Liveblogging the Baby Trying to Steal My Mail

This darling toddler, wearing a fetching jean skirt and a cute pink shirt is standing by the mailboxes, trying, repeatedly to open them.  Now, she’s marching through the yard, lifting her knees way up out of the wet grass.

Mrs. Wigglebottom is watching her intently, wagging her tail and trying to bark in her friendliest way.  Now, Mrs. Wigglebottom has come over here and is sitting by me, but watching out the door.  Now, Mrs. Wigglebottom is back at the door.  Now, she’s looking forlorn at me over her shoulder, as if it’s my fault that the little girl won’t come visit us.

A felonious baby may be the most exciting thing to happen here at the dead end since the great “Young Girl Rides Big Circles on Her Pink Bike” incident of forty-five minutes ago.

I’ve been trying to do some work, but every time I sit down to concentrate, I start thinking about whether the article Sarcastro linked to the other day gets at something important or really misses the mark.  But when I sit down to write about it here, I get distracted by the sheer joy of deciding how I’m going to respond to Sarcastro’s insult.

I mean, I guess it’s an insult.  Just to bring a post full of girls around to feminism, isn’t it cute that Sarcastro assumes that insinuating a girl has a lack of sexual experience is somehow insulting?  Apparently he lives in some alternative universe where society smiles on slutty women and virgins are roundly denounced as boring and not highly prized*.

Anyway, I had to decide whether to go that route in replying to him or whether it’d be more fun to claim that he was getting on in years and secretly in love with me.  I went the route I thought would cause him the most discomfort.  I reproduce it here for you, in order to save it for posterity, should he decide to take it down:

Oh, Sarcastro. When you call me and ask me to talk dirty to you and I finally relent and agree and ask you what you want to hear and you say “Say I’m the first man you’ve even ever kissed,” that’s not real. That’s just a friend helping a delusional old man deal with sobriety.

And now I’m making it worse by talking about it here.  Maybe it’s not funny to anyone else, but it makes me laugh pretty damn hard.

So, vagina dentata–Freudian fantasy or myth designed to explain to parents for millennium why some boys butt-fuck each other?





*Yes, one might point out that this place exists and it’s called Liberal Coastal Elite America, but our darling Sarcastro is not a member of said liberal coastal elite.

Ten Things I Believe Which are Probably Demonstrably Untrue

1.  That houseplants benefit from being put outside in the rain.

2.  That, if I fall walking across I-440 on the Acklen Park bridge, I will not fall straight down or even into the path of oncoming traffic, but will, instead, fall onto the interstate.

3.  That eating a little poop doesn’t hurt the dog at all.

4.  That the orange cat is capable of evil intent, and thus, when he pees on my comforter, it’s because he’s a fucker and thinks that the bed was not made to his exacting standards.

5.  That there is nothing baking soda can’t aid in cleaning.

6.  That fresh air is so good for you that you should open all your windows as soon as you can in the late winter or early spring and leave them open until the heat is unbearable.

7.  That the Butcher, Mrs. Wigglebottom, & the cats owe it to me to refrain from using whatever it is I’ve cleaned for as long as possible.

8.  That the orgasms are better and the sleep more satisfying in a cool room.  Ha, this may be related to 6.  I hadn’t considered that.

9.  That though the Ohio is a perfectly nice river, it’s just not as great as the Mississippi.

10.  That “I Can’t Explain” would have been better if the Kinks did it.

Things Aren’t always what they seem

–It turns out that Kleinheider is very cute in that conservative white boy way.

–I thunked the dog on the head this morning.  It didn’t hurt her, just startled her and got her out of the road and away from the other dog–who, of course, was not on a leash–,but I feel bad about it.  Still, I don’t know what you’re supposed to do when you need the dog to listen to you immediately, because, say, of two approaching cars, and the dog is in “I can focus on nothing but the thing that has my whole attention.”  Yanking on her leash doesn’t work.  Calling her name doesn’t work.  But thunking her on the head did.  Still, yuck.

–The best thing about having male readers who lived through the 80s is that I know, eventually, I’ll be able to have a great “Who had the best mullet?” contest.  Right now, the only two I have are the Nashville Knucklehead and the Wayward Boy Scout.  But I’m sure there are other great photos of y’all out there.

–Lindsey kind of gets at my favorite thing about Memphis, that feeling that, when circumstances are just right, truly weird shit can happen.

–Bridgett sent me this quote from Invisible Cities, which is, I believe, my favorite book ever.

Kublai asks Marco, “When you return to the West, will you repeat to your people the same tales you tell me?”

“I speak and speak,” Marco says, “but the listener retains only the words he is expecting. The description of the world to which you lend a benevolent ear is one thing; the description that will go the rounds of the groups of stevedores and gondoliers on the street outside my house the day of my return is another; and yet another, that which I might dictate later in life, if I were taken prisoner by Genoese pirates and put in irons in the same cell with a writer of adventure stories. It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear.”

God, I love that book.

–So, I thought I was supposed to be over at the Recovering Baptist’s at three this afternoon.  Turns out, it’s next Sunday.  In celebration, the Butcher is going to try to talk Yellow Brand Hammer Co. into having a cook-out.  How these things are related, I’m not sure, but it made me laugh when the Butcher suggested it.

Oops. Shit.

I was so busy dancing around to "Miss New Booty" I forgot that I have to go get the Butcher.

I’m going to be late.

I am a terrible sister.


I Found You, Miss New Booty

It’s not a very good song, but I’m totally in love with "Miss New Booty" by Bubba Sparxxx.  It just tickles me.

Also, check out this article.

And not surprisingly, on his contribution to Got Purp, Volume 2, Bubba paid homage to the Claremont Lounge in Atlanta; while it’s never gonna be namechecked to the extent of Magic City and Blue Flame, Claremont has a special charm of its own, if you’re into strippers named Goldie being able to crush beercans with their chests.

That’s where the Wayward Boy Scout took me!

Those Libertarians keep me so cultured.