Trading Jesus for Jesus

It's a wonder anyone reads my shit anymore!
I NEVER POST!

It's because I'm in Tucson now working on a project that actually has IMPORTANCE.
(This happens once every two years. I set my biological clock by it. Sort of... in that my biological clock is mainly concerned with alcohol consumption and depravity, namely mine and once every two years I have to put this on hold and PRODUCE. It's killing me. My liver is softening. I can hear it.)

Thursday I get to fly to Seattle and spend quality time with Cienna, Friday night Eric, who has been languishing at a cabin on Lk Wenatchee (FUCKING SEASONAL EMPLOYEE) will drive in with my beloved DOGS and I get quality time with them, and Saturday night my adored son flys in and spends a couple days with me and his sister, culminating in an MF Doom concert.
I am so sick of not being home I could stab people just to pass the pain around.
I carry my tweezers, which I only ever use on others for this specific purpose. Plucking the random hair from another and the subsequent surprised and horrified squeel gives back to me some of that which has been taken.

Several Random Quick Facts:
There is a man here from The South who looks like a possum. Exactly.
Though I have hiked for literally hours this weekend, I saw NO JAVELINAS. I saw 2 roadrunners.
Arizona propoganda would have you believe the desert is filthy with them. Not So.
It is filthy, however, with Border Patrol.
I got in an uninformed (both parties, woefully) argument about illegals and Why They Should(nt) be Stopped last night with a man I normally respect.
I say, Fuck It. Let them come in. Keep out only Those Who Mean Us Harm (Methodists... and people who believe they are part of God's/Allah's Big Smiting Plan)...keep the zealots out. Like we have a birthright to this country we stole?
Whatthefuck?
Anyway...

More Later...I promise.
DOes anyone believe me any more?

Things to Do in Denver When You're a Fed

Of course, I am not actually in Denver, but some tacky little suburb called 'Lakewood' and then I am actually not 'in' anything, so much as shelved at some out of the way hotel on a dark service road at the end of a business district. The only place to eat/drink within reasonable walking distance is Bennigans or Dennys. My fellow committee members (higher paid DC types who iron their pants and lug their ridiculous technology everywhere on little wheeled conveyances or as the only pocket bulges they'll ever sport) go to Bennigans. Where they drink their one and a half cocktails and chat one another up about Our Work. Shudfuckingder.
That is how I imagine it anyway, standing outside on the sidewalk peeking in at them. They sit earnestly in 2 big groups, chatting perched on too tall bar stools, eating nachos and salads and drinking...it looks like chardonnay. Sob. As if there were no Vodka. Or gin...whiskey. Real drinks. As if that's what separates them from The Beasts. (Besides the double pane glass and an inability to care about DATA).
They will split the check down to slivers of copper and it will take so long that the server will begin to hate them in earnest.
I did not rent a car. Oh, how I parch.

But, thankfully, this is only a 2.5 day meeting. Which is all we need to put together our plan for national De-saster Management. As it pertains to fire. Which should reassure you, good citizen, immensely, if the fact that we spent the day discussing Data Relationahip Entity Diagrams doesn't .
I hate fucking diagrams. Just hammer my skull and shove nails in my ears. When the west is one big wall of flame licking its way east, take comfort in the fact that we have wall charts detailing who gets what information when. Because we can't afford to man our trucks, or contract retardant planes. We have to cut government somewhere.

This is just our FIRST meeting. There will be 2 more. AND a conference call. I'm sure we'll have an acronym in the end that will cutsify your public safety and make it all worth while.

Today in Katy...er, OTTO? REBECCA BUNNYMAN? WHO AM I?

Are you all (3 or so) getting sick of me switching blogs?
Quiting one and starting another?
It's because I'm IN A SLUMP and don't do oxycontin. Or even spell it, actually. I just thought of that as my EXCUSE DU JOIR... Don't you hate people who sprinkle french and german words into their everyday bad english as if they spoke a second language though in reality they struggle with the first? I don't either. I hate fat people....just kidding!

I've copied all my posts from the Salon blog (I am Eating my Husband's Soul) to typepad and now they are ...in bad need of editing. Some of the posts are crap, and the actual formating is fucked up. PLUS: I intend to spend some time moulding it into something that goes somewhere. Because I love monkeys. I truly truly do. We went way too far down the evolution path, as far as I'm concerned. Wrong turn.

And Tata: If you know where I can get some of this barbeque sauce, I could use a new friend. Someone in the commuting/stealing area who knows how to hold her liquor and a flashlight while I Do My Work. That faithless hag Cyn Dee stood me up for the xmas holidays....because of a slight chance that a MAN would call.
How fucked up is that?

Next week I go to Denver for the week, then on to Tucson till the end of the month.
For Government work. Because I still have a job. Which leads me to:
I think I'll post back on typepad mostly (thestain) (and maybe IAEMHS, the typepad version if I get it edited) for ease. (Of getting me fired). And because fuck it. My mother dealt with it, Eric's mom can. Schadenfreude, n'est pas?.

By the way, my daughter has a cult following due to her feature writing for thestranger. I am proud. And yet, somehow I think I'm using it as another excuse to not do my own writing. If only I had another skill. Like...uh...
Hm.
Chainsaw artistry. Or being able to eat the most hot dogs.

Yeah.

Oh Heavenly Ham

Okay. 'Fa Reak' is a little strong for people I hug stiffly every other year or so and who've named their firstborn after me... who apologize for things I can't remember them doing ...who push ham at every meal as if it were Gristle of the Gods...
Ham for breakfast
Ham for lunch
Spiral Ham for Xmas dinner:
Layed out on The Good China in the Center of a huge red swathed table, a gold halo of fat out-glistening the star atop the tree looming over us...The Ham stood with a crown of cloves, nailed to it's platter with a knife through one side, a big fork thru the other.
All the other food, the perfect white rolls from Costco, the overcooked veggies drowning in butter, the potatoes crispy with cheese... the cold calculating pie in the corner...just made me feel all the more the weight of the ham's importance.
The other white meat died for my sins.

I ate fudge and chips. I heaped my plate with olives and something I later realized were only for decoration. I drank.

"JUDY! Eat the HAM!" My mother chided, adding in a whisper not unlike sawing through hardwood with a bread knife, "YOUR BROTHER CAN'T AFFORD SPIRAL HAM in the FIRST PLACE. MARY SPENT A FORTUNE ON THIS GODDAMNED CHINA!"
Everyone paused a moment to look embarrassed. We stared at the ham in silence.

"I am enjoying the ham, mother," answered my sister, who is actually named 'Judy', cheerfully, because she loves other people's discomfort, reaching for the platter, she cooed,
"I'm having seconds, infact."
Seconds.
She never has seconds on anything that isn't alcohol based.

Mary whispered almost to herself, "It was on sale."
The ham took the hit with dignity, it's succulent juices dribbling down my sister's chin.

My mother loves Mary. She thinks she spends too much money, sometimes, on superficial stuff to "keep up with her rich doctor friends", and that my brother works too hard when he isn't drinking and whoring around in skeezy skeezy N. IDEE HO bars, provoking fights and picking up on toothless aged bar hags.
"He's going to kill himself keeping Mary in pedicures," my mother complains, oblivious to the fact that my fellow gifted underachiever brother is also a crazy hillbilly drunk 1/3 of the time and that might be a bigger threat to his health than Mary's shiny red toenails.

"Those feet are the LEAST of her problems!" my mother often rants, "She should do something about her big ass."

But it is really really rare that my mom is catty about Mary, only when she's irritated or worried about my brother, or Mary is wearing something new, and usually she rails only to me because I encourage that sort of confidence. Judy, however, is always trying to get something mean out of her. The Judy resents how much affection my mother and Mary have for one another. Mary is a good daughter in law. She takes my mother shopping and remembers every holiday. She makes crafty things for my mother to hang on her refrigerator - Worlds Best Grandmother, God Bless This Mess, etc. Judy is actually like the kind of daughter normally seen in the weasel family, or amongst hyenas. She is mean and greedy and suspicious. She has a lot of money, which she, I shit you not, burys in her backyard because she doesn't TRUST BANKS.

"Mary is a good person," my mother says to judy. "Who loves sandals."

Judy also hates Mary because she is Catholic. She scowled at the Christmas Carols playing before dinner. She rolled her eyes at the Jesus is The Reason for The Season doormat. She sneered when we said grace.

Then she set upon that ham like a fatwa had been issued against it, until only the bone was left. "If you don't want that," she said, licking her fingers, "I'll take it home and make soup."

Mary nodded, numbly, "Sure. Take it."

I'll bet she buried it in her yard. But I do not have proof. Yet.

I'm BACK!

10 days. 10 long days. No internet, except a BRIEF login at my brother's house on Xmas Day... (I snuck off under the guise of huffing bathroom cleaner. They don't know about YOU, of course, or I couldn't be so...uninhibited. They don't even know i have an email account or they'd SEND ME JOKES. THOUSANDS OF THEM. A DAY. STUPID MASS EMAILED FUCKING CUTESY STORIES FESTOONED WITH ANIMATED CARTOON ANIMALS. BUT That's an aside. I took a can of Tile Cleaner and a paper bag with me upstairs into their office so they would suspect NOTHING.)

For 10 long days, I lived with no real contact with the outside changing world; no NPR (my mother doesn't have a radio) no periodicals except old Sunset magazines, 100 years of Muscle and Fitness (all that's left of my father, RIP) and one issue of some Woman's Monthly featuring a smiling cookie baking blonde. It wasn't just because the publication was in the bathroom that she reminded me of menstruation. Bleeding and pained ovaries.

Furthermore, speaking of organs, during this long long exile in North Idaho, I saw no news programs...national or international. I saw no news commentaries. Except as it pertained to the weather. My mother is current on climate.

From 5:30 am when she wakes, till 9:30 when she retires, my mother stays tuned to the Weather Channel as if it were part of her circulatory system, an extra kidney or spleen, processing all the coffee and butter she pushes through her 80 year old system, filtering the things I say that she can't quite understand, or are obscene, and replacing the toxic stuff with temperatures and probabilities of precipitation, travel forecasts.... Do not try to touch the channel remote.

"JUDY!!" she would screech my absent sisters name, "Don't change that! I'm waiting for the local weather!"
Which happens every hour "on the eights" and didn't really change during the entire time I was there...38 degrees, possibility of rain or 'wintery mix', which means, of course, fucking sleet.....

My mother is very hard of hearing and, as illustrated above, prone to calling everyone Judy. She is a LOVELY person, and I mean that without sarcasm. She is fun and lively and laughs at anything. The rest of my family are FA-REAKS!
I will illustrate that more fully later. Now I will run for the first time in many many days. Me and all that butter and coffee still circulating in my system

People in my office have no debate with 'Christmas' vs 'Holiday'...
There is even a 'Jesus Is The Reason for the Season' banner, with blinking lights, above the supervisor La Fronda's (yes, the same) red, white and blue 'Kill Them All, Let God Sort it Out' marine recruitment poster.
(Yeah, and she doesn't do irony.)

Marilyn has strung garland, and red straw Xmas bells from the bathroom to the breakroom. Every flat surface is covered in shiny stuff or fake snow, or Jesus, and Holiday Icons, including Santa and frosty. There is a wreath sticker on the tampax machine.
My favorite, though, is the donkey, who looks sad, or maybe just enduring. There is no manger this year because last year I 'defiled' it. Or so some say. For whatever reason, the donkey is still around -standing there next to a dish of red and green Hershey's kisses, ears at 9 and 3, head at half mast, across the shelf from Jesus, who looks hot, as usual, albeit a little effeminate, dressed like a Shepherd, surrounded by sheep. Not to my taste but I've noticed a certain Don staring wistfully in His direction....
Or is it?
You know, some men love the horseflesh.
And, of course, most men from Montana lost their virginities to the shy young shitcrusted ewe.
I've read that somewhere.

"Are you from Montana?" I ask Don.
"......No...." he answers, some might say snappishly. He still blames me for his 'girlfriend' finding a stack of porn cards in his luggage ("Make New Friends!" and "Eat Out More" "CARRY A CAMERA!!") The night before leaving vegas I was positively OVERCOME with career goals and porn pamphlets. Apparently Don's 'girlfriend' has never heard of a Success Coach.

I continue to stare at Don. "Where are you from?" I prompt.
His new policy regarding conversation with me seems to be answer only direct questions.
He sighs and looks up from his computer screen where he was pretending to study the weather.
12 degrees and hazy for the next 4 days.

"I graduated from The University of Oregon," he sighs, "Okay?"

"No, I mean where did you spend your FORMATIVE YEARS? Like...puberty...?" I restate.

He stares at me and his face actually twitches. He appears to be seriously considering not answering my question. Who is this Don? He says,

"I'm not sure why that is important to you or why you think it is any of your beeswax."

He actually really says 'beeswax' in a sentence. I make a note of it.
He stares at me some more.
This is definately more interesting than I thought. I look at the donkey and the sheep, at least one of which has his/her little fluffy backside pointed right at us. The donkey looks...defeated.
I look back at Don.
I picture a dark barn in the dead of night. Don, his round face, mottled and red, intent, illuminated by a full moon, little flannel jammies around his newly hairy fat ankles, groin pressed against a donkey ...or a sheep... placidly chewing its way through another bad night... the stench of hay, dung, and stridex heavy in the air....night after night...an impulse he can't control. Guilt in the daytime, whispered confessions on sunday. A suspicious rash on all concerned. Eventually he is caught. Someone hears braying (or bleating) and makes the discovery.
Don's father and mother are woken up, a town meeting called. Humiliation. Don is run out of town. His family disowns him. His 4-H ribbons burned.
The donkey/sheep is butchered for Christmas dinner.
Do they eat donkey outside of France?
My eyes lite on the little gluestick in Don's supply cup next to his monitor.
I gasp.
He looks at me, slaps his fat little hand on his desk.
"What!?" he whines.
From across the cubical wall, Sue says, "He's from Wisconsin. Don't be such a twat, Don."
Ahhh. Yes. I relax and smile. It's Jesus, then. Hot hot Jesus. I look at the Jesus figure, his flowing locks, too-long eyelashes, pink lips. Tomorrow I will bring in a better Jesus. Hotter.

I grab the donkey on my way back to my desk. Just in case. WWJD, in deed.

I Am An Involved Parent

Last week while I was in Vegas soaking up the desperation and low bid acronym chumming that is known as The Fed. Employee WorkShop, my son was pulled into his Junior High School principal's office and *SEARCHED* for *DOPE*....

He was called out of class, marched to the principal's office, questioned (Are you felling okay, carlos? Are you taking any medications? Are you SURE? Are your EYES DIALATED???) and told to turn all his pockets inside out. Look into the light...Then they searched his locker. Then, finding NOTHING, they sent him back to class.

Carlos's dad, Chato, called the school the very next day, after he'd heard. (Oddly, the school did not contact me or Chato, Carlos told us all about this violation because he was rightfully pissed off.)
The principal said that a teacher, whom he refused to name, thought Carlos looked 'stoned' that morning in the hall.

"It was that bitch Mrs. Martin," I told Chato. "She called Carlos 'lazy' because he is getting a C in her *HEALTH* class...She wears furry shoes and sucks at her teeth like a rodent. Fucking food pyramid enthusiast."
I suggested Chato call her and accuse her of racism. She is so white her skin hurts my eyes. It's sort of green hue with freckles that spell out JESUS THINKS BROWN PEOPLE SHOULD BE MY GARDENER.
He refused. Chato is like that. Easy on people. It's because he's mexican. And, he is stoned, most of the time.
"I've said what I needed to say," Chato told me, "I told Mr. K that if Carlos were ever pulled into his office again for this sort of thing, or anything, that one of us had better be present. If they think my child is ill or on drugs, that is serious enough for a parent to be involved..."
blah blah blah reasonable blah.

I'm not the calm reasonable phone calling parent. I'm the Actions Speak Louder than Words arm of our relationship.
I have spent the morning filling a couple of vials of urine, and I had Carlos fill a few last night, plus the dogs, which wasn't easy, and one little jar with wet kitty litter, and I'm going by the school momentarily. Infact, I'll make weekly deliverys. Those fuckers have any questions, they can consult a lab.
I am quite literally pissed off.