WELCOME to the glory that is
Paracetamol
not responsible for lost items (minds, limbs, virginity, youthful idealism, whathaveyou)
keep your arms securely inside the car at all times…
Month: July 2003
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Posted 7/28/2003 at 3:22 PM by rache
(docuphoto by timantec)
1. Leave a comment saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond; I’ll ask you five questions.
3. You’ll update your journal with my five questions, and your five answers.
4. You’ll include this explanation.
5. You’ll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
1. would you choose to live your entire life in a time period other than the one into which you were born? if so, which one? if not, why?(it’s the fab Rx painkillers, isn’t it. it’s okay, me too.)
personally, I would like to live in the future, where there are presumably BETTER painkillers and Rx’s are a thing of the past. my life is too cushy to consider going too far into the past. if I could be a fascist dictator or roman emperor…I’d have to consider that. reality past, wow, that’s a bit real, smelly, and dangerous. final answer…I’d like to try my hand at securing a spot in the jazz culture of the early twentieth century.
2. do you have any expectation of how you will die? if so, is there a reason for your belief (family history, etc) or is it completely irrational?
I don’t really know, although some say they do…but then, I’m not really open to knowing. I don’t want to know. it is my fervant hope that I see my children into adulthood, and beyond that, outlive them all. if I can make it through middle age without getting cancer or having heart problems, I would be profoundly grateful. in that case, family history would weighted in the favor of my death at 85-95 from a series of debilitating strokes. my PREFERENCE would be to cark it from one massive stroke immediately before losing my mental capacity…seeing as that is already impossible…well, what was I saying? who dat? who dere?
3. what terms do you personally use in casual conversation to describe breasts, buttocks, and genitals? what terms do you use with your kids? what terms, if any, do you find too distasteful to use?
casual: boobies/boos, butt/bum/ass, penis/willie/johnthomas, vagina, vulva, “special purpose”
formal: breasts, bum/bottom, private parts
there is no word I’ve heard that I find distasteful to use (at this time). I love the word CUNT…just can’t use it enough…in fact, it’s printed on my nightgown. I have a dear dear friend we call Cunt. in fact, I have a nightshirt that says cunt, with a crown over it. it got relegated to night use because the children were horrified when I wore it during the day. I tried putting electrical tape over the word, but where’s the fun in that?
4. do you have any absolute, undeniable regrets? something for which you can find no redeeming value? if so, what is it?
I know this sounds heroically trite, but not really. I have made a WHOPPING share of bad choices in my life…choices that had negative consequences…but tragedy’s the shortest distance between two points. if I had to do it all again, my life would be very boring, because I WOULD do things differently given the knowlege, and I’d prefer things the way they are right now.
okay, wait, I’d like the opportunity to go back and make my former waitress/barista/fishgutter self wear wrist braces, so I wouldn’t have to use this stupid natural keyboard with my laptop.
5. you have to have a name tattooed boldly across your ass. whose name will it be?
my own… SUPERSTAR!!!
but if it has to be someone else…hmmmm…
Bagwan Bill the Cat
does it have to be human?
why is this the question I’m giving the most concerted thought to??
I’m really thinking hard about this!
Thelonious Monk. but there’s actually a xangan who was a close second.
OKAY! bring on the request for interviews…I can take it! -
THREE of my watches went tits up in one week…two on the same day.
my talking bubbles (ppg) watch
my fancy red leather coach watch
my chunkysilver brighton watch with the tiny hands I can hardly read
so I am stuck wearing the one that looks vaguely like an oyster rolex. bleah. trip to the battery shop at the mall. bleah.
I found this picture at my dad’s… along with a bunch of smurfs.
it’s quite possible we were all virgins, imagine that. I’m the one with the legs through the life ring. I have so much eye makeup on that I look like I have a black eye.
medrud…second from left on top.
I wish I could remember what that shirt says.
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whenever I have a drinkie my theme song comes on in the background.
amazing, really, how that works…
’cause she’s a brrrrrick…
howwwwwse…
she’s might mighty…
so, you know, whatever, I was in wenatchee…I don’t think I’ll feel the need to that again for, I don’t know, ever, I guess.
I just called my dad’s answering machine so I could talk to my cat, Peter… I said: here kitty kitty kitty, helloooooo Petie! Peter Peter, Pumpkin Eater! who’s a good boy, who’s a kitty boo boo?
poor baby…he must be lonely.
oh man, I must be hammered.
I spent most of the day at the mazda dealership in another county…
bought my first minivan. and a wagon.
here they are:
of course, we didn’t buy a banana colered car, do people really?
I care fuck-all for the color, as long as it isn’t dark green. ours are (respectively) sage and navy.
the saleswoman, refused to give us back our truck keys. I shit you not…for one hour she held us in dealer limbo because we were too polite to say, “give me my keys you motherfucking cunt.”
prolly a good thing since we did end up buying a car.
the manager came out to our truck to try to convince us to come back in and haggle some more. I said, LOOK, just let us skate to macca’s for a half hour, recover a little dignity here, wouldja??”
we decided that whether or not they were perfect cunts about the whole thing, it really was a decent deal in the end. after four hours of manipulative bullshit, they finally gave us what we asked for in the first place. poor little kia men didn’t get our business, though, and they were far nicer.
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what I read while I was gone:
-harry potter book two
-the handmaid’s tale, atwood
-sorcery rising, jude fisher
-nickel and dimed, on (not) getting by in america , barbara ehrenreich
-the life and art of charles schreyvogel– painter, historian of the american fighting army, james horan
chas schreyvogel sounds an aweful lot like my granddad.
…not just a great artist, but a great Man.
mom and I got our feet done
and wouldja look at all those girl cousins??
(those are mine, that look like they might melt if water touched them)
an we stopped by our propity to take a look see.
sell or build…sell or build…
then I read nickel and dimed and not getting by in america and decided I was lowlife capitalist scum, no joke. we should sell it and open a low income daycare center.
I still haven’t read fast food nation. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.
excerpt from nickel and dimed:
guilt, you may be thinking warily. isn’t that what we’re supposed to feel? but guilt doesn’t go anywhere near far enough; the appropriate emotion is shame– shame at our own dependency, in this case, on the underpaid labor of others. when someone works for less pay than she can live on– when, for example, she goes hungry so that you can eat more cheaply and conveniently– then she has made a great sacrifice for you, she has made a gift of some part of her abilities, her health, her life. the “working poor,” as they are approvingly termed, are in fact the major philanthropists of our society. they neglect their own children so that the children of others may be cared for; they live in substandard housing so that other homes will be shiny and perfect; they endure privation so that inflation will be low and stock prices high. to be a member of the working poor is to be an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor, to everyone else.
this book should be required reading for all north americans.
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so ALL of us went to the highland games, which I didn’t expect.
we had sponsor passes, so it wasn’t like a big economic decision or anything. but still, I was surprised that the man actually went. he was expecting it to be a big snoozefest and then was all, “hey look, knives!”
I wish he was a geek like me…these things would be so much easier.
I mean me, I’m all, “LOOK, MEAT PIES” and star trek makes me verra verra happy. it’s all so simple when you’re an aging girl geek.
the boy is quite pleased…he purchased a long sword and a non-official replica of Sting (which if you don’t know what that is, you’re not geek enough to read this). the girls got fairies, and I got a meat pie.
someday I’d like to squeeze me a piper. but not today.
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in my hometown, there was this dry cleaner’s on the seedier side of the main drag, you know? we used to drive around a lot, being as there was nothing to actually DO in said town. we used to stand around in parks a lot. one night we fake fought just like william shatner as we sang the star trek fighting song: duh duh duh duh duh duhduh duh. we drank perrier and ate french bread. my mother found my bottle opener and WOULD not be convinced that I used it for perrier. we were rebels of the worst kind.
so anyway, this dry cleaner? they never changed their sign. each week someone would steal letters…until finally, all that was left was: pants. weeks went by and it never changed.
so one night…with the stealth of kittens…we sidled up to their door and taped up a big note:
take down your pants.
little did they know we were just teenagers.
I bet they were shaking in their boots.
