originally posted July 2, 2007
I have a long history of being infatuated with teachers. There was that substitute teacher when I was in the third grade, the one who subbed for us for, like, three weeks. It was a particularly exciting period of substitute teaching, as it was cloaked in the mystery of why we needed a substitute for so long. It wasn't vacation related – where the h-e-double hockey sticks was Mrs. McMenimen, anyway? I don't remember the name of the sub, but recall that I thought he was really handsome, and I would imagine greeting him after work and kissing him at the foot of our green shag carpeted stairs. I now would probably disagree with my eight-year-old self as to the magnitude of his hotness, just as I would over the issues of the attractiveness of Ponch, Fonzie, Michael Knight, and -- I can barely tell you this -- Potsie. I would also take issue with my choice of carpet – for fuck's sake, it was 1982. Why shag? Perhaps my young brain already had a sense of what that word would come to mean to me…
One of my big teacher crushes came in high school. I fancied the photography teacher. This is not because he was hot. We should probably just get this out of the way right now: While it is true that I enjoy men who are attractive, it is also true that I have been known to enjoy men who are ridiculous. Mind you, it doesn't have to be any particular brand of ridiculous, just as long as I can really sink my teeth into it. For example, prior incarnations of the ridiculous have included a penchant for flouncy shirts and velveteen pants, reams of terrible horrible no good very bad prose, and the decision to adopt the stage name 'Flay'. I cannot tell you the number of times Kristin has muttered the words, That guy goes beyond ridiculous. That guy is ricockulous. RI-COCK-U-LOUS. Yes, it is true -- I loves the ricockulous.
Anyhoo, back to Mr. Photo. I'm not quite sure what his particular ricockulosity was. He was Jewish, and had a big mess of curly hair, and was an old hippie. He told me I should date his son. He suggested colleges I should attend, the ones where "all the flaming weirdos" went. I took this as a compliment. He told me about seeing the Doors perform when he and his wife were young, and demonstrated, alone with me in the classroom, how Jim Morrison held the microphone and moved when he sang Light My Fire. It's coming together, isn't it? Kind of ricockulous. What's even more ricockulous is the way I would listen to Abba sing When I Kissed the Teacher, after school, alone in my room. I would dance about, flapping my arms in the way you do when you dance to this song (Come on. Listen to it. Are you flapping? You aren't? You have no soul, zombie thing.) I would sing along, and modify the words to suit my situation: He was leaning over me, trying to explain the laws of Pho-tog-ra-PHEEEEEEEEE… It was a disgraceful display.
One day just before graduation, a couple of days after my eighteenth birthday, I was alone in the classroom with him and my friend Angela. Pulling me on his lap he said, Now that you're eighteen, I guess that means you can sit on my lap. This I was not prepared for. I think I laughed and sort of scooted away or something. It was that unexpected and horrifying and ABSOLUTELY RICOCKULOUS. I mean, WHAT? Where did this come from? It was all so awkward and strange and inappropriate and not in the damn Abba song. Lap sitting? Me? Huh? And what about the underaged Angela, off there to the side, doing something photography related and looking sort of wide eyed and confused? I was NOT, as Abba put it, "in the seventh heaven".
Many years later I went to see the movie American Beauty with my then husband, a "writer" of sorts (and way beyond ricockulous, and not in a good way, as though you needed to ask.) Anyway, there I was, at a movie about a guy who is hot for a high school girl, between the "writer" and a stranger who was truly enjoying the movie. This stranger was clapping and hooting and really relating to the whole thing, like the way you did when you saw Say Anything or Blue Velvet or whatever. I spent the whole movie being kind of ooked out, what between the content of the movie and all the pervy kindred spirit action going on beside me between this man and the giant Spacey on the screen.
When the lights came up I turned to get a look at the creep next to me (that is, the one I was not married to), and saw that it was Mr. Photo who I was sitting beside. Then Mr. P turned to me, and saw that it was I who sat beside him. Talk about awkward. We stared at each other kind of wide-eyed for a moment. I would like to tell you that I said something dry and witty, a la a drunk Winston Churchill, but I did not. Instead I turned and fled. Well played, Qwanty.
***
There were other teachers on whom I have crushed, but no teacher crush has ever been as important as the one I have now. Additionally, I think I've perhaps finally moved away from the ricockulous. This teacher is a Brain Scientist. You would like him. He recently had this exchange with our small child:
BS, to no one in particular: Wow, Keith Richards really looks like a corpse.
BS, Jr.: I wannarida horse!
BS: There is no horse. I said corpse.
BS, Jr.: I wannarida corpse!
BS: No you don't want to ride a corpse, because it is a corpse, and it is Keith Richards, and it is alive.
Charming, no? And not really too ricockulous. Perhaps a bit irresponsible though – I mean, no two-year-old should be looking at a picture of Keith Richards.
As I've mentioned before, the Brain Scientist likes bone marrow, and might advise you to eat some, and will happily give you a lengthy, evolutionary explanation as to why, and you just try and shut him up. Mmmm. Marrowy. Mmmm. Long winded explanations of marrowy. Huh. Perhaps this might be construed as the teensiest bit ricockulous.
The other day the Brain Scientist mentioned, in a very off-handed and entirely serious way, that he would like to start a ninja college. He went on to explain what he meant, and it was not nearly as ricockulous as you might be thinking. I won't share the details, because I think they might be a secret. I will tell you this: it involves more than merely tiptoeing from class to class in pajamas. Perhaps this is not making the case for my move away from ricockularity.
The Brain Scientist has been in many bands, too, one of which had a song called Fuck in a Pile of Bees. And it was a good song! It takes a certain kind of man to pull that off – one who is perhaps a tad ricockulous, but who nonetheless has a certain panache that is not based entirely in the R. Really. I mean it. Oh, wait. I have just questioned him about this song, and I have been informed that the formal title is in fact Erototrauma (Fuck in a Pile of Bees). I stand corrected.
Speaking of songs, the Brain Scientist serenades me quite often with songs he's been involved in. In fact, this happened just now, in the form of an exuberant verse from Spam Pygmalion.
And I quote:
Spam Pygmalion! Spam Pygmalion! Quiver in the gel of your unnatural birth!
Hmmm.
Well now.
I guess some things never change.
Jesus. Do I loves the ricockulous.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
a brief rejoinder, dedicated to the one i love
originally posted June 17, 2007
Dr. Brain Scientist, you have recently observed that I am at times emotional and irrational, and have further noted that these states of disequilibrium tend to occur in a monthly cycle, peaking just prior to the period during which I am exiled to a hut at the outskirts of the yard. This information was delivered with an air of exasperated authority, blustering forth from your ever-opinionated, wind-ravaged piehole. Hmmmm. Ass-tute observation, Dr. Brain Scientist. Please allow me to retort. DR. BRAIN SCIENTIST, when recently faced with the question of posole or burritos for dinner, you are a man who declared hominy to be THE CROWN JEWEL IN THE KINGDOM OF STARCHES. FURTHER, you are a man who is known amongst friends for his tendency to pontificate at length, at the slightest provocation, ON THE VIRTUES OF BONE MARROW CONSUMPTION. YOU!!! I am the emotional and irrational one? At least I follow a cycle, doctor. Your madness knows no calendar.
Dr. Brain Scientist, you have recently observed that I am at times emotional and irrational, and have further noted that these states of disequilibrium tend to occur in a monthly cycle, peaking just prior to the period during which I am exiled to a hut at the outskirts of the yard. This information was delivered with an air of exasperated authority, blustering forth from your ever-opinionated, wind-ravaged piehole. Hmmmm. Ass-tute observation, Dr. Brain Scientist. Please allow me to retort. DR. BRAIN SCIENTIST, when recently faced with the question of posole or burritos for dinner, you are a man who declared hominy to be THE CROWN JEWEL IN THE KINGDOM OF STARCHES. FURTHER, you are a man who is known amongst friends for his tendency to pontificate at length, at the slightest provocation, ON THE VIRTUES OF BONE MARROW CONSUMPTION. YOU!!! I am the emotional and irrational one? At least I follow a cycle, doctor. Your madness knows no calendar.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
sympathy for the devil
originally posted June 6, 2007
Now that I'm an adult, I've come to realize that my childhood was filled with weirdness. There are so many stories from my early days that I can't possibly tell a person without the aid of a long, rambling prologue to explain, for example, what I was even doing at a polo match, wearing a fur coat, at age five. These are details a person needs before a person can focus their full attention on the story which I am trying to tell them about my run-in with Sylvester Stallone's bodyguard.
A great deal of the hows and whys for many of these stories can be explained by the fact that, for a period of time, my father was "The Balloon Man". You know those giant hot air balloon-esque things that you see from time to time sitting on the roof of an appliance store during a super blowout sale? This was my father's business for a good deal of the eighties. Not only this, but legend has it that he is the "inventor" of this particular means of advertising, but was unable to patent the idea, because it does not count as an invention if you take some things someone else already invented (e.g., a giant fan, the business end of a hot air balloon) and combine them in a novel fashion. This is something anyone can do, but for a period of time, no one was doing it – no one except my father.
My childhood was filled with gigantic rolls of hot air balloon fabric, industrial sewing machines, dangerous fans that I was not to touch, and huge specialty lightbulbs used for illuminating the balloons at night. My father, with the aid of my mother and a few hired others, would design these balloons, cut them, sew them, and inflate them wherever someone needed to say something by way of a 65-foot balloon. Thus, I often found myself in situations not typically encountered by a small child.
I mention this because I wanted to tell you about The Naz. I knew you'd stop me though, and want to know just how someone even makes the acquaintance of a magician on stilts, let alone ends up with an anecdote about living with one. Knowing that my father was The Balloon Man makes it all make a little more sense, doesn't it? You don't even have to ask, do you? It is obvious to you that someone, somewhere, needed a giant balloon, and they also apparently needed a magician on stilts, and thus The Balloon Man met The Naz.
The Naz actually went by the name 'The Naz', and looked like a more devil-y Wayne Newton – all dyed black hair and tiny mustache. One evening my father received a phone call from The Naz, who shared some sort of sad story about how he and his wife were living in a bus station, I think. I guess the business of magic and stilt walking was not a lucrative one at this point in the eighties. During this phone conversation, my mother held up a note that said I feel sorry for them, and so my father invited them to stay with us for a couple of days. Later that evening, while I slept, my father returned home with The Naz, who was stiltless, and his wife. This was a truly bewildering thing to wake up to the next morning. Even as a small child I understood, as Wayne Newton performed magic tricks for me over toast, that we were in for a long visit.
You see, he wasn't a very good magician. This was an impression my parents and I shared, and I was only nine-years-old, which should tell you that he was actually a horrible magician. Nevertheless, The Naz tried to convince us that he was in fact a very good magician over the three weeks they lived with us. He never had much success, though. For example, at one point he requested that we chain him up with the lock and chain from my bicycle, and from these bounds he would escape – TA DA! Of course this was met with utter failure and wrist bruising, which required the application of ice packs. The humiliation was compounded by the fact that The Naz chained up both my father and aging uncle, and they both got out of the chains in seconds. Indeed, he was a very bad magician.
What made the whole experience particularly strange for me was the fact that I'd sustained a head injury just prior to their arrival – one that required a trip to the emergency room in an ambulance. Subsequent to this I became very sick for a couple of weeks, and spent a good deal of time with a fever that caused a number of fever dreams and weird hallucinations. It is at these points that a young person needs the grounding comfort of the familiar and distinctly non-weird. Of course, having The Naz around made me feel like I was hallucinating 100% of the time.
What happened to The Naz? I don't know. About three weeks into their stay, I heard my mother ask my father, in the urgent whisper of a woman who can take only so much magic, Why are they STILL HERE? It was soon after this that my father dropped The Naz and his wife off at a bus station with money to travel to wherever their relatives lived. After this he returned home and hung my mother's note – I feel sorry for them – on our refrigerator door. There it stayed for years, reminding us all never to be kind to magicians.
Now that I'm an adult, I've come to realize that my childhood was filled with weirdness. There are so many stories from my early days that I can't possibly tell a person without the aid of a long, rambling prologue to explain, for example, what I was even doing at a polo match, wearing a fur coat, at age five. These are details a person needs before a person can focus their full attention on the story which I am trying to tell them about my run-in with Sylvester Stallone's bodyguard.
A great deal of the hows and whys for many of these stories can be explained by the fact that, for a period of time, my father was "The Balloon Man". You know those giant hot air balloon-esque things that you see from time to time sitting on the roof of an appliance store during a super blowout sale? This was my father's business for a good deal of the eighties. Not only this, but legend has it that he is the "inventor" of this particular means of advertising, but was unable to patent the idea, because it does not count as an invention if you take some things someone else already invented (e.g., a giant fan, the business end of a hot air balloon) and combine them in a novel fashion. This is something anyone can do, but for a period of time, no one was doing it – no one except my father.
My childhood was filled with gigantic rolls of hot air balloon fabric, industrial sewing machines, dangerous fans that I was not to touch, and huge specialty lightbulbs used for illuminating the balloons at night. My father, with the aid of my mother and a few hired others, would design these balloons, cut them, sew them, and inflate them wherever someone needed to say something by way of a 65-foot balloon. Thus, I often found myself in situations not typically encountered by a small child.
I mention this because I wanted to tell you about The Naz. I knew you'd stop me though, and want to know just how someone even makes the acquaintance of a magician on stilts, let alone ends up with an anecdote about living with one. Knowing that my father was The Balloon Man makes it all make a little more sense, doesn't it? You don't even have to ask, do you? It is obvious to you that someone, somewhere, needed a giant balloon, and they also apparently needed a magician on stilts, and thus The Balloon Man met The Naz.
The Naz actually went by the name 'The Naz', and looked like a more devil-y Wayne Newton – all dyed black hair and tiny mustache. One evening my father received a phone call from The Naz, who shared some sort of sad story about how he and his wife were living in a bus station, I think. I guess the business of magic and stilt walking was not a lucrative one at this point in the eighties. During this phone conversation, my mother held up a note that said I feel sorry for them, and so my father invited them to stay with us for a couple of days. Later that evening, while I slept, my father returned home with The Naz, who was stiltless, and his wife. This was a truly bewildering thing to wake up to the next morning. Even as a small child I understood, as Wayne Newton performed magic tricks for me over toast, that we were in for a long visit.
You see, he wasn't a very good magician. This was an impression my parents and I shared, and I was only nine-years-old, which should tell you that he was actually a horrible magician. Nevertheless, The Naz tried to convince us that he was in fact a very good magician over the three weeks they lived with us. He never had much success, though. For example, at one point he requested that we chain him up with the lock and chain from my bicycle, and from these bounds he would escape – TA DA! Of course this was met with utter failure and wrist bruising, which required the application of ice packs. The humiliation was compounded by the fact that The Naz chained up both my father and aging uncle, and they both got out of the chains in seconds. Indeed, he was a very bad magician.
What made the whole experience particularly strange for me was the fact that I'd sustained a head injury just prior to their arrival – one that required a trip to the emergency room in an ambulance. Subsequent to this I became very sick for a couple of weeks, and spent a good deal of time with a fever that caused a number of fever dreams and weird hallucinations. It is at these points that a young person needs the grounding comfort of the familiar and distinctly non-weird. Of course, having The Naz around made me feel like I was hallucinating 100% of the time.
What happened to The Naz? I don't know. About three weeks into their stay, I heard my mother ask my father, in the urgent whisper of a woman who can take only so much magic, Why are they STILL HERE? It was soon after this that my father dropped The Naz and his wife off at a bus station with money to travel to wherever their relatives lived. After this he returned home and hung my mother's note – I feel sorry for them – on our refrigerator door. There it stayed for years, reminding us all never to be kind to magicians.
try a little tenderness
originally posted June 5, 2007
As I keep telling myself, a real woman knows how to apologize …
Dear Federally-Funded Grant Group,
I'm sorry I yelled at you. Perhaps I was too quick to anger. You and I have spent enough time together that I should know that you're going to do this sort of thing from time to time. You can't help it. I need to rise above this, and when our relationship is faced with this sort of stress, I should remember the good times. Like that time when your colleague from Amsterdam was visiting, and you had the good Dr. Brain Scientist and me over for breakfast. I was charmed by the way you observed that my name was spelled in the exact same way as the name of a particular rock superstar of the seventies, and how you were so interested in explaining this bit of interest to your visiting guest that you actually left your pancakes in order to put on a song informing us that you wanted to put on your boogie shoes and boogie with us. All this, just so that your visiting colleague would appreciate exactly what it was you were talking about. And it turned out he DID know what you were talking about, and this shared experience of seventies disco goodness moved you so much that you both got up to dance in a disco-y sort of fashion. It was at that point that I knew you cared. I must also confess that I can't stay mad at you knowing that you were concerned that Dr. C might not be having a bachelor party, and took it upon yourself to suggest that perhaps BS might help you in organizing such an event. That was sweet. As it turns out, Dr. BS and I had already discussed this issue, and had concluded that we would have a co-ed function for Drs. C and S – don't worry, grant group, we've got your titties covered! Sorry for being a bombastic shrew.
XOX,
Q
***
Dear BS,
You are the best, even when you are not knocking on doors when you should be, relieving me from my watch over The Tiny Curly Banshee and The Shushinator. Thank you for celebrating my birthday with me on multiple occasions this weekend, and taking me out for sushi and – sigh – MORRISSEY!!!!, all in the same night. Thank you for making the absurdly long drive out to the music venue, located in the middle of a retirement community for some reason, and not making too many jokes related to the fact that this is the same place that Perry Como used to play. And thank you for enjoying the show with me. You didn't even flinch when Morrissey ripped his shirt off – the first time OR the second time – even though you probably thought I liked it a little more than I should have. I like the way you asked me if I was excited about the show over dinner, and told me that you were too, and that you were going to call him morbid and pale. You reminded me that my birthday isn't so bad, and that I probably owe it an apology.
Be seeing you, and I mean this in a good way,
Q
***
Dear Local Newspapers,
I've been thinking about this, and I've made my decision. I hate you, and I hate your ass face.
Until we meet again,
Q
***
Dear Birthday,
Why do we always do this? Will we ever learn? I want you to know that I still enjoy you, despite our recurring scuffles. Thanks to you I had an intoxicated gathering with friends, had sushi with a badass BS, saw Morrissey rip his shirt off – not once, but TWICE! – and had many lovely moments with my wee-uns. All this, and I got to learn yet another amazing fact about the BS. You know how he's always surprising us with tales that we are shocked he never told us before? Like the time he offhandedly mentioned that Alice Cooper used to come into a restaurant he worked at and once left him a handwritten note commending his service, but that he couldn't remember the actual content of this note? And we were all, WHAT THE HELL? YOU CAN'T REMEMBER THE CONTENT OF THE NOTE ALICE COOPER ONCE WROTE YOU??? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? and we may have actually said it in a really loud voice like that? Well, he told me another one of those little tidbits. Remember how he used to have those jobs back when he was merely a BS, and not yet a Dr. BS? And one of them involved using his badass karate know-how and bald, goateed intimidation skills to prevent local frat boys from picking fights with men based on their sexual orientation? You know, at that store? On the way home from the Morrissey show a Judas Priest song came on the radio, and Dr. BS mentioned totally offhandedly how a member of Judas Priest (the one usually standing in the middle, in the front) used to come in to this establishment on a very regular basis, and it was not necessarily just to buy books. WHAT???? I said to him. How is it possible that you are JUST NOW mentioning this to me??????? And he was all, "Well, I haven't thought of Judas Priest in, like, ten years." See? He's just so full of surprises! Anyway, sorry for being a snatch about that whole year-older thing.
OOO,
Q
***
Ah. That feels good.
As I keep telling myself, a real woman knows how to apologize …
Dear Federally-Funded Grant Group,
I'm sorry I yelled at you. Perhaps I was too quick to anger. You and I have spent enough time together that I should know that you're going to do this sort of thing from time to time. You can't help it. I need to rise above this, and when our relationship is faced with this sort of stress, I should remember the good times. Like that time when your colleague from Amsterdam was visiting, and you had the good Dr. Brain Scientist and me over for breakfast. I was charmed by the way you observed that my name was spelled in the exact same way as the name of a particular rock superstar of the seventies, and how you were so interested in explaining this bit of interest to your visiting guest that you actually left your pancakes in order to put on a song informing us that you wanted to put on your boogie shoes and boogie with us. All this, just so that your visiting colleague would appreciate exactly what it was you were talking about. And it turned out he DID know what you were talking about, and this shared experience of seventies disco goodness moved you so much that you both got up to dance in a disco-y sort of fashion. It was at that point that I knew you cared. I must also confess that I can't stay mad at you knowing that you were concerned that Dr. C might not be having a bachelor party, and took it upon yourself to suggest that perhaps BS might help you in organizing such an event. That was sweet. As it turns out, Dr. BS and I had already discussed this issue, and had concluded that we would have a co-ed function for Drs. C and S – don't worry, grant group, we've got your titties covered! Sorry for being a bombastic shrew.
XOX,
Q
***
Dear BS,
You are the best, even when you are not knocking on doors when you should be, relieving me from my watch over The Tiny Curly Banshee and The Shushinator. Thank you for celebrating my birthday with me on multiple occasions this weekend, and taking me out for sushi and – sigh – MORRISSEY!!!!, all in the same night. Thank you for making the absurdly long drive out to the music venue, located in the middle of a retirement community for some reason, and not making too many jokes related to the fact that this is the same place that Perry Como used to play. And thank you for enjoying the show with me. You didn't even flinch when Morrissey ripped his shirt off – the first time OR the second time – even though you probably thought I liked it a little more than I should have. I like the way you asked me if I was excited about the show over dinner, and told me that you were too, and that you were going to call him morbid and pale. You reminded me that my birthday isn't so bad, and that I probably owe it an apology.
Be seeing you, and I mean this in a good way,
Q
***
Dear Local Newspapers,
I've been thinking about this, and I've made my decision. I hate you, and I hate your ass face.
Until we meet again,
Q
***
Dear Birthday,
Why do we always do this? Will we ever learn? I want you to know that I still enjoy you, despite our recurring scuffles. Thanks to you I had an intoxicated gathering with friends, had sushi with a badass BS, saw Morrissey rip his shirt off – not once, but TWICE! – and had many lovely moments with my wee-uns. All this, and I got to learn yet another amazing fact about the BS. You know how he's always surprising us with tales that we are shocked he never told us before? Like the time he offhandedly mentioned that Alice Cooper used to come into a restaurant he worked at and once left him a handwritten note commending his service, but that he couldn't remember the actual content of this note? And we were all, WHAT THE HELL? YOU CAN'T REMEMBER THE CONTENT OF THE NOTE ALICE COOPER ONCE WROTE YOU??? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? and we may have actually said it in a really loud voice like that? Well, he told me another one of those little tidbits. Remember how he used to have those jobs back when he was merely a BS, and not yet a Dr. BS? And one of them involved using his badass karate know-how and bald, goateed intimidation skills to prevent local frat boys from picking fights with men based on their sexual orientation? You know, at that store? On the way home from the Morrissey show a Judas Priest song came on the radio, and Dr. BS mentioned totally offhandedly how a member of Judas Priest (the one usually standing in the middle, in the front) used to come in to this establishment on a very regular basis, and it was not necessarily just to buy books. WHAT???? I said to him. How is it possible that you are JUST NOW mentioning this to me??????? And he was all, "Well, I haven't thought of Judas Priest in, like, ten years." See? He's just so full of surprises! Anyway, sorry for being a snatch about that whole year-older thing.
OOO,
Q
***
Ah. That feels good.
cussin', cryin' and carryin' on
originally posted May 30, 2007
Every once in a while, a person just has to scream obscenities into a pillow. Some might instead choose to write an angry letter that is never to be sent. Because I am a person who is impulsive, irrational, and foolheaded, I've chosen to combine these two potentially cathartic, non-bridge-burning approaches into one big clusterfuck of frustration that is bound to bite me in the ass in one way or another. Stand back…
Dear Federally-Funded Grant Group,
Thank you for telling BS that your meeting is to be held every Wednesday. I've set my RA schedule around this. You see, one of the things I get paid to do as a research assistant is to be available at particular hours to answer questions related to statistical analytic procedures and stuff. Because, you know, no one has ever written any of this stuff down in a book, so I need to be there to say it to those who happen by. Thank you for deciding to hold your meeting this week on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. I enjoy re-arranging my schedule around you and your federally funded whims. It's not like I'm entering my SEVENTH year of graduate school – two years beyond which students are typically funded without raised eyebrows. I certainly don't need to seem dependable or anything. And thank you for not bothering to tell BS that you decided to go back to the Wednesday meeting time after all. I enjoyed receiving a phone call yesterday from Dr. C, seven minutes before the scheduled start of said meeting, mentioning that there was in fact NO MEETING ON TUESDAY because everyone sort of changed their mind. It sure was fun phoning the BS as he sat all alone in the conference room, wondering why the fuck no one was there. Getting the boy up mid-nap to retrieve BS kicked ass, too. It was especially convenient that this occurred no more than five minutes after we arrived home after swapping the car and leaving BS at school. And then I thoroughly enjoyed re-arranging my schedule A SECOND TIME IN ONE WEEK to accommodate the shift-from-Wednesday-to-Tuesday-back-to-Wednesday meeting. Again – there's no need for me to appear even vaguely dependable. None! And I found the joking email exchanges between you and BS about how I was all cranky about this scheduling gaff and how he was going to have to sleep on the couch over this one and HA HA HA really funny! Oh, and by the way, I wholeheartedly enjoyed entertaining two children on the campus of Ass Suck University for two hours today while BS was at your fun circle jerk, I mean meeting, so that I might have time to squeeze in a smidgen of work in the morning, but not piss away the afternoon driving home, then driving back, and fucking with the boy's naptime and such. Really. CHRIST ON A MOTHERFUCKING CRUTCH! THANKS! I'M REALLY GLAD YOU'RE SO CONSCIENTIOUS ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HAVE A JOB I'D LIKE TO KEEP! FUCK!
Go directly to hell,
Qwanty, M.A.
Graduate Student in Tomfuckery
Ass Suck University
***
Dear BS,
Thanks for coming to my office after your meeting today but not bothering to knock on my door because you assumed the closed door meant that I wasn't there, and was instead merrily tooling about campus with two happy children. You know how the three of us adore the heat, especially when it's in the triple digits. Thanks for not considering the fact that the door might be closed as a means of concealing the fact that a child was within, shrieking at regular intervals. Do you know what the people I work with love? Screaming toddlers! It's one of the reasons they've hired me – because I can be counted on to provide them with shrieking toddler background sounds. I've been told that it really facilitates their work, hearing a small boy cry No I WON'T! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! every time I request he stop waving a pointy pencil in the vicinity of his eyes. The also adore the absurdly loud SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH his sister can generate in response to his defiant moo. They've commended me on the robustness of her shushing abilities, and hope I can drag out my PhD just a bit longer so that they might have ample future opportunities to be sustained through their long workdays with the sound of SHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! coming from my office. I've also heard they're thrilled with their decision to position my office right by the front desk, so that I might share the sounds of my loins with the whole mother fucking place. And when I finally located you from my position way up on the third floor where your meeting had been, but had clearly ended some time earlier, as suggested by the darkened room with no one nearby – do you remember this? You were all the way on the ground floor chatting it up with Dr. C, totally oblivious to the fact that I was about to have a nervous breakdown due to all the shrieking and shushing? And I had to call down to you from the third floor while trying to contain my imminent implosion? Thanks for coming up to meet me and being all pissed off that Drs. C and K and N noted that I seemed cross. That really helped, YOU GODDAMN NO DOOR KNOCKING, CAN'T EFFECTIVELY COMMUNICATE WITH YOUR COLLEAGUES BS BS! I CAN'T WAIT TO TENDERLY CARESS YOUR ASS WITH MY FOOT IN A THRUSTING, POINTY-TOED FASHION!
Be seeing you,
Q
***
Dear Local Newspapers,
Thank you, the both of you, for running a lovely story about the study that Dr. BS and I and two others are doing with the local fire department. Did you know that I put Dr. BS in touch with the fire department when they were seeking someone to do a study on the impact of high call volumes because I have a grasp of what these people needed? Do you understand that I am acting as a methodology person on this project, and am faced with the analysis of a great deal of data with a rather complicated structure? You should, because Dr. BS told you this and asked that everyone on this project be included in this story because even Dr. BS understands that no BS works alone. Sadly, no one else knows, because you MADE NO MENTION OF ANY OF THIS WHATSOEVER, YOU KNOW, HOW THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE INVOLVED IN THIS AND PISS FUCK SHIT. I'm not in this for any kind of publicity, but it sort of would have been nice to be acknowledged in some tiny way. Maybe you could have fit this in within some of the space you devoted to the three separate pictures you printed of BS looking studiously at firefighting stuff? Like the one where my daughter remarked Look! It's a picture of BS touching his tiny beard! I understand that the public needs to see this sort of thing, to understand that this man IS A MOTHERFUCKING SCIENTIST AND ALL WHO TOUCHES HIS TINY BEARD WHEN DEEP IN THOUGHT, but seriously, we're doing this for free and at this point in my academic career I really need a clipping from The Satan's Nethers Tribune to hang over my desk featuring my name to remind me that there is a point to all this. GODDAMN IT! GODDAMN IT TO HELL! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!
A concerned reader,
Ms. Q. Wanty
***
Dear Birthday,
Thank you for coming in two days. I look forward to the way this will finally allow my friend Matt to remind me regularly that I'M OLDER THAN JESUS! THIS WILL BE GREAT FUN!NOW FUCK OFF!
love,
Me
***
Phew. I needed that! And now I need a hug.
Every once in a while, a person just has to scream obscenities into a pillow. Some might instead choose to write an angry letter that is never to be sent. Because I am a person who is impulsive, irrational, and foolheaded, I've chosen to combine these two potentially cathartic, non-bridge-burning approaches into one big clusterfuck of frustration that is bound to bite me in the ass in one way or another. Stand back…
Dear Federally-Funded Grant Group,
Thank you for telling BS that your meeting is to be held every Wednesday. I've set my RA schedule around this. You see, one of the things I get paid to do as a research assistant is to be available at particular hours to answer questions related to statistical analytic procedures and stuff. Because, you know, no one has ever written any of this stuff down in a book, so I need to be there to say it to those who happen by. Thank you for deciding to hold your meeting this week on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. I enjoy re-arranging my schedule around you and your federally funded whims. It's not like I'm entering my SEVENTH year of graduate school – two years beyond which students are typically funded without raised eyebrows. I certainly don't need to seem dependable or anything. And thank you for not bothering to tell BS that you decided to go back to the Wednesday meeting time after all. I enjoyed receiving a phone call yesterday from Dr. C, seven minutes before the scheduled start of said meeting, mentioning that there was in fact NO MEETING ON TUESDAY because everyone sort of changed their mind. It sure was fun phoning the BS as he sat all alone in the conference room, wondering why the fuck no one was there. Getting the boy up mid-nap to retrieve BS kicked ass, too. It was especially convenient that this occurred no more than five minutes after we arrived home after swapping the car and leaving BS at school. And then I thoroughly enjoyed re-arranging my schedule A SECOND TIME IN ONE WEEK to accommodate the shift-from-Wednesday-to-Tuesday-back-to-Wednesday meeting. Again – there's no need for me to appear even vaguely dependable. None! And I found the joking email exchanges between you and BS about how I was all cranky about this scheduling gaff and how he was going to have to sleep on the couch over this one and HA HA HA really funny! Oh, and by the way, I wholeheartedly enjoyed entertaining two children on the campus of Ass Suck University for two hours today while BS was at your fun circle jerk, I mean meeting, so that I might have time to squeeze in a smidgen of work in the morning, but not piss away the afternoon driving home, then driving back, and fucking with the boy's naptime and such. Really. CHRIST ON A MOTHERFUCKING CRUTCH! THANKS! I'M REALLY GLAD YOU'RE SO CONSCIENTIOUS ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HAVE A JOB I'D LIKE TO KEEP! FUCK!
Go directly to hell,
Qwanty, M.A.
Graduate Student in Tomfuckery
Ass Suck University
***
Dear BS,
Thanks for coming to my office after your meeting today but not bothering to knock on my door because you assumed the closed door meant that I wasn't there, and was instead merrily tooling about campus with two happy children. You know how the three of us adore the heat, especially when it's in the triple digits. Thanks for not considering the fact that the door might be closed as a means of concealing the fact that a child was within, shrieking at regular intervals. Do you know what the people I work with love? Screaming toddlers! It's one of the reasons they've hired me – because I can be counted on to provide them with shrieking toddler background sounds. I've been told that it really facilitates their work, hearing a small boy cry No I WON'T! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! every time I request he stop waving a pointy pencil in the vicinity of his eyes. The also adore the absurdly loud SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH his sister can generate in response to his defiant moo. They've commended me on the robustness of her shushing abilities, and hope I can drag out my PhD just a bit longer so that they might have ample future opportunities to be sustained through their long workdays with the sound of SHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! coming from my office. I've also heard they're thrilled with their decision to position my office right by the front desk, so that I might share the sounds of my loins with the whole mother fucking place. And when I finally located you from my position way up on the third floor where your meeting had been, but had clearly ended some time earlier, as suggested by the darkened room with no one nearby – do you remember this? You were all the way on the ground floor chatting it up with Dr. C, totally oblivious to the fact that I was about to have a nervous breakdown due to all the shrieking and shushing? And I had to call down to you from the third floor while trying to contain my imminent implosion? Thanks for coming up to meet me and being all pissed off that Drs. C and K and N noted that I seemed cross. That really helped, YOU GODDAMN NO DOOR KNOCKING, CAN'T EFFECTIVELY COMMUNICATE WITH YOUR COLLEAGUES BS BS! I CAN'T WAIT TO TENDERLY CARESS YOUR ASS WITH MY FOOT IN A THRUSTING, POINTY-TOED FASHION!
Be seeing you,
Q
***
Dear Local Newspapers,
Thank you, the both of you, for running a lovely story about the study that Dr. BS and I and two others are doing with the local fire department. Did you know that I put Dr. BS in touch with the fire department when they were seeking someone to do a study on the impact of high call volumes because I have a grasp of what these people needed? Do you understand that I am acting as a methodology person on this project, and am faced with the analysis of a great deal of data with a rather complicated structure? You should, because Dr. BS told you this and asked that everyone on this project be included in this story because even Dr. BS understands that no BS works alone. Sadly, no one else knows, because you MADE NO MENTION OF ANY OF THIS WHATSOEVER, YOU KNOW, HOW THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE INVOLVED IN THIS AND PISS FUCK SHIT. I'm not in this for any kind of publicity, but it sort of would have been nice to be acknowledged in some tiny way. Maybe you could have fit this in within some of the space you devoted to the three separate pictures you printed of BS looking studiously at firefighting stuff? Like the one where my daughter remarked Look! It's a picture of BS touching his tiny beard! I understand that the public needs to see this sort of thing, to understand that this man IS A MOTHERFUCKING SCIENTIST AND ALL WHO TOUCHES HIS TINY BEARD WHEN DEEP IN THOUGHT, but seriously, we're doing this for free and at this point in my academic career I really need a clipping from The Satan's Nethers Tribune to hang over my desk featuring my name to remind me that there is a point to all this. GODDAMN IT! GODDAMN IT TO HELL! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!
A concerned reader,
Ms. Q. Wanty
***
Dear Birthday,
Thank you for coming in two days. I look forward to the way this will finally allow my friend Matt to remind me regularly that I'M OLDER THAN JESUS! THIS WILL BE GREAT FUN!NOW FUCK OFF!
love,
Me
***
Phew. I needed that! And now I need a hug.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
show me the money, but please don't tell anyone
originally posted May 21, 2007
I am ashamed. The other day the Scorpions came on the radio, sparking the following exchange:
BS: Who the hell listens to this?
Q: Some people do. Some people get really excited when the Scorps come on and turn it up and sing and stuff. I don't get it. That sort of thing should be reserved for Guns N' Roses.
BS: Are you joking?
Q: Yes?
I am a liar. What I meant was No. I really like Paradise City.
When I am busy driving around town and screaming at people, a really good radio moment is a special thing. I know we're living in the days of Ipods and burnable CDs and listening to whatever you want whenever you want and all, but when you haven't figured out how to turn on your MP3 player and you own a car that only has a tape deck and said tape deck isn't working because it got tired of playing the same six songs on your favorite Cure tape over and over again and finally said Screw you, sing Caterpillar Girl to yourself. That Cata-cata-cata part HURTS, you miserable twat a good radio moment still means something. It's the very best when 3 of the 4 stations you have programmed into your radio are all playing Phil Collins, and you just can't get away from Phil, and you keep punching buttons and jumping back and forth from Phil to Phil to Phil, but it JUST WON"T STOP and where is REO Speedwagon or Dio or even Cheap Trick? Then, just when you're about to rip out the fucking radio and pitch it out the window to wither in the dry, dusty heat of Satan's Nethers, something happens. Say, Paradise City comes on. And maybe you secretly love Paradise City. Or Fat Bottomed Girls, which maybe you openly love and are playing right now at this very moment. And maybe you get to hear it from the very beginning, and then suddenly you can barely drive because you've begun to dance with the steering wheel and are tapping the brake in time to the music and you almost have to pull over to devote your full attention to this effort and take a moment to reflect on how happy Queen makes you. And maybe, if the song is 'Somebody to Love', you are crying tears of joy. Maybe.
I don't think it's fair to say that I have excellent taste in music. While it is true that I like music that is excellent, it is also true that I like other music as well. I have what I refer to as "kitchen music". This is music that I perhaps own on cassette, but would never purchase on CD to enable living room listening. This is music that is played only on the little radio my daughter gave my for mother's day when she was two, and only in the kitchen. I keep the kitchen music in a drawer in the kitchen, near the radio. It's a sort of humiliating collection. There's Air Supply's Greatest Hits – I love 'Lost in Love'. I have George Michael's Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. Just Try and Listen Without Self-Loathing. Let us not forget the cassette single for 'Your Woman' by Whitetown. The only justifiable cassette in the whole lot is Elton John's Greatest Hits, Vol. III (given to me by Kristin for my 16th birthday – really, an excellent tape – I once forced Dr. BS to listen to 'Empty Garden', while in the kitchen of course, and it made him weep genuine tears of sadness...)
I've come to mostly accept my love of the KM. What's begun to trouble me, however, are my recent listening transgressions in the car. I have never, ever, ever been a fan of Eddie Money. Never. Not even in the kitchen. Yet the other day 'Two Tickets to Paradise' came on, and I turned it up, before I even processed what it was. It just sounded so good. What? And then – jesus shitballs, I can't believe I'm going to say this – I thought Wow. How romantic. And I meant it. WHAT?! It all happened so fast, I couldn't even censor myself. And now I have to live with this knowledge -- this humiliating little tidbit about myself. It seems I want to be surprised with two tickets to paradise. I want to pack my bags and leave tonight. I've waited so long. Waited so long. Waited so long…
Because I found this little debacle so troubling, I looked up the lyrics to this song, just to be absolutely clear what it was I was jonesing for. You know what? This didn't make me feel better. It turns out there's no actual mention of a plane or any other specific mode of transportation, and no details to speak of – just this promise of paradise and immediate departure. Now I'm thinking that this might just be a big euphemism for sex with Eddie Money, and paradise is in his pants, and these goddamn tickets are fucking free. In fact, he might even pay you to take them. Goddamn it.
It gets worse. As recently as the day before yesterday 'Hollywood Nights' came on the radio and I turned it up because I THOUGHT IT WAS EDDIE MONEY and I wasn't at all disturbed about this until I realized it was in fact Bob Seeger. WHAT?!? Suddenly Eddie Money is OKAY? Again, this all happened before I could process what was going on, and by the time I realized what was happening I was already dancing with the steering wheel and tapping the brake and singing along, for fuck sake, and then I nearly had to pull the goddamn car over, because I was crying. Yes, crying – big old tears of SHAME. Who am I? What have I become? It's all so depressing…
I am ashamed. The other day the Scorpions came on the radio, sparking the following exchange:
BS: Who the hell listens to this?
Q: Some people do. Some people get really excited when the Scorps come on and turn it up and sing and stuff. I don't get it. That sort of thing should be reserved for Guns N' Roses.
BS: Are you joking?
Q: Yes?
I am a liar. What I meant was No. I really like Paradise City.
When I am busy driving around town and screaming at people, a really good radio moment is a special thing. I know we're living in the days of Ipods and burnable CDs and listening to whatever you want whenever you want and all, but when you haven't figured out how to turn on your MP3 player and you own a car that only has a tape deck and said tape deck isn't working because it got tired of playing the same six songs on your favorite Cure tape over and over again and finally said Screw you, sing Caterpillar Girl to yourself. That Cata-cata-cata part HURTS, you miserable twat a good radio moment still means something. It's the very best when 3 of the 4 stations you have programmed into your radio are all playing Phil Collins, and you just can't get away from Phil, and you keep punching buttons and jumping back and forth from Phil to Phil to Phil, but it JUST WON"T STOP and where is REO Speedwagon or Dio or even Cheap Trick? Then, just when you're about to rip out the fucking radio and pitch it out the window to wither in the dry, dusty heat of Satan's Nethers, something happens. Say, Paradise City comes on. And maybe you secretly love Paradise City. Or Fat Bottomed Girls, which maybe you openly love and are playing right now at this very moment. And maybe you get to hear it from the very beginning, and then suddenly you can barely drive because you've begun to dance with the steering wheel and are tapping the brake in time to the music and you almost have to pull over to devote your full attention to this effort and take a moment to reflect on how happy Queen makes you. And maybe, if the song is 'Somebody to Love', you are crying tears of joy. Maybe.
I don't think it's fair to say that I have excellent taste in music. While it is true that I like music that is excellent, it is also true that I like other music as well. I have what I refer to as "kitchen music". This is music that I perhaps own on cassette, but would never purchase on CD to enable living room listening. This is music that is played only on the little radio my daughter gave my for mother's day when she was two, and only in the kitchen. I keep the kitchen music in a drawer in the kitchen, near the radio. It's a sort of humiliating collection. There's Air Supply's Greatest Hits – I love 'Lost in Love'. I have George Michael's Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. Just Try and Listen Without Self-Loathing. Let us not forget the cassette single for 'Your Woman' by Whitetown. The only justifiable cassette in the whole lot is Elton John's Greatest Hits, Vol. III (given to me by Kristin for my 16th birthday – really, an excellent tape – I once forced Dr. BS to listen to 'Empty Garden', while in the kitchen of course, and it made him weep genuine tears of sadness...)
I've come to mostly accept my love of the KM. What's begun to trouble me, however, are my recent listening transgressions in the car. I have never, ever, ever been a fan of Eddie Money. Never. Not even in the kitchen. Yet the other day 'Two Tickets to Paradise' came on, and I turned it up, before I even processed what it was. It just sounded so good. What? And then – jesus shitballs, I can't believe I'm going to say this – I thought Wow. How romantic. And I meant it. WHAT?! It all happened so fast, I couldn't even censor myself. And now I have to live with this knowledge -- this humiliating little tidbit about myself. It seems I want to be surprised with two tickets to paradise. I want to pack my bags and leave tonight. I've waited so long. Waited so long. Waited so long…
Because I found this little debacle so troubling, I looked up the lyrics to this song, just to be absolutely clear what it was I was jonesing for. You know what? This didn't make me feel better. It turns out there's no actual mention of a plane or any other specific mode of transportation, and no details to speak of – just this promise of paradise and immediate departure. Now I'm thinking that this might just be a big euphemism for sex with Eddie Money, and paradise is in his pants, and these goddamn tickets are fucking free. In fact, he might even pay you to take them. Goddamn it.
It gets worse. As recently as the day before yesterday 'Hollywood Nights' came on the radio and I turned it up because I THOUGHT IT WAS EDDIE MONEY and I wasn't at all disturbed about this until I realized it was in fact Bob Seeger. WHAT?!? Suddenly Eddie Money is OKAY? Again, this all happened before I could process what was going on, and by the time I realized what was happening I was already dancing with the steering wheel and tapping the brake and singing along, for fuck sake, and then I nearly had to pull the goddamn car over, because I was crying. Yes, crying – big old tears of SHAME. Who am I? What have I become? It's all so depressing…
mama fun
originally posted April 14, 2007
Happy Mother's Day, muthas. I hope you had a lovely one. What did I get, you ask? Well, in addition to the traditional gifts 'n' such, I got a keyboard full of vomit. I so love it when the little ones make things for me themselves. Sadly, I was not there to witness the actual presentation of the gift, but I am relishing the aftermath, which includes 1) a huge stain on the carpet, 2) a keyboard full of eggs and pool water, 3) a computer that no longer functions, 4) a tasty cake of self-loathing made for me, by me, because I am the sort of person who never bothers to back anything up, and thus I have potentially lost all that was on that computer, which was pretty much everything:
a) the final version of my comprehensive exam – the largest academic undertaking of my quarter-century-plus years of schooling. Yes, I already turned it in, but I sort of wanted to keep a copy of it and, you know, not have to re-type 130 equations
b) Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of statistical analyses
c) Everything non-academic I've written over the past year, which is really not much of a loss
d) Many pictures of my children, and of myself pregnant with BS "Sharp Shooter" Pukington, Jr.
e) Etc.
I had this coming. I really did.
Mother's Day didn't totally blow, however. In addition to the fun gifts and snuggles and stuff, I also got to participate in this little gem of a conversation with my father, which you will not appreciate unless you've been poking around these parts for awhile, and are familiar with the "living room snacks" (and even then, I can understand if you don't appreciate this):
Dad: Do you remember the containers of snacks we used to keep in the living room?
Q: (quaking with barely contained laughter) Why yes, I do.
D: The pretzels and mustard?
Q: (still quaking) Funny you should mention that. I remember them well.
D: We have snacks again!
Q: (tearing up) Mmphmpphhmphmmm?
D: (gesturing with both hands) This time in big containers!
Q: Wow. Those look like some big containers.
D: We have pretzels and mustard and peanuts. In big containers!
Q: (beginning retreat to other room to laugh hysterically into pillow)
D: (calling after Q) And cheese curls! Great big containers!
Wow. That must be some killer connection to necessitate living room snacks in such vast quantities.
**********************************
Now, because this was a day about moms, here is an exchange I had with my mom, circa 1990. This is an interactive one, so be prepared to participate!
M: Honey, your Dad and I trust you and Ryan won't do anything to disappoint us.
Q: Huh?
M: You won't do anything to disappoint us.
M: (Long pause) Honey, when boys get excited, their little thing, well….
(Here's where you join in -- follow the bouncing balls! Make a fist with your right hand. Hold it in front of you, so your thumb side is facing you and your knuckles point left. Now, stick out your index finger and point at that asshat over there. Next, sort of curl your index finger downwards, so that it looks like a limp penis. Got it? Good. Hold that position.)
M: Does this…
(Your turn again. Ever so slowly – painfully, mortifyingly slowly – straighten your finger out until you are pointing to the ceiling, over there in the corner. Does your finger appear erect? Good job – you've done it right!)
Q: Um. (long silence)
M: (long meaningful look over erect finger-penis)
Q: Well, okay. Thanks. Do we have any macaroni salad? I love that macaroni salad you make.
************************************************************
There you have it: Ma Qwanty's Sex Talk. Share it with someone you love. I'm now going to crawl under my desk and cry and hope for the safe recovery of my hard drive, and make finger-penises until I have blue-thumb. Goodbye for now.
Happy Mother's Day, muthas. I hope you had a lovely one. What did I get, you ask? Well, in addition to the traditional gifts 'n' such, I got a keyboard full of vomit. I so love it when the little ones make things for me themselves. Sadly, I was not there to witness the actual presentation of the gift, but I am relishing the aftermath, which includes 1) a huge stain on the carpet, 2) a keyboard full of eggs and pool water, 3) a computer that no longer functions, 4) a tasty cake of self-loathing made for me, by me, because I am the sort of person who never bothers to back anything up, and thus I have potentially lost all that was on that computer, which was pretty much everything:
a) the final version of my comprehensive exam – the largest academic undertaking of my quarter-century-plus years of schooling. Yes, I already turned it in, but I sort of wanted to keep a copy of it and, you know, not have to re-type 130 equations
b) Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of statistical analyses
c) Everything non-academic I've written over the past year, which is really not much of a loss
d) Many pictures of my children, and of myself pregnant with BS "Sharp Shooter" Pukington, Jr.
e) Etc.
I had this coming. I really did.
Mother's Day didn't totally blow, however. In addition to the fun gifts and snuggles and stuff, I also got to participate in this little gem of a conversation with my father, which you will not appreciate unless you've been poking around these parts for awhile, and are familiar with the "living room snacks" (and even then, I can understand if you don't appreciate this):
Dad: Do you remember the containers of snacks we used to keep in the living room?
Q: (quaking with barely contained laughter) Why yes, I do.
D: The pretzels and mustard?
Q: (still quaking) Funny you should mention that. I remember them well.
D: We have snacks again!
Q: (tearing up) Mmphmpphhmphmmm?
D: (gesturing with both hands) This time in big containers!
Q: Wow. Those look like some big containers.
D: We have pretzels and mustard and peanuts. In big containers!
Q: (beginning retreat to other room to laugh hysterically into pillow)
D: (calling after Q) And cheese curls! Great big containers!
Wow. That must be some killer connection to necessitate living room snacks in such vast quantities.
**********************************
Now, because this was a day about moms, here is an exchange I had with my mom, circa 1990. This is an interactive one, so be prepared to participate!
M: Honey, your Dad and I trust you and Ryan won't do anything to disappoint us.
Q: Huh?
M: You won't do anything to disappoint us.
M: (Long pause) Honey, when boys get excited, their little thing, well….
(Here's where you join in -- follow the bouncing balls! Make a fist with your right hand. Hold it in front of you, so your thumb side is facing you and your knuckles point left. Now, stick out your index finger and point at that asshat over there. Next, sort of curl your index finger downwards, so that it looks like a limp penis. Got it? Good. Hold that position.)
M: Does this…
(Your turn again. Ever so slowly – painfully, mortifyingly slowly – straighten your finger out until you are pointing to the ceiling, over there in the corner. Does your finger appear erect? Good job – you've done it right!)
Q: Um. (long silence)
M: (long meaningful look over erect finger-penis)
Q: Well, okay. Thanks. Do we have any macaroni salad? I love that macaroni salad you make.
************************************************************
There you have it: Ma Qwanty's Sex Talk. Share it with someone you love. I'm now going to crawl under my desk and cry and hope for the safe recovery of my hard drive, and make finger-penises until I have blue-thumb. Goodbye for now.
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