Year of butt wine, kitchen table talk, and stubble (i love stubble).  Strolling the streets with Gav, awaiting the Coldplay show, and reminiscing on friendly ghosts…not a bad day at all.

I left Middle Alabama early enough in the day to give us a couple of hours before showtime to grab a bite to eat (and because i wanted to give my internal pessimist room for flat tires, alien abductions, traffic jams, spontaneous human combustion…all which can be resolved in two hours or less).  I’ll only mention once here that I was none too happy to leave Gab and the twins for the day (someone likes to cut their hair against my better wishes, but refuses to admit they are cutting their hair…it does not take years of scientific study to know that hair does not naturally grow in the shape of a mullet)  (there, i’m done).  I’ll only mention once or twenty times that my tits were none too happy to leave the twins for the day.  Life is full of sacrifices, eh?  Mullets be damned.

Thankfully, Gav and I were not abducted by aliens and arrived safe and sound in Nashville right on schedule.  We headed down Broadway Avenue in search of food and general perusing.  With wrecka stows on my mind, we slipped into a dusty, creaky floored Lawrence Record Shop.  I figured Gav could use some schooling on those vinyl dinosaurs we called records.

All the Conway Twitty you can shake a stick at.

Flickr photo deliciously uploaded by Umpqua

Gav flipped through a few stacks, initially not recognizing any of the artists.  Until…until he noticed a photo of Conway Twitty.  “Ha!  Look, Mom.  Conway Twitty!”  Umm, yes, that’s Conway Twitty.  And, slightly odd that he had no clue who the Isley Brothers or Chaka Khan were but Conway Twitty! he knew.  Ummkay, moving right along.  We worked our way through the store as Gav noticed more photos and albums by Conway Twitty!.  I exited the store not questioning Gav’s Conway Twitty! knowledge and chalked it up as one of those unexplained mysteries of the universe I’m better off not knowing.

Nearing the end of Broadway we came to a Hard Rock Cafe.  I figured Gav would enjoy the rock band memorabilia scattered about and some blaring music as we ate.  Get his ears ready for the impending auditory blitz.  As we waited for an open table, I pointed out to Gav that all the encased clothes and instruments were worn/used by the actual artists noted on the glass.  “Oh, I didn’t know that,” as he half-interestedly meandered over to a polyster/rhinestone/pointy lapelled get-up by the hostess stand.

“Ohmygod, Mom!  Conway Twitty!  THE CONWAY TWITTY!  I can’t believe Conway Twitty! actually wore this!  Ohmygod!  Conway Twitty!“

Hold up, wait a minute, let me put some wtf in it.

The gig was up.  I know Gav is no fan of country music.  He even complained about the twins’ walking video set to banjo-picking, “What was up with that lame music?  Super country, don’t you think?”  And, here we have Welcome to the Twilight Zone with your host, Conway Twitty!  I had to know.

Oh, he’s been on Family Guy several times.

Oh.

Conway Twitty mystery solved, we were seated in the best seats in the hizzouse, center stage on a raised area overlooking the bulk of the restaurant.  Let me interject here that I rarely leave the house anymore.  Only brief excursions to Costco and the park.  I have become a mega-hermit.  And, I’ll be honest…I’m not quite comfortable out in public.  Fatty boombalatty body and/or lack of adult interaction, I would have preferred a more subtle dark corner nook in the restaurant.  Yet, I figure Gav will enjoy the people-watching from our center perch.

If anyone ever offers you the seats about which I speak, pull a Nancy Reagan and Just Say No! my friend.  Our food had just arrived and I was in the process of snapping that taut string of spit you sometimes create when taking your first bite of a burger when suddenly a man is standing to my left shouting over my head,

“CAN I HAVE EVERYONE’S ATTENTION?  WILL EVERYONE PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS WOMAN AND HER STRING OF SPIT?“

Oh, okay.  He was corraling everyone’s attention for a birthday.  Some dude in a silly birthday hat stood beside him as the restaurant followed orders and shouted Happy Birthday! at the side of my face.  I slumped as best I could, in hopes of not showing up in Youtube videos and MySpace pix.  “Who’s the fat chick in the way?  And, is that a Spidey web stretching from her mouth to her food?”

I endured the birthday shouting a grand total of three (3) separate times during my 45-minute meal.  Needless to say, I did not finish my food.  It’s a bit difficult to eat while slumped under your table.

We got the hell out of Hard Rock Birthday Dodge and marched our way back up Broadway to the venue.  We took our seats just as the pre-pre-act Howling Balls Bells out of Australia took the stage.  I’ll give my review with the comments Gav shouted at me:

• I can’t feel my ears!!!
• What???
• I can’t feel my ears!!!  I don’t think that’s normal!!!
• I can’t decide if she’s young or old!!!
• I can’t feel my ears!!!
  

And, after the lead singer, Juanita Stein (i totally just looked that up btw), beat the ever-loving shit out of a snare drum with their closing number,

• You need one of those at home.  You could really take out some aggression.

So, there you have it.  Very loud, aggressive at times, and I’m pretty sure Gav had the hots for Miss Juanita Bonita.

Coldplay’s pre-act, Snow Patrol…I’m glad I missed the Birmingham show as they weren’t on the roster then.  Gav kept asking if he knew any of their songs , and I repeatedly assured him that he’d recognize at least one.  While their entire set was impressive, once they eased their way into Chasing Cars, Gav finally stopped asking the same question and commenced to swaying.

The piece de resistance, Coldplay.  Totally worth the pricey covertible those tickets will become while waiting to be paid off on my credit card.  Minor snag – I bought floor seats without considering Gav’s less than giant stature.  We spent the first five or so songs swapping places back and forth trying to find a pigeon hole view through all the lofty dudes.  Once Coldplay moved their act to a side stage for a few songs, Gav finally agreed to stand on his chair.  With the added chair height, he was just level with the tall guy beside him.  So, no harm, no foul, better view.

The highlight of the show was getting the opportunity to touch Coldplay’s smooth balls.  Very smooth.  But, jaundice, I fear, as they were all yellow.  Ahem.  (balls)  They tossed out giant yellow balls filled with confetti for the crowd to toss about as they played their way through Yellow.

Another crowd favorite was the “Mexican cellphone wave” as named by leadman, Chris Martin.  Umm yeh, that’s not a song.  The house lights were turned off, followed by round after round of lit cellphones making the Wave around the stadium.  I’m not quite sure what makes it Mexican, but the crowd ate it up.  (yes, i raised my cellphone)  (baa)

My personal favorite (and perhaps 16,999 others) was Fix You.  I’m guessing there were 17,000 of us there wanting someone to fix us. That’s a shitload of sad folks.

Towards the end of the show, countless confetti butterflies were dropped onto the crowd during Lovers in Japan.  And, for anyone with a toddler waiting at home, said toddler will be over the moon over a handful of paper butterflies.  Seriously, if you ever need to leave the house even for just half a day, cut some shit up in your car before returning, “Here, look what Mommy made for you!”  Gab blew a gasket over the rainbow of butterflies.  I’m storing scissors and colored construction paper in the glove compartment from now on.

So, that’s the Coldplay show in the bag.  I’ve droned on way longer that I had planned.  I still have our trip home to share with you sweet kittens.  I’ll save that for another day.  You should have known this one little excursion out of the house would elicit a multipage scroller of a post.  I never go anywhere.  Ah, and I’m already remembering tidbits I left out…the butt shaker and icky PDA surrounding us.  ::slowly inching towards the publish button::  ::saving the rest of my shit for another day::

Ruh-roh, Reorge! Someone’s still whiling away their days on Runescape.

This is one of those posts where a few most all of you may want to turn your head and cough or ponder the wasteful ‘b‘ in ‘doubt‘ or ‘k‘ in ‘knee‘ (unless you’re a wiener like me and say things like, ‘i can’t do yoga because it makes my kanees kahurt).  It’s about my gaming crack habit….yep, time to revisit Runescape.

I’ve been thinking about my original Runescape post when I first hopped on the Runescape bandwagon and how I was bragging about bronze swords and slaying goblins and giant rats.  Umm, total NOOB in the hizzouse, holla!  (i hear your mental wheels turning…the ‘p’ in ‘pneumonia’, seriously).  I’m surprised any true runescapers who happened across that post have not left a slew of Nerd! N00b! Die, Nub, Die! comments.  I saw this group of lads and lassies lining up for a quest of some sort the other day as headless me was woodcutting in the background.  Your public comments hover over your head in yellow lettering.  They did this for a solid 15 minutes, verbally lashing out at one another.  Sweethearts, they are.

I told you how I originally jumped on board to chat with Gav when I see him online.  I should have known from the all-nighters I pulled to conquer Zelda way back during archaic original Nintendo days that I’d easily get sucked into the Runescape vortex.  While I don’t play all the time (i can’t, obviously)  (but, boy if i could, i would no douBt be climbing the hiscores chart), I do play while breastfeeding.  Don’t think Ethan’s giant stature is coming from a cow just yet.  No, that boy’s dairy is all Titty Baby.  Sooo, I’m up to a combat level of 72 (the highest you can go is 138…surely i can work these skillz in a resume…attention to animated detail?  ability to focus on multiple ice warriors at once?  independently kicks much ass?).

Runescape dudes regularly run up to me to blurt out, “You’re hawt!” or “Be my gf! Please, please, please be my gf!” I joke with Gav about how emotionally damaging it would be if they knew what I was actually up to while training attack against hill giants in the Varrock sewers…breastfeeding twins (how unsanitary of me to feed my babies in a sewer, i know).  Of course, it would be b oo bee feeding because you can’t say breast on runescape.  Nor can you say hooker or pimp.  But, h00k r and p i/\/\p, yes.  Many of the girls and guys on Runescape dress like h00k rs and p i/\/\ps, respectively.

While Gav and I chat often on the Runescape site, we don’t “hang out” on the steps of Lumbridge Castle or anything.  We met up online for the first time in a while recently.  It’s odd seeing your child in 3D graphics.  And, like any sentimental mother would do, I took a bunch of photos.

My dashing young son. Yes, he's wearing pimp shoes. Very expensive pimp shoes.

Gav gets his woodcutting on.

Here we are side by side.  I don’t wear h00k r clothes while woodcutting.  Honestly, I don’t wear them at all because that would just be gross, 37-year old me running around kids and teenagers on Runescape with hootchie mama clothes on.  Yeh, I don’t think so.

Gav said it looks like he's about to attack me. Have mercy on your poor ole mama, son.

I thought it was funny, with all the skin color options available, we both independently chose a dark tan.  We are ghosts IRL, people.  So very white.  Gav probably has the genetic ability to get a nice tan.  Me?  Once upon a firm breasts and ass time, sure.  Now?  I oscillate between pink and translucent.  Melanin has left the building, folks.

So, there.  You’ve seen all variations of me thus far.  I shall leave you now with our latest beach vacation photo.  So relaxing.  Can’t you feel the breeze in your hair?  Hear the waves lapping the shore?  I can.

I'm disappointed that my ass is wide even on Runescape.

Did I say something about writing a book?  Shiiiiiit.

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Peekaboo.  Here I am.  And, guess what?  Because I need to feel some sense of accomplishment, I’m aiming to post each day this week.  Maybe a little regular writing will chase the crazy away.  Or I could just get a cat.

In the delusional scheme of grandeur, my long-term aim is to reach a few notches higher and…write a book.  (yeh, the dotdotdot is supposed to add impact there…could you feel it?  did you hold your breath?  tingle in any special places?  yeh, i didn’t think so…i’ll make a note to stretch before i reach)

I think we all have the goal of writing a book.  Isn’t that on everyone’s bucket list along with planting a tree and swimming with the dolphins?  Well, I kill plants and am not at all keen on creatures rubbing up against me out in the water.  So, a collection of words it shall be.

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a book for a while.  However, it’s such a giant leap between toying and doing for me.  I toy with many ideas.  Trust me.  I am a master toyer/toyist/she who toys.  I am a novice follow-througher/follow-throughist/she who actually gets any shit done.

I thought of making it a New Year’s resolution.

This year I will write a book.  And, gain 20 pounds sitting on my hump in the process.

But, weight gain is so easy.  Who needs to make that a resolution?

No, I’m not much of a resolution maker.  Here, feast your eyes upon this antique I rescued from a recent closet excavation.  It’s a scan of what our ancestors used to read – a newspaper.  News on paper…how exhausting it must have been to hold all that news in your hands.  Sheesh.  This is a clipping of Gav and myself going public with our New Year’s resolution for 1998.

Smartass, party of one?  And, you know what?  I’m sure I did not plan the coming year’s pledge.  But, Mr. Gav, on the other hand…that bad boy did give up his pacifier and never looked back.  A two-year-old who gets the job done. (that’s not seborrhoeic eczema in my hair there, btw…it’s snow)  (and, oh how i miss cutie patooty toddler gav with that blonde hair)

So, this is the route I’m taking by announcing to you curb hotties that I am writing a book.  I’ll admit…I’ve attempted several false starts already.  Each time I quickly morphed into a gut-wrenching autobiography that would give Augusten Burroughs a run for who has the most f*cked up past (yes, i’ve returned to adding asterisks in my f*cks…i don’t follow-through and i’m indecisive as all get-out).  I like you too much to watch you reach for that long tall bottle of psychotropic mood enhancers after reading each chapter.

While I definitely will not be penning an autobiography, a curb will figure prominently into the subject matter.  That’s a no brainer, right?  Begin on the curb.  End on the curb.  Fictional me on the curb gets the fictional guy on the curb.  Or fictional me goes on a shooting rampage mowing down anything with testicles in her path along the curb.  (see what i mean about gut/testicle-wrenching autobiography? although that’s not on the curb…it’s along the curb…totally different blog)

Heh, I even have a tentative title.  The Curb Chronicles.  Oh yeah, baby.  How do you like that?  You thought I was kidding about the curb bit.  I’ll make it a series with the last book ending on a curb.  Does that ruin it for everyone by giving away the final ending?  I haven’t said if I die on the curb or simply enjoy a tasty bbq turkey leg on the curb.

I’ve even parked a webpage for Curb Chronicles.  (yes, i am off my rocker…completeley)  There’s nothing there yet but a blank page.  It’s my intention to “chronicle” the process of writing and preparing the Chronicles.  Or something like that.  (i’m just getting downright corny now, aren’t i?)  Or maybe I’ll post photos of myself staring at a blank screen everyday…everyday until I die.on.the.curb.  The End.

Waldo, honey. Where ya been all my life?

I am diggin’ on this new shirt design from mental_floss.  And, I’m totally adding it to my Mother’s Day Wish List.  Right below #1 – A Good Man.

(oh no she didn’t)

(oh yes she did)

(psst, i can hear you two)

How come U don’t call me anymore?

Do you ever receive a voice mail that is just too fab to delete?  And, you keep it forever and ever? (well, until you switch phone numbers)  No?  Geez, me neither.  Only a total nutjob would save voice mails and listen to them again days/months/years later as their own private pick-me-up.  Total.nutjob.

Have you guys yet picked up on the fact that I am a total nutjob?  I am.  And, I’m okay with that.

Yep, I save voice mails.  Well, the good ones.  Sometimes when I’m feeling extra craptacular, I’ll dial up Ma Bell and listen to a familiar recorded voice to give myself a chuckle or put a teensy smile on my face.  Is that sad and pathetic?  Let’s aim for nutjobby.

I received one of those good voice mails last week in response to a song I had tweeted.  (here i go with the wonky talk…it was originally a blip, and while i try not to bombard the twitter feed with blips, this blip made it’s way into a tweet)  (uck, i hate myself ever so slightly for talking like mork)  Steely Dan’s Peg.  “Really? Frank’s not allowed to sit by Snoop, but Steely Dan is?”  Sure.  Dan is so….Steely.  Nah, I thought I was being all crafty by posting the original upbeat songs that were sampled in a De La Soul fundafied tune Eye Know.

And, I shall now share the message with you all. I realize this ensures that no one will ever phone me again and leave a message.

An important recurring lyric:

I know I love you better.

Also, because I’m a rebellious breaker of The Rules, I did not acquire permission to slap this fine lady’s voice on the world wide web.  She might have given me the thumbs-up, but what better surprise than to innocently surf over to someone’s blog only to find your voice mail message as the topic du jour?

 

We should all be so bold as to sing in public restrooms.  And, leave me voice mails.  :-) 

**Update** The Voice Mail Vixen is nylonthread. Stay tuned for the revelation of more mysteries of the universe.

The taxes left me feeling a bit flat. I wanted more. I didn’t get that from you, Taxes.

Accountants…after spending the bulk of yesterday doing my annual last minute crunch of tax numbers, I must call into question your mental state of being. The fact that you play with numbers everyday willingly? Masochists, every last one of you. Seriously, how do you not leave work each day feeling like you’ve been at a 3-day long rave? By 5:30 p.m., I could no longer feel my gums, my eyes were all bloodshot to hell, the act of walking felt more like floating, and I no longer gave a rat’s ass about much of anything. Seriously. My Accounting peeps, is that how you leave work everyday? I hope you guys are using public transportation.

I know I shouldn’t wait until BlastOff Day to do taxes; that’s just the way I roll. Fire under the ass. Although as I get older and more adultish, tax preparations become increasingly complicated. And, this year I was definitely in over my procrastinating head. Forms I figured I should be filling out yet made no sense to me…those forms leading to other nonsensical forms…other forms later tracking back to that original wtf form. Umm yeh, I left all of those out.

Hopefully, the American Idol judges aren’t supplementing their income with part-time gigs at the IRS. Randy Jackson opens my tear-soaked return and belts,

“We got a hawt one right here, Dawg!”

as he slaps a redhot AWWDIT across my sad tax renderings.

Simon smirks,

“Complete rubbish,”

and annoyingly swats my return away from his being.

Paula compliments my choice in wardrobe, regarding my lack of pants and bra as,

“Fierce,”

thus proving that she really doesn’t know diddly squat about taxes.

And, Kara, well she’s too rehearsed and robotic in her critique of my tax return for me to remember what she even had to say aside from something about the artistry of my numbers. I do wish Make-up would lay off the blending of multi-toned foundations on her nose.

Look inside your tiny mind, now look a bit harder

Well, today’s post should solve the inner dilemma I’ve been having with myself over profanity on my website.  In deciding whether f*ck is too annoying or fuck is too abrasive for your tender eyes, ummm it probably won’t be an issue in a few seconds. 

I know the intent of this song was a send-off for Bush, but I love love love applying it to my personal life.  A solid, sincere Fuck you! can be so therapeutic yet not typically received with gratitude.  I find this song to be the next best option.

“Fuck you.“

“What did you say?”

“Oh, I’m just singing,” as I walk away cheerily chirping, “Fuck you very, very much.”  

You have no idea how happy this song makes me.  How fucked up is that?

(thanks, wreke.  i know your innocent blip wasn’t necessarily aimed in my direction.  but, thank you, nonetheless.  thank you very, very  mu-uu-uu-uu-uuch)

I want to be a (witch) doctor when I grow up

I’ve had a couple of posts working their way through the pipeline (that pipeline being my muddly brain…it’s a convoluted path stretching from my left superior parietal cortex to paper/screen) (yes, i studied neuro)  (yes, i still had to g00gle that mess) over the past week.  

One post regards my humor muse, CynthiaK, who I’ve added to my ever-expanding scroll of reasons to load up the wagon and move to Canada (clarification: she lives in canada…don’t think she lives in the states and i’m trying to put distance between us).  Canadians are good peeps.  Yo.  

The other post is a list of annoying/yank my own spinal cord out through my nose and hang myself with it activities the precious cherubs o’ mine have been mastering lately.  Topping the list, the computer keyboard and mouse which both find their way to the floor every quarter hour.  I’ll sometimes put the keyboard on top of the computer (emac old skool homie here) (that’s actually code for too poor to update the computer or have my hair professionally styled) (any volunteers to do either are gladly welcomed)  (ahem) and type while standing.  I usually hide the mouse somewhere behind the computer around its bulbous booty region, then roll and click along the wall when needed.  Yay for mobile tots fascinated in the exploration of their surroundings!  Boo for mobile tots fixated on the damn computer!

So, yeh, there’s all that.  See all that jabber in parentheses there?  Obviously, my left superior parietal cortex needs a few more trips to the gym or a nap or a drink or a cupcake or a companion who just gets her or…  Oh, busted.  Now, you all know my true identity in the real world.  I’m dee/OTC/onthecurb here online.  But, the name on my birth certificate reads Left Superior Parietal Cortex (yeh, my parents gave me two middle names, so what).  (hey, digging in my bag of teacher tricks, we’ve all learned the primary area of the brain responsible for writing – say it with me, people – Left Superior Parietal Cortex!  aw yeah, aw yeah)  (i really should not be writing right now, should i?)

What is my point?  Here, have a look-see.  

Ummkay, a clean desktop not at all representative of the vomitorium of papers billowing from around the computer.  Gab’s adorably cute sandy b0tt0m in front of a sand castle of whose construction we had absolutely zero involvement. My mail open as I had just emailed a mac friend asking her the combination of keys to capture a screenshot (command+shift+4) (i bet you already knew that, though).  So, this is the last minute post addition that moved its way past the other two ideas?  

No, here.  Cram that monocle to your eye and take a closer look. 

Let’s move right to left, shall we?  

The JPEG image named ? - umm, that was originally named kreativ_blogger.jpg and goes with my sweet CynthiaK post.  Whichever twin didn’t grasp the kreativ spelling of creative, had no idea what a blogger is (unless it’s the bloggers mom is always wiping from my nose), or was just having a wtf? moment (i bet babies have those all day long, wtf? moments). He/she took it upon him/herself to rename the image.  ?

While he/she was in the renaming mood, he/she also renamed my external hard drive, normally sporting the simple brand name LaCie, to E E E.  I think we can all safely assume the guilty party there was Ethan Ethan Ethan.  

Now, my wtf? moment.  Powerful Witchcraft Spell?  Ooookay.  

I’ve joked here once or twice about being a black magic woman.  My friend, Mr. President, once referred to me as a black magic woman.  He, who I’m sure, was also joking.  (well, there was that one time we were on the phone and i said something about his insurance bill on the seat beside him, yet we were 200 or so miles away from one another…and on the phone…good guess on my part, ahem  )  But, seriously, people.  I’m not trolling the internet for witchcraft spells.  And, powerful ones at that!  

You know who is/are trolling the internet for Powerful Witchcraft Spells? My one-year-old twins, that’s who.  They would like an endless supply of keyboards and computer mice on the floor and need some Wiccan assistance in making that dream a reality.  

This is my only plausible explanation.  That little Runescape addiction of mine?  (shit yeh, i’m still playing…maybe i’ll bore of it in another week…or maybe you’ll need to stage a runescape intervention on my ass)  Yeh, I sometimes get stuck on a particular task or quest and need a little help from my friend, the internet.  (you’ll love what’s next, not)  In completing my achievement diary tasks for Falador, I need to heal an elemental wizard by casting an appropriate elemental spell on him, be it air, water, earth, or fire.  (i hear a large group of you at my door right now.  damn, you guys are speedy with the interventions)  

Soooo, yes, I remember g00gling something along the lines of elemental spells on wizards in Falador.  I must have walked away (because i’m still not clear on how to heal those pesky wizards, yeehaw) with the search window open, thus allowing one of the twins to save the page on Powerful Witchcraft Spells and further close the browser.  (should i be checking out computer curriculum based preschools?)  

Should I start sleeping with one eye open?