tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49894212472481422892024-02-06T19:58:30.430-08:00Confessions of GenevieveFor all the shit I can't say in public . . . oh hell, who am I kidding. This is just for all of my crap in general. Enjoy the ride.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-30272541943407360932011-09-06T21:24:00.000-07:002011-09-06T21:26:58.218-07:00And I woke up with a bra in my handbag . . .There are weekends, and then there are weekends. <br /><br />Labor Day Weekend, 2011, NYC. <br /><br />Somewhere on the Lower East. Four or five Mojitos in hurricane glasses in (mmmmm, Mojitos). Somehow the conversation was on bra size, and the three people I was with (two lesbians and a straight man, mind you) were baffled that I am D cup. <br /><br />I'm wearing a super cute halter top I bought at a boutique in July. Point, I'm wearing a strapless bra. What do I do?<br /><br />Take my bra off without removing my shirt. Three people were speechless. One, more than the rest, as she then played with my bra. It ended up in my handbag as we wandered for another bar with booze. <br /><br />Sunday I woke up and reached to shut the alarm on my phone, which was in my handbag. Imagine my laughter as I pulled out my bra.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-49202943661976667292011-02-02T19:02:00.000-08:002011-02-02T19:18:04.643-08:00Can't go BackLast night, seemingly out of nowhere, a conversation with someone from college crossed my mind. Well . . . it didn't just cross my mind, it hung around like a thick, humid summer's air along the banks of the Ohio on the Bluegrass side. The conversation . . . not so much a conversation, more of a final au revoir moment since I couldn't be what he wanted me to be. <br /><br />Oiy. I could have been "the Sheriff's wife." For real. <br /><br />We drank together, hung out, and never made out. That final conversation was about me not wanting, or being able, to spend my life in a little town we both knew. He grew up there; I spent two years there in my youth. College reunited us, so to speak. As to why it crossed my mind last night . . . I don't know. But damn, if it didn't linger like a hooker's perfume. <br /><br />Even better . . . a dude I dated in high school is now a detective there. Since it is a small town and all, he's pretty much the lead guy. I haven't been back to see the river, bridge, cobble-stone streets, and memories of my youth in ions now. 2002 to be exact, for a wedding. I was there less than 48 hours. <br /><br />Those people, from along that river, and I still circle around one another, find each other, and hold bonds like story book tales of a lost time and place. Last summer I ran into some of them, on the other side of the state. Good times were had by all. Yet, the little town we all once knew as home . . . I'm like a bad country song. The Sheriff and I have a history, per se, and the detective and I once played tonsil hockey. It's like a sad bar scene from an even sadder 80s movie. <br /><br />I can't/don't want to go back, but my mind likes to play nightmares with me remembering long forgotten moments of passing, smiles, and touches of the cool evening air.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-14227736346529971762010-10-10T20:51:00.001-07:002010-10-10T21:08:46.143-07:00There's Something about H&MA friend of mine ponders her <a href="http://ohshitshesawake.blogspot.com/2010/09/is-it-really-just-number.html">experiences at H&M</a>, and I do have to say that A) H&M is noted for small sizing and B)vanity sizes are more myth than reality. They occur on wedding dresses and some low end lines . . . overall, not so much. BUT . . . <br /><br />Around the time C was eschewing her salad for a two bill shopping marathon, I went to NOVA and hung with a college girl friend all day. She's been on the "let's loose my depression weight" train--as I've always known her to be a four--and she had some size tens left over to give my shrinking ass. I should tell you, I am now six pounds heavier than I was in 2008. Booyea bitches. My size four freak needed some new pants, so I traipsed along. We ended up at H&M, and this is where I should not have to remind you that I am always inappropriate. <br /><br />You might also want to know . . . in college a roommate, whom I was friends with for ions and we somewhat talk again now (read: she's on my FB page, and I'm on hers), always played the holier than thou routine. I walked to Kroger with her, on more than one occasion, for the pee test. She also did a lot, A LOT, of the "you aren't paying attention to me" shit. Case in point, on more than one occasion, she stood on our coffee table if the conversation in the room wasn't giving her enough attention. I particularly liked the one when she flashed me her new panties. I was sitting on the floor. See where this is going? Though, in retrospect . . . <br /><br />So, little miss attention seeker is now burlesque dancing. Yup. Here's the thing. In the south we call a farm a plantation, as it rolls off the tongue a little sweeter. Hence, calling yourself a burlesque dancer just makes your stripping sound better. <br /><br />My girl in NOVA, me, and several others have issues with it. But, we roll . . . Well, as Miss NOVA entered the dressing room and remarked on the state of her checkbook and body, I remarked that as long as she didn't start swinging from a pole--for which I then did a pole swinging move--I would be good. Two H&M employees nearly peed themselves laughing, and my NOVA gal doubled over. A few minutes later, as she debated her jeans, I told her that not only did they make her look hot, but "if I were to date women I would so do you in those pants." More laughter. A gasp. Someone's single digit age child heard me. <br /><br />Like I said, always inappropriate.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-63312695183019245002010-09-11T13:07:00.000-07:002010-09-11T13:20:40.136-07:00LieSometimes I get somber and write things resembling song lyrics. Not about the one I call Jackass.<br /><br />Lie<br /><br />I don't want to love you tonight, <br />I don't want to remember they way we were. <br />I only want to lie with you, <br />Like we used to before . . . <br /><br />I won't call, I won't ask<br />About her or your life. <br />I don't want to know how pretty she is. <br />I won't even say her name. <br />I only want the memory of you<br />Wrapped up with me, one last time, <br />Like it was before you lied with her. <br /><br />I don't want to love you tonight, <br />I don't want to remember they way we were. <br />I only want to lie with you, <br />Like we used to before . . . <br /><br />In the morning I'll roll one way, <br />And you'll go the other shaking me off<br />Like the dusty has been memories we are. <br />When you call and tell her you love her,<br />I'll pretend we didn't lie<br />For one final night, like we did before. <br /><br />I don't want to love you tonight, <br />I don't want to remember they way we were. <br />I only want to lie with you, <br />Like we used to before . . . <br /><br />GB--10 Sept 2010.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-55642930444822921912010-08-13T20:48:00.001-07:002010-08-13T23:55:18.437-07:00DomesticityFor no particular reason, my mind has been pondering the effects of my station in life. More so, that I come from a family of conservative Republicans. I am not. Politics are as they are currently, and there is nothing ground shattering to have really rocked my boat so to speak. Yet . . . <br /><br />I was the youngest, and throughout high school I was active in the church. Hell, I was even a Junior Deacon. At some point along the way, well actually at several points along the way, my path changed and I evolved (and at times jumped) into who and what I am. I might sew and crochet, but I am far from domesticated.<br /><br />I love baseball; to be more precise, the only team I care about is the Yankees. I love yelling at the TV or radio during games, I love going to the stadium (which I don't get to do nearly enough), and I love the thrill of the game. I also like drinking beer with said games, or bourbon. If I ever had a significant other I am sure he would become a baseball widow, and I don't really care who I offend with the games. <br /><br />I also like my space. I do not want someone up in my business all day, everyday. I'm the type of girl who isn't going to call you to see how your day went. I am not the type of girl to send text messages wanting attention. Don't get me wrong, I like my attention and all that jazz, but I am not the type to be the instigator every day. There might be a week before you hear from me. Hence, I like my freakin' space. <br /><br />I like to drink bourbon. I prefer it on the rocks, but if I'm up to no good I drink it with coke. True fact.<br /><br />I can be a beast in the kitchen, but that doesn't mean I want to do it every single day. Fuck that noise. I do my laundry when I run out of panties, which really means I'm down to wearing the thongs that act as dental floss on my ass. I frequently leave my dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. I drink my beer from a bottle. I've been known to smoke. If there is a coffee table nearby, my feet will be on it. And, if you haven't figured it out, I cuss. Heh. <br /><br />That being said, my parents would be less shocked and appalled if I were my sister. The person she was twenty years ago better suits elements of my personality now. I am loud, obnoxious, liberal, and single in my mid-thirties. Snort. <br /><br />On the opposite end of this spectrum is my sister. Ten years ago she marched in gay pride parades, saw the AIDS quilt on one of its last showings, wore the lambda symbol around her neck, had dolphins tattooed on herself, and her truck spoke of gay pride. Now? Um . . . she's a self-proclaimed born again Christian, conservative, anti-homosexuality, and . . . (I shudder) a Republican. All I can say is those have to be some good drugs she is on for various mental issues, but that leads me to other things. <br /><br />As in, what the hell would happen to me if I were on those drugs? Would I suddenly become domesticated? Would I wear pearls and vacuum, cook on the daily basis, and no longer be a loud-mouthed Yankee fan? Would I eschew my bourbon for pink colored fruity drinks? Would I become a Republican and embrace the Palin love? I shudder. Absolutely shudder. <br /><br />And now that I've about sent myself in convulsions. . .Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-30343212273410784062010-08-07T17:13:00.000-07:002010-08-07T17:33:41.121-07:00Weird SexIn what seems like a million years ago I posted this on MySpace. Shush. I was cool for like five seconds. I've added some more to the list. <br /><br />Random happenings, in no particular order or year frame. I’ve changed their names. And these priceless tid-bits are the reason that (as my friend PD says) I am the reason two soldiers should not have children. The system made me so fucked up. <br /><br />1. While having sex Stoner said “thank-you.” Really. Then he said it afterward and the next morning. He kept kissing me saying “thank-you.” I had no idea what to say in response. I think I finally said “you’re welcome.” I later learned he wanted to say "I love you."<br /><br />2. Another while having sex, Gyspy-boy said “fuck yeah, oh fuck, fuck yeah.” I still have no response to that one. <br /><br />3. Dirty-boy never looked at me. Two rounds of mattress dancing never got me looked at, but he sure as hell made the noises of enjoyment (as did I). Weird. Dirty-boy he is. Actually, he never did look at me while we mattress danced. Perhaps that comes from the now knowledge that he was banging other chicks, and his now wife, while with me. Classy. Super classy.<br /><br />4. This one is Deflator Mouse number one. Yeah, there’s been two. Deflator Mouse’s grandma came in to get his dirty laundry (ironically, I bet I fall into that category). My hair was still red, and he said all you could see was red curls sticking out from under the covers. He tickled me the whole time, but after she took my clothes I made him go get mine. Deflator Mouse . . . you can figure out the name. Too much whiskey and beers lead to that malfunction. This occurred during college, and after the first deflating occurrence he didn't call for a few weeks. I broke down and talked to a buddy about it. He coined him Deflator Mouse. <br /><br />5. While watching some court television show my Dad asked a dumb question. The case was about the return of sex toys (I shit you not), and my Dad wanted to know what the hell was so important about a Beaver. I, forgetting where the hell I was, told him. You should have seen his face when he found out. I thought he was gonna die as he said “God-damn” and nearly feel off the couch laughing. <br /><br />6. Another priceless Dad moment. While driving along I-95 in Virginia one day he decided to give me shit about my lack of a dating life and lack of a marriage. Yeah, I bet you can figure out that that one went over real well. Well, I matter-of-factly told him that he already had a highly dependable son-in-law that is a doctor. He turned and looked at me in disbelief, started to ask why he hadn’t met him, and that was when I said “And he runs on double A batteries.” The Sarge nearly wrecked the car that day, but to this day he hasn’t brought up the marriage subject with me. <br /><br />7. On another ride with my Dad we were passing through a raunchy area of Richmond, and there was Pricilla’s Lingerie Shop. Okay, Pricilla’s is a porn shop . . . I asked Dad if he wanted to go in and get another son-in-law. He didn’t speak to me for nearly two hours. Priceless. <br /><br />8. A friend of mine recently told me that she closes her eyes and superimposes me for her girlfriend’s face. Okay, that was/is unnerving. <br /><br />9. A certain drug-ridden actor, that I used to dig watching, was given a BJ by my brother. I still can’t watch that guy on screen. As to why my brother told me that story . . . If you got a Ouija Board please ask him for me. <br /><br />10. At a departmental party (for the History Department) a few years back two grad students (I was not one of them) got together and made Boobaroni and Peckeroni Salad. The look on the chair’s face when he realized what he was eating still sends me into fits of laughter.<br /> <br />11. Musical Condoms. Need I say more? No, I’ve never used them, but they certainly sound fucked up. Really, if I ever heard music emanating from me while I was getting my groove on you would see my naked ass running down the road. <br /><br />12. I’ve never done this one, but . . . I have the flag belly ring, a friend has the flag tattoo, flag blanket, and service. So, perhaps we should get one of those musical condoms (as in “The Stars and Stripes Forever” because they come in that tune too) and have patriotic sex. Then I could use it as a source for something about patriotism. <br /><br />Okay, that was even a bit much for me.<br /><br />13. Someone I used to know told me that she joined the Air Force for “the free pussy.” Yup. She’s also had more pussy than I have pairs of panties. <br /> <br />14. An acquaintance asked the nurse if flavored condoms make your pussy taste different: as in snacking after intercourse. Why, why, would you ask that question?<br /><br />15. A friend’s quick fingered kid found my vibe one day. I told her it was a bed warmer, and she said “So you hold your legs together and put it there to keep you warm?” He he he.<br /> <br />16. A girlfriend tells me that her senior year in college her roommate had sex with her in the room one night. Afterward, she slept with her camera every night, as to ward off the hanky-panky. I hear she woke up a couple of times from tossing and turning and took pictures. <br /><br />17. A delicious one hummed during sex. Okay, that one isn't so bad. I want to keep that memory for the good file. There are other things with him that piss me off--like us being friends once, or so I thought, and now we aren't because of the naked night together. That was a good night though. I long for the day I have that kind of chemistry again.<br /><br />18. The salesman . . . Salesman talks ALL through it. Seriously. Why in the name of god would you talk so damned much? Honestly, it kills the mood. <br /><br />19. Larry the Carpenter from Ireland. Apparently, sex with me was so awesome he wanted to marry me. There is a Genevieve shaped hole in South Boston on his account. <br /><br />20. Back to Deflator Mouse. One night he said "You can call me Tim, if I can call you Faith." As in the country singers. Probably wouldn't have been so bad if we hadn't been in the middle of it . . . <br /><br />I should stop now. I think this entry is foul enough.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-84159105396612863482010-08-03T10:33:00.000-07:002010-08-06T07:35:37.464-07:00Things that cross your mindFirst, I axed the Social Spark experiment. Not really into being a product junkie. <br /><br />Onto the things that cross your mind and the things that you just need to "get out" there to get them out of you.<br /><br />Why is it that assholes and players can be the best lovers? Seriously, the best one I've ever been with doesn't want me. Hell, I have a track record of Dudes not wanting to be seen in public with me. No joke. <br /><br />It is funny how we think we have time. That there will always be another shot, and that we can still be that one we let get away. I always thought I would. We evolve, revolve, and know mutual friends. I always thought. Guess I was wrong. Dead. Fucking. Wrong. You don't think a single year is enough time for someone to permanently move on, so to speak. A part of me thought the late night dialogue would come true, and that we would finally--after all of these years--give things a try. <br /><br />In light of my having Lupus and my family's history how will I find someone? Let's face it, having a sick (or what everyone but me sees as sick) girlfriend isn't the ideal. Then, if she has a sister who is a schizophrenic, and uncle of the same (but lesser on the scale, so to speak), and a brother who killed himself several years back . . . Yup, run now if you may. For the record, I generally just say the sister is bi-polar. She is. I just don't disclose much. I'm private like that. I am also practical because people will turn on you on a dime. <br /><br />On that note, I have a beach date with a gal pal today. I am officially dating this lovely city because men have not been good to me, in a parody of the Johnny Cash song "Love's Been Good to Me." It has not.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-7546459983112240312010-07-14T22:14:00.000-07:002010-07-14T22:14:46.112-07:00Um . . .I'm not sure what I should say . . . <br /><br /><!-- Begin I Write Like Badge --><br /><div style="overflow:auto;border:2px solid #ddd;font:20px/1.2 Arial,sans-serif;width:380px;padding:5px; background:#F7F7F7; color:#555"><img src="http://s.iwl.me/w.png" style="float:right" width="120"><div style="padding:20px; border-bottom:1px solid #eee; text-shadow:#fff 0 1px"> I write like<br><a href="http://iwl.me/w/d7939cdb" style="font-size:30px;color:#698B22;text-decoration:none">David Foster Wallace</a></div><p style="font-size:11px; text-align:center; color:#888"><em>I Write Like</em> by Mémoires, <a href="http://www.codingrobots.com/memoires/" style="color:#888">Mac journal software</a>. <a href="http://iwl.me" style="color:#333; background:#FFFFE0"><b>Analyze your writing!</b></a></p></div><br /><!-- End I Write Like Badge --><br /><br />The LA Times did call him one of the most innovative writers of his generation.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-55834505184081910402010-07-14T21:08:00.000-07:002010-07-14T21:43:56.628-07:00And They Only Get Stupidier.Yea. . . as the ball rolls we all know I don't converse about my relationships until they have gone down the crapper. Well, since I'm telling you now you should know what to listen for: the rapid flushing of the toilet. Snort. More so, dating confuses me more (in my mid-30s) than it did when I was in middle school and Andy held my hand at a dance. Pfft.<br /><br />Here's what I don't get. I thought we were just having a fling, of sorts, and that was it. He's a two-time college dropout, salesman, pot smoker galore, and on a side of lazy I don't like.* So when he started to act upset that I wouldn't be here for his birthday, that I didn't call him for a week or so, that I got a place in Astoria, and others oddities I was a little confused. Even more so, that when I asked him to help me with a dresser he said no. Actually, I should back track. <br /><br />When I went to Kentucky for work I asked him to drive me to the airport, and he said no. Said he didn't want to and yada yada yada. Then he posted on Facebook that he would have taken me. Seriously. The dresser . . . the other night at his house he tried to tell me that no doesn't mean no. Are you kidding me? This dude is officially the craziest of the bunch I have been with. Granted, Jackass still remains the <a href="http://genevievebabychz.blogspot.com/2009/08/yahoo-messenger-is-going-to-be-death-of.html">biggest ass and jerk-off</a> of the bunch. This insanity gets even better. <br /><br />This fling dude sent me messages tonight asking about my interview yesterday, which was good, and then when I mentioned that I'm still worried about money he was all "you had to live in Queens." I responded that I'd lived on Long Island for years and paid more out there. Then . . . he's all "I'm not trying to argue with you." This, after tonight's comment amongst others. The more I think about it I think he wanted me to move in with him. Not. Gonna. Happen. A) he lives on the island, B) I don't want to, C) he's a slob, D) his Momma still pays all of his bills. She does that so he won't be back at her house, and it started when he lost his job last year (before getting a new one).Seriously, not including his car payment, car insurance, rent, cable, and utilities he put 1500 on credit cards last month. She called him more than pissed. <br /><br />Did I mention that last weekend he texted me and tried to pick a fight with me that I needed to be with him and not at my best friend's wedding? He claimed that he was drunk and joking. I swear. <br /><br />Anyone seeing where this is going . . . insanity-ville. I just don't get the whole "no doesn't mean no" crap. I need a drink because clearly this dating thing only gets dumber as I get older. On an upside, I got hit on by no less than three men in the neighborhood today. <br /><br /><br />*Don't get me wrong, I like being lazy from time to time . . . just not ALL the time.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-60448067335454160762010-06-22T00:09:00.000-07:002010-06-22T00:27:35.498-07:00Beauty ShowsRight now I'm watching "Little Miss Perfect," like a deer caught in the headlights. Why? Good Lord, I can't really tell you why I haven't turned off this crap, but I can tell you the winds swirling in my head right now. <br /><br />I will never understand why people* feel the need to pour pounds of makeup on little girls. Seriously, no self-respecting woman wears that much make-up. I would dare say Tammi Fay Baker never wore that much make-up. Good Lord, land of the living. Some of these little girls have so much make-up on that I can't really see how they can hold up their little heads under all the weight of that goo. <br /><br />Then there is this business of the flipper, and these aren't the flippers you swim with. These are flippers to put over little girls teeth to make them perfect, straight, and shiny ass white. Um, little girls are supposed to have imperfect teeth as they are still growing into them. <br /><br />The poor girls have hair extensions, spray tans, and starve themselves the day of a show. Seriously. <br /><br />On another note, why is is that so much of this insane hoopla with making little girls look like hookers in the land of Texas?<br /><br />For the record, I once competed in a beauty pageant in Texas, in a lavender dress with ruffles, and curls in my hair. No, I will not show you pictures. Yes, I will pummel you if you ever bring it up. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*Notice I said people and not women. I attempted to not be sexist or stereotypical.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-80146386248493455672010-05-22T16:59:00.000-07:002010-05-22T17:08:10.080-07:00Anatomy of a desktop.In the midst of writing about Piper and Vaughan, revising a scholarly article, and catching the game I looked up to realize my desk could probably tell it's own story. I also needed a break. <br /><br />I make no apologies for the top of my writing area, as the rest of my space is good . . . <br /><br />Ignore typos . . . there are a couple in the pic.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLl5C79RDKkVi8jUyrxnfsLKGiJ_7BIyexke5jGaF5mVgqYEnLgSG2p-Q3iO_DVJaNr3uR2aYGs652Z-1-XasJfdU55kGOs37u0Pfpd2dhMJnsQi-JOj8wLioO1luPYu2FzGH-8ZgEvAs/s1600/desktop_0001.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLl5C79RDKkVi8jUyrxnfsLKGiJ_7BIyexke5jGaF5mVgqYEnLgSG2p-Q3iO_DVJaNr3uR2aYGs652Z-1-XasJfdU55kGOs37u0Pfpd2dhMJnsQi-JOj8wLioO1luPYu2FzGH-8ZgEvAs/s320/desktop_0001.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474248591594226546" /></a>Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-15438447212407078342010-05-14T01:53:00.000-07:002010-05-14T01:59:57.965-07:00Laid, or not.In the middle of packing my clothes for a month of long needed respite from the crappy economy, shitty work environment, and yada yada yada I got excited about wearing my shiny disco shoes, dresses, going to bars, a Yanks game, and maybe having an adult encounter of the civilized kind. That is when I thought it prudent to pull out my condoms. Okay, I didn't have to look far, but my being a nerd and all I did check them for expiration. Dude, I have six weeks before the laytex gods say they are less useful than a bucket of chicken. Tasty, huh? And did anyone get the low brow pun there? <br /><br />I am shamelessly wrong. <br /><br />Since I'm on a roll of being inappropriate, here's one a couple of folks have seen . . . not many. <br /><br />i need to get laid<br /><br />two months is too long. <br />having to write <br />to pay for batteries. <br />i should take stock. <br />doc j isn't cutting it anymore. <br />saddly nasty, <br />i know. <br />I need to get laid.<br /> <br />talked to carl yesterday<br />long email today.<br />does he want me?<br />i think i want him.<br />he's weird<br />i'm weird<br />maybe we will combust again—<br />would be warm.<br />he’s never cold.<br />he invited me over,<br />maybe he'll carry through this time<br />i need to get laid<br />he's fun,<br />misses me,<br />was glad to see me,<br />but i think he's got a girlfriend.<br />they might be fighting.<br />who knows. <br />his hair was spiked.<br />his beard wasn’t groomed. <br />he smelled of beer<br />and last night’s room.<br />it was all i could do <br />not to eat him up, <br />and him me. <br />i need to get laid.<br />a friend eyed us<br />and wanted to know why we aren't dating. <br />she doesn't know him . . . <br />only me. <br />i need to stop missing him. <br />just when i am fine, <br />he comes in. <br />next time i'll make him buy <br />beer and cigs. <br />i need to get laid.<br /><br />talked to charlie today—<br />a friend of carl. <br />he came first,<br />but not for long. <br />carl came next, <br />but left before dawn. <br />charlie stayed <br />until i left town. <br />he's weird. <br />i'm not weird enough. <br />i lost weight. <br />he gained his back. <br />looked jealous of me <br />in my new body. <br />i am sexy. <br />his face is hot. <br />his body is not. <br />his gut was over his belt. <br />wonder if he can see his dick. <br />i don't need to get laid that bad. <br />we had a civil conversation. <br />that was weird. <br />what planet am i on? <br />i need to get laid,<br />but do i need it that bad?<br />i wondered why i missed him.<br />oh, i remember.<br />he got me laid.<br />we joked about laundry and beer. <br />he said something about the laundry mat. <br />think it was a lame ask out. <br />i passed. <br />like i said, <br />i don't need to get laid that bad. <br /><br />two months has been long, <br />but not long enough. <br />i need to get laid. <br />dick number one<br />dick number two. <br />i need to get laid. <br />i think i’ll hold out<br />for dick number three. <br />i need to get laid.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-45791585714506734942010-05-06T11:56:00.000-07:002010-05-06T12:07:35.676-07:0070s DiscoSometimes things have no meaning . . . they are what they are. In that regard, two weeks ago friend and I were chatting and clowning around. L is getting married in about two months, and she was asked if she bought her undies for the big day. She joked back that she wasn't planning on wearing anything. <br /><br />Well, a few hours later while waiting in the car for her somehow the conversation got back to her not wearing undies. One of her bridesmaids remarked that she needed to talk with her, since she would be helping her get dressed. I, being a delightful jackass and pointer of the absurd, remarked that she did. Why? Because "there are somethings you don't want to know. Like if she goes bikini, Brazillin, or 70s Afro." At the 70s Afro comment, J doubled over laughing. We asked her why, and . . . <br /><br />"I've got an image of a 70s disco dancer in my head."<br /><br />At that I started singing "Stayin' Alive" to a chorus of laughter. At some point, reference was made to Miranda's character on a recent episode of "Grey's Anatomy" talking about keeping her "area" clean with "soap and water like God intended." There may or may not have been a chorus about "thank goodness that got admitted on TV." All should be good, sides aching from pain, and . . . <br /><br />That night Afro 70s man haunted me in my dreams, as my vagina morphed into the head of said 70s dancer, in white polyester, singing "Stayin' Alive." Oh. Dear. God.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-52655095442031340912010-04-18T23:14:00.001-07:002010-04-18T23:21:22.163-07:00Back from the virtual dead, I presume.Yea, yea . . . the pen name hasn't been working so much lately. Why? We'll will get to that in the next few weeks. <br /><br />In the meantime, just note that I've been teaching in several prisons. I have learned several things. <br /><br />1. I hate teaching in prisons. <br /><br />2. I do not enjoy being told that some students must pass even though they can barely read. <br /><br />3. If someone ever tells me I am "advertising" again I might go insane. <br /><br />4. I hate teaching in the prisons.<br /><br />5. If I don't get back to the north shortly I will loose my sanity and self-respect. <br /><br />6. I hate teaching in prisons. <br /><br />7. I miss wearing perfume, jewelry, and cute fucking shoes to work. No pun intended on the "fucking shoes" part.<br /><br />8. Community College classes in the prisons are what they are. <br /><br />9. I would rather die ugly and alone than end up a with a prisoner. <br /><br />10. I HATE teaching in the prison. <br /><br />Now . . . I bet that will suffice for a reason I've been MIA since September. That and I'm still processing the whole sister surfacing after five years. People who do not take responsibility for their actions, and those with multiple mental issues they try to pass off on you are not my favorites. <br /><br />It is two am. One paid article written. One blog done. Now, I'm off to sleep and dream of wine bottles and mojitos. Seriously, why am I out of these things?Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-20439120662769044472009-08-17T22:21:00.000-07:002009-08-17T22:59:33.706-07:00A Better Woman Than Me . . .Today I got a media mail from Jeni. Yea, that's no biggie there. The first one was of Sunny Bunny sitting on the couch pouting, I think. I have to admit that even in a pouty mood the little bitty one is still damned cute. Then, not more than an hour later I got another media mail. This one came with the title "This has been my day." Um . . . with a title like that you gotta know something is up.<br /><br />I opened the mail and instead of an adorable photo of Sunny Bunny or Sugar Plum playing, making a mess of a cake, or pretending to wear a nose ring I heard screaming. It was both of the girls (two and almost one). I was on my way into the market, and I groaned and mumbled "birth control . . . birth control." The grimace on my face certainly showed. I replied back with "yuk." Now, normally I would have responded back that I was saving the mail for a birth control method the next time I wanted to get laid, but I know Jeni well enough to see that my normally funny line would have not been amusing. <br /><br />Roaming through the produce section of Wild By Nature, Jen started sending messages. She told me about Sunny Bunny's lying on the bathroom floor and screaming for twenty minutes because she wouldn't put her on the potty. She told me about having to put her in her room, where Sunny Bunny proceeded to hit and scream like a possessed woman. Sugar Plum is teething. See the picture? <br /><br />About this point I sent:<br /><br />Dear God, <br /><br />Please send Jeni coffee and baby Valium. <br /><br />Her response:<br /><br />PLEASE!!!!!<br /><br />After telling Jeni that this ranked as a "selling motherhood moment" and that she would survive, I also quipped that husbands can be worse and childhood memories could be surfaced. About this time Sunny Bunny fell asleep, probably exhausted from her antics, and Sugar Plum began playing with the laundry Jeni was folding. In the midst of the calm life came back to normal. <br /><br />Here is where I can't help but see a strange circle of sorts. When Jeni and I left New Mexico in 2000, I told her she was going to miss her boyfriend (now husband). They were moving to separate states. She adamantly told me no, and that I was wrong. I will never forget when I told her that she was going to wake up and realize the bed was empty, not be able to think, open the freezer and realize she had bought things he likes to eat that she hates. Sure enough, a few months later she called me one morning and without saying hello she said, "You were right, and you are a better woman than me. You can be alone." When they got married in January of 2001, she told her whole family about that phone call. Funny thing, I've never really been with someone for an extended period of time. Yet . . .<br /><br />Days like today, when Jeni is at her breaking point, I get an immense kind of childish glee to tell her that she is now the better woman. I may live alone, and all that jazz, but the whole tricycle motor department trumps that I think.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-88527068631916920952009-08-14T18:43:00.001-07:002009-08-14T20:09:11.013-07:00People Watching with BBSo last night an old friend and I met up for dinner. Dinner at John Harvard's was good, and the atmosphere made for an entertaining evening. Okay . . . so you should know that BB and I are generally jackasses together. Well, last night made no exception. When we worked together, there were faculty meetings we got shushed at and group scoring of portfolios got us not only shushed but put in different groups. Let me give you three examples of unadulterated humor. He he he.<br /><br />1. Early twenty-something jock dude sits down at the bar. We had a booth in the bar, so some of this is to be expected. Jock Boy has on camo cargs, a t-shirt, and backwards ball cap. He sits at the corner stool, and the seat on the adjacent corner is empty. Apparently he is waiting for someone as he sips on his Pale Ale. On the other side of this empty seat was a man in his middle years (grey hair, older face) dressed similar to Jock Boy. About the time I am sitting there thinking "Damn, you never really know the shape of people's asses until they sit them at your eye level" BB mutters about gayness in the air. I detract from my randomesque asses thought and ask him what he means. He mentions the clothes of the guys and asks "Don't you think that's a little gay?"<br /><br />"Eh, no. That's standard uniform anymore. But if they were the the same colors from head to toe . . . "<br /><br />"Oh, okay." Our apps and my beer came so I never did make my statement about ass sizes, which is probably good. Seriously, a rather large dude had sat his asscrack on the stool directly next to me, so I got to see his girth bubbling over the sides. I am sure he would have heard me if I had asked BB. Well, maybe not . . . but there are somethings you don't want to test. <br /><br />As we munch on our apps, the Jock Boy finally has his companion show up. So, he's dressed in the similar cargs and hat attire, but when he sits down he puts his foot on Jock Boy's stool leg and leans in. At this point BB and I started wondering when they were going to nuzzle. <br /><br />In the midst of this, BB asks me if the guy at the end of the bar has tattoos or hair on his arms. I quickly glance back and shutter. As I turned around I uttered "eeeew, hairy like a sweater." BB couldn't help but laugh. Here is where I should mention that our waitress made several passes at our table, and it seemed that every time she paused our way she overheard our observations. Her attempts to hide her laughter were apparent. <br /><br />BB and I concerned ourselves with our Nachos and entrees, and in the midst of a delightful conversation Hairy Guy headed to the toilet. On his way there we couldn't help but notice his studded black belt, cut off shorts, and of course the black sleeveless shirt that caught our eyes earlier. I let out more than a giggle and reached for my phone. BB shook his head telling me I was going to get him beat up. I reminded him that I had never been the cause of that, but he reminded me that there is always a first. On the way back from the toilet Hairy Guy stopped at the hostess station. I got my picture, and BB took one too. We both laughed ourselves silly, and our waitress came over about the same time with BB's beer. She looked at the direction of our giggles and laughed too. <br /><br />Yea, I know . . . we are so lucky we didn't get beat up.<br /><br />2. While driving BB home we stopped at a red light to hear some young twenty-something's asshat music. Not just his asshat tunes, but we saw his tinted windows, wannabe gangster look, and then we caught he was talking to someone. Um . . . on the other side of a me was a female version of him. As the light turned to green and we rolled around the corner I commented that "Now there's a female asshat. Yea, I bet she used vaginal deodorant because of those tight pants." In all honesty, her windows were down and not only could you see her heavy makeup but you got a full view of her circulation stopping drawers. <br /><br />Sucking in air and shaking his head, "What?"<br /><br />"You know . . . those women who wear those skin tight pants have to use somethin' down there to cover up the skank smell."<br /><br />"So, Celine Dion does? You know she's always in leather pants."<br /><br />"Yea, has too. You gotta spray the vagina . . ."<br /><br />"Ha! Seriously, that vagina comment was too much."<br /><br />Perhaps. Good thing asshat one and two were busy getting numbers and dates in traffic or we would have been shit kicked because the windows were down for our conversation. <br /><br />3. At Sevs BB and I went in for cold drinks. On the way out he noticed a bleached blonde, with a fairly nice body, but her face was hidden. As we got in the car he noted that her other half was clearly a gym buff and had a flat haed. Seriously, he was a guy with a couple of hoops in his ears, the silver rings, and the trademark swagger of a gym rat womanizer. As we waited for those two to check out and turn for a front facial view of blondie, BB remarked that we were bad together. I piped that we were on the road to the poe poe or beatingville. About this time blondie turned my way. As we busted out laughing because her face looked like a cement truck hit it, I thanked god we were in a locked car. BB remarked that "she has the face to stop a cock."<br /><br />As the couple got in their car, they turned and looked to us shaking their heads. I know they could hear us laughing. In retrospect, we are lucky fools to have our faces in tact.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-43922009874908367862009-08-09T22:11:00.000-07:002009-09-09T17:46:14.300-07:00Yahoo Messenger is Going to be the Death of Me*I started this on 9 August. I finished it on 9 September. <br /><br />In April unpleasantries happened on Yahoo chat. I'm not talking about that. Then there was that posting about "Asses and Family." Yea, that shit was just superfly special. Then last night . . .<br /><br />Last night I got blasted by a friend because he didn't like a joke I made. This is only the third occurrence this week. This time . . . he brought me to tears, more than once. I made a comment about something he said was creepy, and when he took offense to the creepy word I said (in all honesty) that from anyone but him it would be creepy. Seriously, he said he wanted to choke my throat with his hand take me with his sword. Then I got yelled at for putting him in the same class as random guys. I said I was sorry he took it wrong. He carried on. Finally, he told me I should say I was sorry I upset him (which I never should have done). I did that, and it didn't stop. He told me I should always look to myself for the blame and that I blame everyone else, and nothing (and I do mean nothing) I said was right in his mind. I told him I blame myself for my entire life, as so many of the choices I have made have catastrophically exploded in my face. He knows about something from fifteen years ago, that I am not going into here, and what he said tonight about it was just horrible. He knows I blame myself for not having a job. I am a jokester about my job hunt, and I make jokes frequently about it because I have to to survive. He told me I am so bitter that I can not see the truth. He told me that I am blind liberalism, and the conversation tonight wasn't even about politics. In all reality, I do have a job adjuncting, but I strive for more. He told me that I am not where I should or want to be. I told him, once again, that the move to Virginia was financial. He then came back saying that he doesn't care what state I am in that I am not where I should be life wise. He went on to tell me that I blame myself for everything and that I am miserable. Seriously, he had just lambasted me saying I don't take blame for anything. I got yelled for so-called comparing myself to him, I got a snide statement about having my degree, and he used my title in a negative manner again. Yes, I know. He would say that I am making this all about me, when I was the one who offended him. Through all of this, I reminded him that I am pretty happy these days. Well, that was until he brought me to tears three times. Yea, I was up all night. <br /><br />I let someone take my words and twist them. I let someone rip me from the inside out. I let someone bring back things that I have long struggled and dealt with over the years. It's shitty how these things happen. One moment can reverse you in time and keep you up at night. I look at myself in the mirror enough to know what is wrong with me. I know that I am mal-adjusted. I know that I am bad with people. I know that I am not a social person--never have been. I know that I am sarcastic, but those who know me know how to read it. He should by now, but according to him I continually make him feel bad about himself. Yea, because of a comment tonight to that I've made in the past few years to him and he's laughed.<br /><br />If I make him feel so bad about himself, why does he keep me around? And, what about what he does to me? Like tonight for instance. When I asked him what happened to make him like this the past week I got told that I was making it all about me again. Yup, the same old cuts. This morning I called his phone at 7:30 am and told him that his words were out of line and uncalled for, that I was sorry he had been railroaded, and I told him he needed to stop taking it out on me. I left that on his voice mail. <br /><br />Late this afternoon I saw my Yahoo Chat had offline messages for me. I got an apology with the word if, and he said that he just noticed I had been in a funk lately and wanted to help. Heh. Here's the deal: I am not in a funk. Even when I'm the most frustrated, I am still pretty happy. And, is he kidding me saying that was an attempt to help? Yea, he said he was sorry for going so wrong on me and that he'd talk to me soon once he gets his head back. <br /><br />I just deleted Yahoo messenger.<br /><br />***<br /><br />On a side note, he deleted me as a friend and the only way we ever talked was via text or sometimes on Yahoo. Guess who doesn't care anymore?<br /><br />The choking thing . . . out of line. <br /><br /><br />On this same note, I have three regrets in life: Paul, moving back to VA, and that I have no work history outside of academia.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-68942383602266126262009-07-18T23:17:00.000-07:002009-07-18T23:48:18.605-07:00The things that cross your mind.It's funny how sometimes things never cross your mind, and then (like lately) it is like a whole bag of memories found you all over again. <br /><br />Here goes. Things I never write about. <br /><br />The events of twenty years ago seem like more than a distant memory. Sometimes I wonder if they happened at all. Then again, I don't like to think about those things because after all of this time I still feel and ache and I still miss him. <br /><br />Steve was the coolest dude in school, and by default I got to be cool for just being friends with him. What made him cool? Probably because he learned his coolness from his two older brothers. That is what I always chalked it up to. In 80s fashion he wore his sunglasses inside, spiked his hair in strizzle fashion, and just reeked of coolness. I often wonder what the hell he would have turned into. More so, I wonder what kind of friends we would have been later on. <br /><br />So what brought him up tonight . . . flipping through the channels I heard the opening chords to "How Can We Dance When Our Beds Are Burning," and I sat and listened to the entire song. Funny, a song I rarely hear I still know on opening chords. The story comes from a sixth grade music assignment where we had to sing a song. He sang that, and while singing the song we stared at each other. I think we knew then that there was something amiss with us. We weren't just friends, like we proclaimed, and everyone else argued against. We got kicked out of class together, laughed together, drove teachers to the brink of insanity, and made a general ruckus of ourselves. Good times, indeed. <br /><br />None-the-less, Steve got fussed at for song selection (we were at a religious school after all), and I haven't the foggiest as to what I sang. I am willing to bet the others from that class don't either. Why do I remember that song so damned much? Maybe because it was a joke between us that he always sang parts of it to me, that we busted out in chorus in math class singing it (yup, hall visit that one brought), and we were outcasts yet cool because of our oddities. The funny thing is is that we loved getting kicked out together, something our teachers never really grasped. I honestly don't really recall what we carried on about to get kicked out so much, or what we conversed about in the hallway, but I do know that Steve remains my primary memory of those formative years. I can still tell you the first time I saw him and the last time I saw him. <br /><br />I bet those same teachers would have outright coronaries if they knew what I do now. I bet they would scathe and foam at the mouth to know I've been published on the regular schedule of my life. I bet they would rethink parts of their careers if they knew that what I really recall is not the Daily Devotional, the asexual relations of plants, the divisions of decimals, or the "proper use of color" in art. Yea, let's not go there. <br /><br />Heh.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-37285478081372201562009-07-06T20:29:00.001-07:002009-07-06T21:06:56.668-07:00Somethings from the pastHere's something I never really write about. Tonight I'm feeling . . . not nostalgic, but that is the closest word I can get. <br /><br />In 1989 a friend of mine died in a car accident. It was December, and as story books would have it it was a cold, snowy, and icy night. Steve died that day, and I will never deny the fact that not only did I take that hard but damned hard. This year makes twenty years, and I can't say that he's haunted my mind everyday for two decades. Though, I most certainly have thought about him through the years. <br /><br />Odd things about it . . . when girls turn into women and realize they are in their 30s the conversation almost always turns toward that first love, and the first love is almost always of the middle school variety. We giggle about doodles in notebooks, phone calls, first kisses, and that first gift. I got my first gift from Steve, which about two people know that fact, and sadly he died the next day. I didn't find it in my locker until a month later. Yea, Steve died right before the holiday, and it was left in a set of lockers that we rarely used. When I found it I remember thinking that it was like a voice from the grave. Sometimes, I do still think that. It was nothing more than a small teddy bear with a Santa's hat, about the size of my hand in total, but it certainly makes for a great first gift. <br /><br />I still have that thing, packed away in my Christmas stuff, sometimes I pull it out, and I rarely make mention of where it is from. Usually, I tell people it was an unsigned gift in the seventh grade--true--but I don't tell anyone that the handwriting on the tag was clear as day Steve's. I don't tell them that I sat that January night in my room looking at that stuffed bear with tears falling. I don't tell them that sometimes, sometimes, my memories creep up on me and take me back twenty years to adolescent angst, acne, and big 80s hair to see Steve running up to me yelling "Hey, Hey . . . I've got a joke for you."Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-47044634005174433512009-06-30T22:22:00.000-07:002009-06-30T22:27:50.299-07:00Snot Out of My NoseResumes. I’m drafting my C.V. to Resume form for some jobs (yea, yea . . . I know), and seriously I just about blew snot out of my nose reading some of these template resumes. Aside from the posting of personal information (i.e. home phone, address, school data), someone had a resume with ribbons all over it, another with her picture (notice I am employing my feminist genes and not making a remark), and . . . the one with flowers AND a picture. Yup, that one was my personal favorite. <br /><br />Some dude said that he showed honesty and security with handling large sums of money at Wells Fargo Bank. Yea, this actually means “there were bank cameras so far up my meager teller’s ass that I couldn’t so much as sneeze without setting off an alarm!” Then there are the statements about “To find a position that showcases my ability to use my talents and skills.” Yea, really. Use your talents and skills? Isn’t that what everyone wants? I hear I’m good at French Kissing, should I put that in my resume under special skills? We all know it really comes out to, I’ll work for less than that chump with the college degree. Hire me sucker.<br /><br />Okay, so I’m irritable at the moment. Well, who wouldn’t be with snot coming out her nose? None-the-less . . .Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-9199373639562446172009-06-17T20:12:00.000-07:002009-06-17T20:19:16.223-07:00Oh God.Sitting on the couch, listening to the rents discuss who took off their sleep mask first (they have those medical ones to help them sleep)I rolled my eyes. <br /><br />"Yea, it's always nice to hear 'Put your mask on Old Woman' or 'Shut up Old Man' in the middle of the night."<br /><br />My father, in his tactless glory, said "Well we all know what you yell out in your sleep . . . Peter, Oh Peter." He doubled over with laughter, as I picked up another stitch in my knitting. <br /><br />"Heh," I mumbled. "It's more like 'Oh God' you dirty old man."<br /><br />Then the man without hearing said "I thought you didn't believe in God?"<br /><br />"Yup, I'll believe in God if it gets me a job or laid."<br /><br />His mouth was on the floor while I cackled like a jackass.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-55333770262816195382009-06-01T16:25:00.000-07:002009-06-01T16:28:48.552-07:00Glimpses completeWell, I finished the latest short story. And . . . I sent it out to four lit magazines. It is bad form to blanket 25 or so, so I do four at a time. Rejection rates for fiction are incredibly high, so this could be a long and sad process. Sadly, for fiction I am used to it. <br /><br />Now, off to work on either A)making it book length or B) finishing another short story about Piper and Vaughan. Mmmm. I kinda of like these characters and I think I will play with them for a while more. <br /><br />The "Soldier" story is still in the works. Much more difficult genre to deal with on that one.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-29016769769769209382009-05-31T18:46:00.000-07:002009-05-31T19:53:35.231-07:00GlimpsesI spent the weekend on Hatteras Island, NC (I have friends who rented a place, otherwise my broker than broke ass would have not been there), and things got stirred . . . Here's from something new. <br /><br />Don't ask me where it's going, I have no idea. And NO, I had no such bizarro fantasy while in The Banks. You've even got typos. That fresh.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Glimpses</span><br /><br />Okcracoke Island is the typical, oft written about summer island for vacationers owning or renting houses. It’s unobstructed beaches prove fertile ground for waves catching, sunbathing, and outright lounging. It’s a small, secluded place, with just the right amount of trees and shore and people. It’s characters range from the leathery and old to the young and new with stores selling knickers and homespun purses. Tiny roads twist you around this island, and in the village even tinier roads house homes for the old and new. “For Sale” signs dot the landscape, more so than usual this year, and as we turn to the bend to head to the craft store the cutest little cottage catches my eye. <br /><br />It’s faded white paint, gently chipping away, one story bungalow, almost hidden in the trees with the sand and crushed seashell drive way scream of retreat and release. The “For Sale” sign urges entry, but I already know I cannot even dream of a house right now. Yet, as we turned the corner I got a glimpse of life with Vaughn.<br />I saw him standing on the porch, holding a sack of groceries from the market not a mile away, I saw a black eight ball Swingline bike parked in front of the porch next to a pink one, I saw half dead orchids on a table partly obscured by the open doorway, I saw Gerber Daisies in planters under the front windows, and then I saw myself. <br /> <br />I came from the dim hallway, in a flowery cotton summer dress with a head rag holding back my hair. I had to have been writing as I had a pen in it, and my face had that far off look. My skin was barely tan with deep with summer, and as I looked closer at him Vaughn’s was too. How could this be? Was he here with me too? Did we live together, did we own this house? Did he own this house and I only the visitor? <br /><br />He kissed me on the cheek, in that sweet and soft way of his, and the kiss was almost buttery and deep rose sweet. <br /><br />“I bought the stuff for dinner. Dan and Sherry should be over the ferry anytime now.” His was still the same, his tone still captivating and soothing, sweet to only me, and recognizable in any crowd. Yet, something was different. <br />Playing with my hair he murmured in my ear, and I put tomatoes and corn away while giggling. The bandanna on his head covered his hair, but it was covered in paint. As I stopped to look closer at the scene Vaughn was in denim overalls with the signs of an artist’s frenzy work all over them. All I could think was please let this take me to his studio and I wonder if I sold a best seller. I must have because this place requires cash. Oh God!<br /><br />…<br /><br />I must have muttered “Oh God” because Cindy asked if I was all right. Rolling my shoulders back in a care free island way I told her yes that I just couldn’t get over the beauty of the place. Pfft. Really, I was shitting my pants because I didn’t know what in the hell just happened. <br /><br />No sooner had I seen my life as we turned to corner and I came back to reality. Three shoeless boys peddled their bikes down the narrow cottage road balancing handle bars and ice-cream cones while we maneuvered the car to the pottery and craft shop. Shaking the glittery cobwebs of Vaughn from my mind I climbed out of the car and wandered into the shop. Nothing in the shop really struck me, and we left without buying. <br /><br />The Village Peddler has rooms partly filled with trinkets and knickknacks—the kinds of things I loathe—and Indulgences made me giggle as I saw a tote with my favorite designer’s fabric. I pointed and said “Hey, that’s Amy Butler fabric!” I didn’t but because I make my own bags, and I like my constructions better. The young couple of the store had a small baby, and they were working on feeding him. As we left, a wave of incense from a nearby shop wrapped through my nostrils and Vaughn and I were in my study (I presume so with it’s Mediterranean Orange walls, rows of books, and photos in kitschy frames). Damn, I want to see his freakin’ studio, not my nasty, empty coffee cup filled office. <br /><br />“I have writer’s block,” my fantasy self wined as she slunk down into a well worn leather office chair. Vaughn, still in the same over alls and bandanna, gruffed.<br />Rubbing her shoulders, “You always say that when you have a rough part. It’s only rough until you finish it, and then you get all giddy and drink champagne on the docks with the tourists like it’s 1999.” <br /><br />“Mmmmmm,” she tries to nestle her head on her shoulder with his fingers. <br /><br />“Oh shit!”<br /><br />“Are you okay,” Cindy reaches down to help Piper up while rolling her eyes at me. <br /><br />“Really, where the hell are you today? I realize we are on vacation, an island, and all that jazz, but I think you’ve gone on a little too far off the radar. You just tripped over nothing.”<br /><br />“Ha. Ha. I’m fine . . . just making sure you’re on your toes. Though, perhaps I should rethink my plan. Bodily injury on my part is not fun.” Flexing my knee, I rolled my fat ass up and tongue flipped Cindy off. <br /><br />“You are a moron.”<br /><br />“And you’re a retard for hanging out with me,” at that I drug Cindy into next tourist trap shop while silently thinking I was losing my God-given mind. Though, being able to finish this fantasy might be nice. . .Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-48956953181442351072009-05-27T19:46:00.000-07:002009-05-27T19:50:24.549-07:00Asses and FamilySometimes people are just asses, and sometimes no family member can be trusted. <br /><br />The very short end of this story is that my father’s family disowned me a few years back, and I don’t care. They are alcoholic asses, treat me badly, and I don’t enjoy the insults. His sister is particularly awful, and I make it a point to avoid her at all costs. My father hasn’t spoken to her in two years, and he only did so when she called. He keeps the conversation short, and he cuts her off. Why is any of this important? Because whenever she is in contact with us or my former sister I get attacked. Attacked by her, other family members, and my life becomes an outright hostile zone of warfare. <br /><br />Well . . . my mother asked me to show her how to set up a Facebook account so she can keep up with old friends. My mother then added the alcoholic bitch of an aunt as a friend (FYI Facebook tells everyone when you do these things). Can someone please tell me why she would do this? I saw the alert a few weeks ago, and since two cousins I used to spend my summer’s with got cold and distant. They no longer message me. I have now deleted them. And, Shawn a cousin I’ve been particularly close to blew up at me again. <br /><br />He has a history of mood swings—the booze and drugs don’t help—and you should know he contacted me . . . NOT me to him. He came to see me, uninvited and unannounced two summers ago, and he tried to bully me. I was in the middle of a health crisis, cancer scare, and I didn’t need his shit. He left without saying a word. His then girlfriend has always stayed in contact with me. How sad that he can't . . . <br /><br />This time . . . he caught me on Yahoo messenger and wanted to know why he hasn’t heard from me. Said he didn’t have my new cell. Kept badgering the issue and the fact that he found out I went to see his old girlfriend a few weeks ago. I ended the conversation and went to bed. Woke up to him saying “You aren’t perfect.” I forwarded him a sent email that had the number. He continued to blow. I told him to leave me be. I won’t go into the specifics right now, because I am soooooooooo mad, but I have him blocked from emails, my phone, and my life. <br /><br />The point is he said that I use my brother’s death, my sister, and my health as an excuse for my behavior; that the problem is always me; that I never apologize; and that I am a spoiled brat. He called me immature, insulted my education (again), and the list goes on. I finally did it. I told him that at least I have a career and didn’t take more than a decade to get a two year degree (which he still isn’t finished with). He flat out said that he’s talked to the booze laden aunt and others about me. Bringing up my brother is out of line. More so, Yahoo messenger is going to be the death of me. Only one person can see me online now (he's fighting a war, so I chat with him on rare occasion--old, old friend). <br /><br />As usual, Booze Bitch had her way. I got attacked again, and this time it is nice to know that my mother stirred the fucking drama.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4989421247248142289.post-16064538546170392022009-05-20T21:33:00.000-07:002009-05-20T21:50:39.913-07:00Solider Home, Solider GoneSometimes days like the past few days make you fall apart and internally combust, and then the past several months shake you to your core. I still am pondering what the hell I am going to do with my career, but in the meantime . . .<br /><br />I get pensive. I get thoughtful. I get humiliated. I write. <br /><br />I send out short stories. I get rejections. I send out more. One day I'll break in. In the meantime, you can read pieces here. Here's a snip of one I am working on.<br /><br />Solider Home, Solider Gone<br /><br />He could still feel her lips on his as he boarded the plane. They had been slightly moist, tinged with coral lip gloss, and tasted like sweet rain. Her eyes . . . filled with tears, not letting him go, and he could feel them as he walked away. He knew then that he wouldn’t see her again, but she didn’t. Even if he did make it back, his heart already told him that she wouldn’t be the same. Her tenderness, her young campy nature, her gentle touch would mean nothing on his return. But, he clung to her memory anyway—not in hopes of changing his mind, but in hopes of getting him through the next twelve months. Twelve months of forced solitude with hundreds of others all clad in shades of brown. They were taking off now, and he closed his eyes, humming her favorite song, and held onto the memory of her kiss for a moment more. <br /><br />***<br /><br />Three months before he had received orders, calling him to leave his home and job—saying that his time had come, what he had signed up for was now here, and that his country called. Eight years ago he never thought that this would happen. Hell, most folks of his generation never thought it would happen, but now it was. He joined to pay for college—in a oft repeated statement that he had to because his dad drank away his college fund—but he never “signed up” out of some deep ingrained patriotic desire to serve his country. Nope. He was strictly for the monetary gain and free school ride. Shit, now it was all coming to an end. <br /><br />Those first three years in the Army hadn’t been that bad. He was young and green, and the imposed discipline wasn’t too unnerving. It gave him a sense of purpose and direction. In the end, that was all he really needed. But then he had gotten out, earned a degree, and found a content and happy life as a computer data programmer for some company on Long Island. The pay wasn’t bad, he lumbered through his days, and once a month went and rejoined his Army days. Not that it mattered much . . . he still did the Guard out of habit and an instilled sense of devotion. But he never dreamed that he’d see and do what he did. <br /><br />So everyone knows the story . . . two planes took out part of New York City, a plane took out a wing of the Pentagon, and another went down in Pennsylvania. Yeah . . . we all know, and we all know that the US military went into overdrive afterward. Men and boys volunteered, Guard units were called, and the country sang “My Country ‘Tis a Thee” in practical unison. A patriotic fervor broke over the land, uniting one and all, bringing out the “bold and the brave,” and guys like Roy quickly turned into “men.” Roy was never meant to see what he saw, do what he did, or become what he did. He was supposed to be the quiet kind gentile young man that every mother wanted her daughter to bring home for dinner. Instead, a year in Iraq turned him into a rotten son-of-a-bitch, and one that didn’t hang around long enough to hear what anyone had to say about it. Just like when he left he was gone, when he returned he was gone too. <br /><br />The desert taught him solitude in numbers. It taught him multiplicity in the few. It taught him to loath himself and those around him. His bunk mate, and the guy who kept his back, was from Boston—a real ladies man so to speak.Genevieve Babychzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15307431922902629093noreply@blogger.com2