Every Girl Needs a Kick-Ass Theme Song

Speaking of Rob Zombie, my kick-ass theme song is his “Pussy Liquor.” I could not love that song more. I love to put that CD in the car stereo, roll down all my windows, and turn it up as loud as I can take it.

I love it because it has a walking baseline and a big brass section, and this chorus that when you sing it makes you feel not like a regular office worker in the yakkity-smackity field, not like someone no one at Pith In the Wind finds funny*, not like a girl who can’t escape the Freudian psycho-drama at home, but like a dangerous, scary thing that might kill a man.

One, two, three, who should I kill?
Every motherfucker running up the hill.
One, two, three, what should I do?
Get fucked up and fuck up you.

It’s true, I would be driving a Camaro around if I could. Shit, I kind of am. Ask anyone at Daimler Chrysler and you get enough drinks in them and they’ll tell you that the lines of the Dodge Stratus are supposed to remind 30 something professionals of the Camaros they saw in the high school parking lots.

What can I tell you? It worked on me.

Anyway, I saw Rob Zombie’s house on Cribs once and was totally disappointed. It’s dedicated to scary things, but it itself is not very scary. When I get some money, I’m going to live in a crazy-ass scary house. I’m going to sit on the front porch in my bathrobe singing “Pussy Liquor” softly under my breath and terrify the neighbor kids.

*Worse than not finding me funny–or my preference, insightfully funny–they seem to think I’m serious! That I think Egalia and Brittney are crazy and need medically induced orgasms to cure them! What the fuck?


I spent my lunch tidying up around here. I’ve now got all my Midwesterners and Tennesseans in the order I actually read them, which only makes sense to me, I guess, but it feels right.

I added another designation of people, so that Folks Who’ve Sent Folks My Way was not made up people who only send themselves.

I also added some links I’ve been nurturing in Bloglines and now feel confident you will enjoy or hate, either one.

And, I’ve now got the Queen, who I think thought she could quietly have a blog without anyone noticing. Ha, ha, ha. Read her. Marvel at the fact that I know anyone so creative and well-spoken. Marvel even more at how awesome her blogroll is.

Obviously, let me know if I’ve forgotten anyone or if you find links that don’t work.

Rumors of the Recalcitrant Brother

Supposedly, if he can okay it with the kid’s mom, the recalcitrant brother and my oldest nephew will be here in Nashville at about midnight.

I am excited, don’t get me wrong, and I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with him this weekend, but America, I remain as tired as ever of the way that the drama between my dad and brothers remains so central in my life in ways I can’t figure out how to control.

I mean, of course I want the recalcitrant brother to come and visit. But it pisses me off that he doesn’t call me or the Butcher to make plans. No, he calls my parents, who don’t even live here, and makes all these arrangements and no one sits down at any point and even bothers to say “Here’s the deal, he’ll arrive at around midnight… blah, blah, blah” let alone “Hey, B. It’s your recalcitrant brother. I’m thinking of coming up there next weekend (or tomorrow, or today) and I’m wondering if I can crash on your couch.”

I have to find out what’s going on at my own house by osmosis. And there’s never any consideration of whether or not I already have plans. There’s just this assumption that my life can be and should be rearranged in ways that they never ask of the boys*.

It goes back to my continual complaint. In my family, girls take care of people. There is no way that I can see to escape this dynamic without ceasing to take care of at least the people in my house which would mean that there would be no one to pay the bills, which would mean we’d live in a box under 440 with the rest of the hobos. Not that the cats would mind this…

I mean, folks, get this. I caught my mom on the back porch talking on the phone to her Insane Friend. (And when I say insane, I mean this woman’s husband cheated on her repeatedly and left her for another woman and she still let him have their house because his new woman had four kids still living at home, so they would need the space, and the Insane Friend thought that if she only sacrificed enough, her husband would realize what a good wife she was and come back home–to a house she’d given him, I guess. Who the fuck knows?) And they were discussing how sad it was that both me and Insane Friend’s niece had been living in Nashville for a while and were so lonely.

And then my mom is like “How can we get them together?”

Yes, America, my mom is trying to make friends for her 31 year old daughter. I am ashamed to admit that I lost it at that point. First, I have friends. I tried to make a great show out of letting them meet in person a couple of my friends, so they know I do have them. Second, do you know how old this girl is? Twenty-two. Yes, nine years younger than me. (But only, for those of you wondering, two and a half years younger than the Butcher.) So, there I was yelling at my mother about how my house is not a fucking Home for Wayward Socially Awkward People and that it’s not her fucking job to make friends for me and not my fucking job to befriend every lost soul who makes her way to Nashville.

I am about ready to send the whole lot of them home and here they are inviting more people up. Well, what the fuck, America? Come on over. Just bring your own towels, because we’re out of clean ones. It’s easy enough to find my place. Just get on 440, head towards Memphis, and when you see the remains of a beer chicken failure, just climb over the retaining wall. Ours is the place with me sobbing quietly outside on the front stoop.

*I know I promised no more feminist crap for July, but I’m a liar. Sue me.