sounds of silence

Daughters are with “writers” and brain scientists young and old are visiting grandparents overnight. I am alone. Alone! With work to do, and quiet in which to do it. And Peter Frampton (comes alive!) And Tom Quinn (does not come alive! as he is pillow-Tom-Quinn and not non-pillow-secret-agent-Tom-Quinn.) And it is springtime in Satan’s Nethers, so I can ride my bike and think exercisey thoughts and then come home and think other thoughts completely uninterrupted. Hooray for cohesive thinking!

 

It has recently been brought to my attention that the posting around here doesn’t seem to happen that often. It has been further noted that I posted a lot of stuff in September of 2008. This is why: I started a blog on myspace so I could post installments of a tale I was telling about my ridiculous ex-husband – installments that were to be read by my lone myspace friend KRD. But then I realized that I hated myspace and that anyone can have an actual big girl blog and so I told Tom to cram it and decided to start an actual blog wedged into this tiny corner in the internet’s overcrowded crawlspace.  This way if my ridiculous ex-husband ever googles “the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town”, he’ll see my tale and have to choke down the bitter little pill that is my stark depiction of his stupid writing “career”. Hence the frenzied fall transfer of goods! So far the google hits to this wayward pit have consisted primarily of people looking for “lovely labia”, and while it’s plausible my ridiculous ex-husband was one of those people, the only thing he’d learn from the lovely labia post is that I now on occasion eat pork rinds. And that’s actually more of a bitter little pill for me. Pork rinds. Wow.

***

I am deeply conflicted as to what is appropriate fodder for this space. I would very much like to share my recent adventures at local events (e.g., political functions, burlesque shows), but I question the pragmatics of creating an electronic record of such things back here in the internet’s overcrowded crawlspace. People say all sorts of stupid things when nervous/post-coital, and I will feel like a tremendous tool if someday I’m chatting with a politician and freak out and mention this whole qwanty thing and then have to deal with the repercussions of having yammered on about wanton designs and shag carpeted ice jets. One might be given the impression that I am both creepy and irrational. And one needn’t be given that impression! These things are meant to be slowly discovered. They are the creamy middle of the qwanty ding dong.

 

 

failure, an epiphany, and a glimmer of hope. but mostly failure.

1) It turns out that many Ph.D.s are idiots. It’s true! People who know idiots undoubtedly know a couple of people with doctorates. People who spend their days interacting with non-medical professionals who call themselves doctor undoubtedly have days peppered with idiot-interactions. Test this theory! Take a random sample of five idiots. At least one of them has successfully defended a dissertation. Now take a random sample of five people who have successfully defended a dissertation. At least one of them is an idiot. See? Idiots and doctorates go hand in hand, just like train station parking lots and anal sex. Or trains! Wait. A Brain Scientist is now sirening something about logical fallacies and me and commitment or committees or committed or something like that. Really? I see. It seems I am guilty of a logical fallacy with my Ph.D./idiot reasoning. Of course I am! I almost have a doctorate. Quod erat demonstrandum.

2) Even seasoned mothers with twelve years of formal experience with multiple womb fruit can inadvertently fling the entire contents of a diaper right onto the carpet and then not notice it until the baby is merrily squishing shit between his fingers. Now I have to revise my resumé.

3) I have an exercise plan I’d like to pursue, and it involves the person standing outside of H and R Block in the cartoony statue of liberty costume. If I paid that person $15, perhaps he or she would let me wear the costume for an hour and dance around with the Tax Credit! sign. I could bring my discman and listen to Siouxsie and the Banshees and get all hot and sweaty inside the foamy lady liberty (Paging Dr. Freud! – Ed.). I could probably even smoke a pipe while inside her! In addition to whittling my waist, this would put me one successive approximation closer to going to an actual dance club and actually dancing with an actual lady.

4)  Hey! I wrote foamy lady up there. I already disappoint many a poor, wanton sap who happens by after googling lovely labia or potsie cock. Now I can disappoint a whole new segment of the population. Or what I suspect is a whole new segment. I imagine the overlap in that Venn diagram is relatively small.

5) It turns out POTSIE COCK! is a very satisfying thing to yell when you realize your child has a handful of shit. It works nicely in non-fecal-fist instances too, but research thus far suggests that one’s potsie cock pleasure is maximized when one has just experienced profound failure as a parent. I imagine Marion Cunningham would say the same thing.

still working out the kinks

I have developed a huge crush on a local openly bisexual state legislature representative, and am devising an elaborate plan with which to bed her. I’m still a little sketchy on the details, but I know this much: it will require that I start a band. I never imagined that my rock star and lesbian fantasies had the potential to come together with such Wonder Twin power to shape up the form of hot girl action!/political scandal!/groupies! and a shag carpeted ice jet I will use to haul amplifiers and fly slowly past her outdoor speaking engagements. As for Gleek’s useful prehensile tail, we’ll figure that out later. I’m really taking a big step with this whole bang the sexy politician/rock band endeavor, as prior incarnations of the rock/lady combo have been limited to variations of a fantasy in which I give a karaoke performance of a suggestive song (e.g., Centerfold, Jesse’s Girl, etc.) in a lesbian bar that is SO HOT and SO HARD ROCKING that someone lets me feel them up. I first conceived of this fantasy that night I accidentally went to a lesbian bar when it was full of naked dancing women because I thought “Revue Night” meant open-mic poetry. It is a particularly ridiculous fantasy because a) I am terrified of karaoke, and b) I suspect that women who are swayed by Rick Springfield karaoke are few and far between. This new fantasy is far more attainable. Think I jest? Guess who asked me to be her facebook friend? While she may not have any clue as to my libidinous intent, District 27 Representative will at some point be mine, or will at the very least find one of my band flyers stuck to her windshield.