Her Blackheartedness

Fishing at Frog Alley. Unfortunately patience is one thing Lola has a shortage of so we ended up catching frogs, tadpoles and some sun instead.

You can't see her prize very well but it's a tadpole. Her "babeeee frog."

The Fox River is full of pollution. Good Mummy that I am, I let my pretty little gal play in it...but I have been checking to make sure she isn't growing any extra extremities.

Lo took a face plant practically INTO THE BEAR PIT less than a millisecond after this shot was taken. Notice the hungry bears searching for food in the background? They would have eaten my baby! Ahh, still my beating, panicky heart, everything turned out ok, she merely fell into the bushes and got a brusied nose. But still...

My child loves meat. Yuck.

Lola's getup for a wedding, along with a wedding duck.

Have Brick, Willing to Bash Heads In

I heard a conversation a short while ago that sounded something like this:

Asshole 1: The moment the US started caring about countries is when we started going downhill, Iraq has terrorists in it. The correct response should be to bomb the whole country. If civilians die, who cares? The cost of war, man.

Asshole 2: Yeah, I mean, that's how wars are won.

Me, in my head because really? why bother...: Ever heard of Just War Theory you dumbfuck? Like we need to be hated MORE by the rest of the world for blanket-bombing an entire country indiscriminately. Oh yeah, and ever heard of Timothy McVeigh? The US has terrorists in it too, are civilians still fair game?

Honestly, I am all for free speech but sometimes I wish that to qualify for it, there had to be some sort of IQ test. Or maybe a wait-time, like for buying a gun. Stupid, stupid....

Oh Me Oh My, Back With a Vengeance

Guess who just got reminded that she has a blog and should be recording some of the crazy shit that's been happening? Yes, I admit, I've been a horrible blogger and I don't even have the blackblog-screen of death to blame this time around. Instead, I blame it on laziness and sheer complacency.

So dear friends, since I'm obsessed with words, let's to the dictionary:

Main Entry:
com·pla·cen·cy
Pronunciation:
\-sən(t)-sē\
Function:
noun
Inflected Form(s):
plural com·pla·cen·cies
Date:
1650
1 : self-satisfaction especially when accompanied by unawareness of actual dangers or deficiencies

Now, when I think of complacency, I see a cute little mouse on the forest floor, happily nibbling away at whatever the hell mice eat, fruit? Let's just say fruit. This is mouse is happy, she found her snack through the judicious use of her senses, through perseverance and luck. She's congratulating itself of a job well-done when
WHAM!
the snake that had been creeping up behind it strikes. The mouse doesn't have time to be scared, it's just shocked, amazed, a tad resigned and mostly annoyed that it wasn't allowed to finish it's last meal.

This story has two purposes:
1. This is the reason I don't feed my snake live mice. I can empathize with the mouse far easier than my snake.
2. This is a parable (albeit a bad one) for my recent topsy-turvy switcheroo-shenanigans. Ummm, I am the mouse.

Since this situation is long, complex and I'm at work (shhh.) I'm going to be general but details will eventually arise since I'm full of a new determination to keep this blog going. This blog is a perfect arena of introspection and could have served as the eyes in the back of my head, which would've saved that stupid mouse/me from this situation. Right? Because if the mouse could see the snake coming... (Wow, this analogy is getting worse)

Nesto = my hard-won, sweet, sweet fruit.
Again, I am the mouse.
One of the few men that made me cry in high school, let's name him Tom- the snake.

I finally get Nesto, I enjoy him immensely. I feel all butterflies-romance-giggles-orgasms. I'm behaving myself, minding my own damn business when I go to find a buddy of mine across the bar and he's in deep conversation with someone. I'm thinking, "awww, Ryan found a friend," as I slide into the booth across from them, look up and nearly lose my bottom jaw/bladder control.

WHAM!

It's the snake, Tom.

Wow, Tom was/is my ideal. Huger-than-huge crush on this man, lost to me forever through a woman I also thought was hot. Come home. Sitting across from me. Smiling.

SHIT.

The rest they say is history. I went on the prowl, caught me a Tom and now I'm in a pickle. But y'know what? This is the best pickle I've ever had, way better than Claussens, a muthafuckin' pickle sammich!

We'll see where this goes?

**Disclaimer: I am not using snake with any intention of conveying the traits of sneakiness, "slipperiness," or any other negative connotations. I happen to be a huge fan of snakes, both named Tom and otherwise.**

Disasters Are Relative

I sure was cursing the weather gods today when I awoke because there was a layer of snow on the rooftops.

Now, I'm cursing myself for thinking this was such a big deal. My mother just called me with the news that my grandma is in the hospital. The matriarch of our clan, 94 with class and sass, not invincible.

Ok, let's all stop for a "DUH, Etta!" moment. She's going to be 95 in May, most people don't make it that old, it's going to happen sometime. I've half-joked about being the one that Grandma is going to croak on and I've envisioned buying her house after she's gone, but really imagining her gone? That's flat-out impossible, she's too fucking set in her ways to actually die and I'm not ready at all.

That's it, I'm not ready, so it can't happen. Sounds good right? Let's see how it works.

Feeling Fine

I absolutely adore being alone and fucked up. I sit quietly smoking cigarettes (!) and reflect on the weather, the city nightlife, my state of mind, my relationships and problems. I let myself laugh aloud at myself. The neighbors might think I'm nuts, but damn does it feel good. Due to the f'ed up part, neither time, weather, state of dress or undress or typical day to day problems impede on my mind. I just hang out...with myself.

I had one of these nights on Saturday and I feel better, clearer for it. These are my mind vacations, all for the affordable price of one cheap bottle of red wine. A deal if I must say so myself. (My preferred poison is either Yellowtail Merlot or Ecco Domani Merlot but it was Purple Moon Shiraz this time around.)

I went to Nesto's house, got cozy with him and apparently wore the poor guy out because he was out cold. While I was lying next to him, a light bulb flamed on, here it was, time for a mind vacation! I used the sneaky bed-exiting skills I've perfected on Lola, grabbed my wine, cigarettes and Nesto's leather jacket and headed for the porch. Sitting on wet chair, wearing a jacket sans anything else, I drank my wine and smiled at my mini revelations.

Here's a few I came across: Although I don't endorse slaughter of animals, certainly don't eat meat and probably never will again, I do like the weight of a good leather jacket.

Wisconsin springs are like a breath of fresh fucking air after WI winters. My Louisiana family was in town complaining of the chill while I was sighing with relief at the amazing lack of snow while half-nekked. Hooray.

I really like Nesto. Example of cuteness: He "raises" his own tomato plants from seeds and then transfers them to his backyard. Then, when his scandalous neighbors steal the fruit of his labor, he acknowledges the fact that "they're really good," and this seems to be an acceptable excuse for the thievery.

And finally: polishing off a bottle of wine by yourself on an empty stomach? Always a good thing. I feel fine.

Ode to Royboy

I've been meaning to create a post to Roy for awhile now and today (you lucky bastards) is the day.

Roy is my BFF, a title which I actually introduce him to others as. Yeah, I get weird looks and disdainful half-grins from people, secretly thinking: "did she seriously just say that?" And you know what? I don't care. I'm not ashamed to introduce this man in all his charm and sheer audacious asshole-ness as my Best Friend 4Eva.


And the lame part about it, I've heard him introduce me the same way. Gag.


Roy and I started out enemies on the high school bus. I dreaded riding this bus because I know he was going to start some shit and I would be obligated to end it. He was a racist, sexist, pompous, Republican asshole and I hated his fucking guts. (I believe that may be a direct quote from a note passed in Econ.)


Anyway, we had mutual friends and I learned that he was really rich. Like, really rich. And this scored in his favor, not in the ususal way that "really rich" scores points, but in the manner that you would never in a million years know that Roy is rich from his demeanor. He dressed (and still does) like a hick from the sticks, drove a shitty old Ford Aerostar van that was maroon and smelled of chickens and expired dog food and never even mentioned money.


Eventually we put aside our animosity over underage keg parties and our mutual love of animals and founded a rock-solid friendship in between bong rips and attending traumatic funerals .

Roy is still an asshole, but he's slowly recovering. His sexism and racism rarely show their unwelcome faces (at least around me because I'll rip his head off...) but he's my counterpart in all the ways that count.


This is the guy who hears it all, who knows the best and the worst of me. We disagree on just about everything but we do it with love. My confidante who hangs out with me, hears my stories, makes fun of me so much I just want to kill him...and then do it all over again next weekend.

When people mention a sexual connection between us, I get offended and angry. How dare they besmirch our relationship with such a base desire?! Who the fuck do they think they are? And do they know who we are? We are Etta and Roy, a fabulous heterosexual, non-sexual life partnership.

So readers, consider this post a giant glass of your favorite stuff and please join me in raising it to Royboy, my BFF.

It's My Birthday and I'll Barf If I Want To

I've been a real homebody lately. Lola, books, Nesto, I've been reveling in the three of them. I definitely go through streaks in which I prefer to be alone, to be quiet, to listen to myself think. When Lola isn't yapping, that is. Along with this hermit inclination, I consciously decided to exercise regularly, eat healthy-ish and abstain from my nightly glass of wine.

The first two are pretty self-explanatory, I want to look nice and feel nice. The wine though, ahhhh, I LOVE WINE. Cheap wine. Dry, red wine. Yummmmmm.... When I found myself actually wishing I could have a glass of wine for breakfast before work though, I decided to lay off the sauce for awhile. And it's worked out well, I feel good about it.

Well, today is my birthday. And last night I was due to go out with my Wednesday night pals, Roy and Meg. Royboy bailed on me, go figure but Meg and I got saucy.

After some Celtic Crossing shots and during bar dice I remembered the problem with drinking after a hiatus. Those limits I was so comfortable with, the limits I had meticulously researched during my late teen years in a journal dedicated specifically to my limits...had dropped. DRASTICALLY.

So, I ended up giving myself an intimate encounter with the Porcelain God for my birthday...twice.

Being hungover on your birthday should be impossible along with getting sick while pregnant. I guess I could thank my lucky stars I am neither sick nor pregnant but I'm too fucking hungover.

So wise am I in my 24 years.