Disturbing Dream

Straight from the recesss of my brain, a region that is now under permanent lockdown and is being made to dance with a pair of underpants on it's head, came this screaming unholy banshee of a dream. Rosie O'Donnell remade the entire 'Ziggy Stardust' album (picture her with the haircut if you will), and made a rockumentary about it with Tom Cruise. Part of the conversation was how important it was for them to look good for their public, and Rosie said that a stylist had taught her how to femme up but that she would show up for premieres in glammy dresses and Chuck Taylors. Then another stylist had turned her on to wide shoes impregnated with KY so they slid on and off easily (this makes no sense at all, you know she has drawers full of the stuff).

I do not welcome any interpretations. It's bad enough that I remembered this dream. Though it does occur to me that it contains a famous lesbian, a famous closet case and a famous bi-sexual (or was at that time, Iman is a deal closer).

In unrelated news, I have lost three pounds just by 'cutting down'. Yay! I may have lost more weight as a result of the dream, and certainly will not be enjoying my food as much as usual today.

Something else that puts me off my food is those disgusting Fruit Gusher commercials where the kid (whose head is a swollen blue raspberry) sneezes and blue snot explodes over everything. These are the most repulsive commercials, which is ironic, because I have to admit, I think the charms of the Fruit Gusher can stand on their own. Chewy outside with a sweet, gelatinous interior, they're pretty good, considering the nearest they have been to fruit is passing a fruit tree in the truck from the chemical plant to the store. I always steal a bag when I get some for the sprog.

Venus and Mars

Somehow or another, I stumbled across this this link. It's a little pat but it cracked me up. I have to say, the very best boyfriend I ever had was a number three. Balding at twenty-two, pale and a little weedy, he was very, very, very smart, funny, kind and sexy. Of course, at the time I thought he was a little dull, but now... Maybe I need to go trolling here.

Anyway, it's all academic because I'm basically out of the game these days, but if anyone ever expresses an interest in me, I can more or less bet they're a number one. Or a special subspecies of number one who believes they are being compassionate by being interested in a single mother. Any right minded man would approach dating a single mother with extreme caution, and I have no respect for anyone who doesn't. And mushy talk equating single motherhood with being on a par with Joan of Arc in terms of bravery, self-sacrifice etc., etc., doesn't cut any ice with me. Which probably makes me some variant of a bitch. Oh well.

It also occurred to me while reading this that the existence of the word 'misogyny' is in itself misogynistic, just the whole concept of hating all women on principle. Is there a counterpart for hating men? I can't think of one. Misanthropy is just everyone.

Something else that makes my head hurt is this news: the American Council of Muslims denouncing terrorism. I can see this biting them in the butt. One man's terrorism is another man's pre-emptive invasion of another country as a result of a Shakespearean vendetta to avenge his father.

I feel a sense of anticipation that finally the heat-wave is going to break. I've been coming home and languishing on the couch going 'Mah, mah, I do declare this heat is something terrible, ah will have to loosen mah stays and sniff mah smelling salts. Beulah, fix me some of yo' lemonade now, d'you hear?' (in spite of the fact that my air-conditioning is cranked to 78 degrees and makes the house sound like it will launch any second).

Speaking of lemonade, I would really like this.

I'm beginning to think my link usage is getting a little cutesy. I'll try not to do it so much.

Santorum

Sometimes I don't know why I watch the 'Today' show because it really, really annoys me. Katie Couric bugs me with her 'sexy girl reporter' glasses, and her fake, caring earnestness, and this morning she interviewed Rick Santorum, pitching his book, It Takes A Family (how clever). What a reactionary dickweed. Here's a quote from the book:

"What happened in America so that mothers and fathers who leave their children in the care of someone else -- or worse yet, home alone after school between three and six in the afternoon -- find themselves more affirmed by society? Here, we can thank the influence of radical feminism," Santorum writes.

"Sadly the propaganda campaign launched in the 1960s has taken root," said Santorum. "The radical feminists succeeded in undermining the traditional family and convincing women that professional accomplishments are the key to happiness."

Never mind that radical feminism has enabled me and many other single mothers to establish professional careers and buy homes so we can provide stable, loving families for our children. Never mind that families in poverty are less concerned than 'being affirmed by society' than with putting food on the table and providing a roof over their heads (prerequisites one would imagine for a happy family). Never mind that radical feminism has improved some families immensely by not being constrained by 'traditional' roles. Never mind that the whole notion of a 'traditional' family and a golden past era of idyllic families is totally bogus.

I wonder how supportive Mr. Santorum would be of implementing real family-friendly policies, like decent maternity and paternity leave, or a welfare system enables women to better themselves rather than being forced into minimum wage job?

Of course, he sets a superb example to his children of ethical behavior.

And while I'm in a rant mood, Wendy posted an excellent, hilarious, well justified rant. And read the comments too!

I had a fabulous time at the beach this weekend with Michael, Rebecky, Jesse, Pinky and Mr.P. Michael made me scream in bed. Actually this was due to our respective sleep disorders of sleep shouting and panicky dreaming and not my magical homosexual curative powers. And my son had a fabulous time with my neighbors, who planned this awesome fun weekend for him - I was very touched and grateful. How interesting that the kindest, most supportive people in my life are non-church going hard-core liberals. I'm just sayin'.

Dream

I welcome any interpretations.. I was in a bus with a bunch of people I know, and we were going on a road trip and going to parties. The destination - San Francisco, or at least a weirdly pyschedelic version of it with gigantic pom-pom flowers everywhere. All the parties we were going to were situated on a steep hill, and to get to each house there was a really hard to negotiate rickety ladder. The first house was really beautiful with a big open hallway with really shiny wooden floors but completely empty. The guy who owned it was a jackass because he was going to rip out all the cool old decor - the bathroom had dusty pink wallpaper with bunnies and Mabel Lucy Atwell kids all over it.

Then I talked to the brother of one of the (real) people in the party and he said he dressed up as a panda because he had dark circles under his eyes. Sure enough, he looked just like the 'real' person with dark circles. The 'real' person confessed to me he had insomnia and I was like 'Me too!!!'.

Then we went to another house after climbing a really big steep cobbled hill, and the ladder to the house had a really hard to negotiate trapdoor and lo and behold - it was my house (I know Michael will have a field day with this one). Anyway, I had a huge piano in the corner of the room which no-one played, and someone started playing it and it spontaneously combusted. Actually, now it's becoming pretty apparent what my dream is about. Anyway, my piano fire was doused and the wet, panting, spent piano removed from my living room, and we all left my house. The End.

In my kitchen this morning, I notice the Tiny Kingdom of Ants, which I had hitherto ignored in the security of my gianthood, is growing. I believe they have marshalled outside forces and are starting military drills. They have made a few cursory, but effective attacks, on sink crumbs. I am growing increasingly frightened and concerned, especially knowing they have breached Michael's stronghold and made a bold strike on Cat Food Mountain. I fear I may be next...

Drawers

Yesterday, during the storm, the lights were flickering, and so I went to get some matches from the kitchen drawer, and I realized I now search through drawers like they do in the movies, all scrambly and dramatic. When did that happen?

I have finally scratched this itch. Now I can pretend to be indifferent to it all again. BTW, for those who haven't read it, it ends pretty much as suspected...

I also finished my sweater that I won't be able to wear until fall. I have to say it looks better off than on, because that style highlights my Willendorfian qualities. Now I am bereft and I have to find another project. I don't feel quite right without my fingers working away (shut up).

I've been hearing this commercial for 'Release - weight loss that works'. Well a) you know it doesn't work and b) release is one of those words that has a Connotation; either poo or orgasm depending on what kind of day I've had. I can almost feel a slackening in the sphincteral area every time I hear that commercial. Given that it's probably neat caffeine tablets, maybe that's not entirely inappropriate.

Dancing with the Obscure

I know the surprise hit of the season has been this show (don't you want to be John O'Hurley's mistress?), but my son and I have been addicted to another show - the fabulous Dance 360. The DJ drops it, the beats are fresh and the dancers bust it loose. It's on WB (natch) at 5.00, and is awesome. The contestants are a bunch of kids who are trying desperately to be 'street' and who say things like 'Yo! Who says white girls can't dance?'. I think secretly they are all students at Miss Ponsonby's School Of Genteel Etiquette and Dance, because the whole thing is weirdly wholesome - is it the out-of-date, mannered slang, or the fact that one of the hosts is a Nickelodeon alum, or that the prize in the dance-off is a paltry $360? Who knows?

Well anyway, the show has had the side effect af making my son and I dance badly around the house hollering 'Tag your man, tag your man, tag your man', and that can't be a bad thing.

Billy Bob Thornton disturbs me. I guess because 'Bad News Bears' is coming out, he seems omnipresent. He reminds me scarily of my ex, his looks, his persona, and most of all, his unsavory aura that you could go and have an innocent lunch with him and end up spending three days in a rat-infested sleazy motel drinking Jack Daniels out of a dirty tooth-mug in your underwear.

And here's a piccie of the cake from last week: Cake : Book

Porker

That's me. My blogpal Christa has bravely announced to the world she is on a diet, so I think it's time I did the same. I need to join the Y as well so I can play nerf-ball in the pool with Michael, and I suppose lift some weights or something.

I can actually summon up a lot of will-power to lose weight but I need a little trigger of some kind. Last time I lost weight, I got started because an extremely attractive man made a dead serious pass at me, and that kept me going for ages.

It's hard to motivate myself being a single mother because I basically don't have too much of a social life and NIL sex life, and I can't really figure out how to change that (unless I turn into an incestuous pedophile). So food is my main sensual outlet right now.

My energy level is much higher than my son's, so pyschologically speaking, it's a lot easier to be fat and passive than it is to lose weight and have this energy with nowhere to go, so it's definitely a double edged sword to lose weight. But I need to do it! It's such a fucking pain but I guess part of being a grown-up.

So I'm enjoying my last cup of coffee with half-and-half right now. Expect crankiness, bitchiness and grumpiness in the next few months.

And I know this is probably the wrong time, but this is the dog's bollocks (especially French Silk).

PB and Fucking J

Every single day for the last thousand years, I have to get up and make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder bread for my son's lunch at camp. He also enjoys a PB & J as a getting home snack, as lunch on the weekend and sometimes for dinner. I DO NOT GET IT!

The peanut butter in itself is fine; I would enjoy this in a sate sauce, or on a piece of celery, or just by itself on a spoon. Why he (and millions of other American kids) enjoy something that sticks to the roof of your mouth and absorbs every molecule of saliva, spread onto another substance that sticks to the roof of your mouth and is equally absorbent is a mystery to me. It's like eating a maxi pad. If I bake bread, two days later, it's sort of hard and needs resuscitation in order to eat it. Wonder bread however, stays spongy and squishy for days and days and days. Maybe after two weeks, there's the barest hint of some firming in texture but it's subtle, and rapidly undone by wrapping in cling-film for an hour or so.

And don't even get me started on grape jelly. Maybe if I was fed this from an early age I would like it. But to me it tastes like that sensation you get when you eat tinfoil and it hits a filling. Except in jelly form. The only time I liked the taste of Concord grapes was when I was pregnant, and I think that it was some form of pica.

In Scotland, where I grew up, the default kid's purple flavor was blackcurrant. Yummy, yummy blackcurrant. And we ate Nutella (though that may have been my mom trying to be 'Continental', as is her wont).

Wendy came to town

Wendy came to town for a reading at the Regulator, and stayed with my dear friend and neighbor, Michael, who threw a great post-reading party. I'm a bit in awe of her, not because she is intimidating in any way, but she's so funny and perceptive and smart that I worry about being a dorky goofball in front of her. Which of course makes me behave like a dorky goofball.

I already have this , but now I want to get this too. I would laid down my dosh right there at the Regulator but Michael needed me for party flunky duty. And I also want the Weightwatcher card book when it comes out. I didn't get to do the whole American sleepaway camp thing, but I do remember my desperate, desperate lust to be a Brownie and wear that little dung colored shirtwaist with the yellow tie, just like all the other eight year olds, so I can relate. Needless to say, I never got a single badge nor do I remember anything outdoorsy about it but I do remember knitting blankets for the children in Africa. Just what they needed.

We had a lot of Locopops while she was here - along with other Durhamites with good taste. They have a phenomenal lavender cream one which tasted like soap would taste like if soap tasted good.

I made a cake for the party which I was secretly quite proud of and I'm hoping someone will do my bragging for me and post a picture......

London

I'm sick to the pit of my stomach, but unfortunately, not terribly surprised. My sister and husband who live in London are both fine. It's too early to tell right now, but I'm worried the casualty figures are going to be huge. What a horrible, awful tragedy.

Scotland the Brave

As a Scot, I am very proud of the fact that Scottish asphalt (or tarmac as it's properly called) managed to get past security and inflict some damage on the Pres. I think he should hang up his bike shorts - he seems to have an 'inner ear problem' . I've heard that that can also make you choke on pretzels.

It's strange to see a sleepy village like Auchterarder splashed all over the news. It's like the Scottish Mayberry (apparently complete with bumbling police officers).

I'm praying that the G8 leaders get some good food, after Chirac making that crack about British food sucking donkey balls (maybe not his exact words..). Apparently, Schroeder and Putin chortled along - excuse me? German food? Russian food?

War of the Worlds

Dear Mr. Spielberg,

Did you look in the bathroom trash basket when you were small and see something nasty? Did you have a traumatic experience when you were a teenager getting to third base with a girl during her 'special time'? Did one too many of your Hollywood liberal actress friends make you watch their childbirth movies? Clearly, you have major issues with women's reproductive systems.

That being said, 'War of the Worlds', though cheesy as hell, is superior cheese. Maybe not hand-crafted artisanal buffalo mozzarella, but a pretty decent Cracker Barrel.

Tom Cruise is entirely unconvincing as a working stiff, with more than a whiff of Derek Zoolander about him. I couldn't help thinking when the aliens were chasing down and vaporizing terrified citizens, leaving their clothing, that they were really after Tom Cruise's jeans.

And the first time you glimpse the pallid, bug-eyed alien, it gives you a jolt. And then you realize it's Dakota Fanning. How can a ten year old look so world weary and like she's just been on a three day bender? Girlfriend needs some heavy duty undereye concealer.

The aliens themselves are strangely reminiscent of Mewtwo (It's a Pokemon, for those of you who don't have a son aged 5-12).

This is such a B-movie, the whole time I was watching it I was thinking about how much fun it would be to watch this when you're home with a cold or a hangover. It's heavy-handed and manipulative and there are plot holes all over the place, and Tom Cruise plays his usual Tom Cruise role in his faux working man clothes, and Tim Robbins does a scenery chewing campy schtick as a would-be child molesting psycho.

Special effects, Tom being stoic and heroic, Dakota screaming like a sodomized spider monkey, blah-de-blah, and then it ends abruptly, like a roller coaster, with a family reunion with Gramps and Gramma and the icy ex-wife all neatly dressed in spotless L.L. Bean. Gramps and Gramma have gotten over their animosity of not-good-enough-for-their-precious-Muffy Tom enough to give him a cheery New England wave from the stoop of their perfectly untouched Boston townhouse. They look like they spent the 'war' fixing Tom Collins and playing charades.

Anyway, for those of you who care, I would give it a 'super-absorbent' rating.

Separated at birth

A little Clairol for Men, some facial hair, and a couple of hypos of Botox, and they could be twins.....