Monthly Archives: June 2007

Overheard in my house

Rukan, up-and-coming Children’s Songwriter, wrestling with Rocky and singing in butch baritone:

“You foosed upon Mom-meee,
Your teasie is stink-keeee . . . ”

[translation from Arabic:
foos = noun, toot; verb, to toot
teasie = booty]

The song continued:
“Ouch, you kicked me in the head . . . ”
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Rocky: Mama, you be a turtle.
Mama: OK, I’m a turtle.
R: You be turtle who’s pooping.
M: Um . . . OK, I’m a turtle who’s . . . pooping.
R: And I’m a fox.
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Rocky: I really, really, really want a movie.
Mama: You can’t have a movie right now, Rockster. I’m making dinner.
R: But I really, REALLY want one. Pleeeeease? Please? Please? Please?
M: How about we compromise? You watch one little part before dinner, for five minutes.
R: I WON!
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And last but not least, Overheard at 3-year-old Evander’s Mom’s birthday party:

Evander: “Will you please pass me my wine?.”

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Call Me Pimply Moonboot

So I finally went to the clinic today for the foot I probably broke three weeks ago. The professional diagnosis: “you probably broke it.” It looks like I’ll be wearing one of those incredibly graceful and alluring post-op stiff-boots for a month or so. I’m sure it’ll look fantastic with a skirt and a high heel.

While I was at the clinic, I had the poor beleaguered temp doc take a look at a few other little issues I’ve been having, the most disturbing of which is all these hideous white bumps cropping up mysteriously all over my face.

“So, Dr. What’s-your-name-I-can’t-pronounce-it, is it cancer or what?” Rukan is convinced that if I talk like that I’ll bring cancer (or whatever my Dread Fear of the Day is) on myself. Sometimes it’s hard not to do it, just to annoy her.

“No”, replies Doctor Ixytrdscrabblefck. “Looks like blah-dee-blah blah blah cysts.”

Hmm. Funny how “cyst” sounds like “malignant tumor” when you have panic disorder.

“Sebaceous cysts,” she says. “Basically a form of adult acne. Nothing you can really do for it. Here’s a prescription for a boot, bye now!”

Great. Just f***ing great. Add, to the skirt-heel-moonboot ensemble, a faceful of scars that look like big, icky, pustulent pimples. That keep on appearing. And will never, ever go away. And no one will ever want to sleep with me again.

The reason this is such a problem is that a few years ago I realized I’m just a wild ravening beast that needs to procreate. It’s the Blue Ox Wild Ravening Beast Theory of Human Nature, and it involves being a shameless slut. Out the window went my radical feminist theory. This need to attract a quality mate, well, as many quality mates as possible, justifies such attention-getting practices as buying expensive push-up bras, bikini waxing and making eyes at every hot tomboy or occasional male that two-steps my way. It doesn’t quite justify taking said objet d’attention to bed, which is fine since Rukan is enough objet for a hundred ravening beasts.

So I’m out. I have on my new velvet dress, the short black one with hot little silver rivets running up the straps. The one the Wild Ravening Beast Theory justified me buying. Brick-red lipstick. Mascara. A look in my eyes that says, “C’mere, Killer. Yeah, right here.”

The line is cast, the bait dangling seductively – and bam! I’ve got one! The butch comes over, trancelike, drawn by the magnetic pull of the carefully-arranged cleavage, and she says, her voice husky and low, “ya wanna daynce?”

But when her eyes finally rise from my boobs and land on my face, my face like a million tiny pus-balloons just screaming to be popped, she gasps in horror and staggers backward, tripping over an empty Lone Star in her effort to escape the nightmare vision. I scream “NO DON’T GO!” and grab her in a vicelike hug and say “Come on Baby, please just one dance” and I’m heaving my gargantuan moonboot behind me, lurching around the dance floor and jerking the poor woman around, until finally she breaks free, yells, “Git th’hayull offa me! Girl, you are SUM UGLY!” and she limps away, bruised where the boot mashed her toe, and everyone stares at me, and then they all laugh and point and I crumble to the ground and somebody throws water on me and I melt into a puddle and die.

When you realize you’re living without the fear

I realized something big tonight.

My girls are asleep. I went in to Rocky’s bedroom, knelt down, put my hand on her chest to say a quiet goodnight and give her a little love-energy. As her chest rose and fell, I remembered that she has a heart defect, that she once had open-heart surgery; that night after night, I’d put my hand on her chest, just to make sure she was still alive.

I smiled. My realization was that I hadn’t thought about it in a long time.

Nabi

My father-in-law had a massive heart attack this morning. All the right things happened and he made it; they saved him with aspirin and a stint. If all goes well he’ll be home in a few days, resting up to go back to work in a few weeks.

Funny how on Father’s Day, when I go down my mental list of fathers, he’s never registered on the list until this past one. I didn’t call him because I didn’t know if he’d want me to. But I sent him a kiss through the air.

Rukan is doing OK.

Hey y’all, exercise and cut out the cheeseburgers, ‘k?

The Well-Trained Mama

Setting: Mama is washing dishes. Rocky is playing in her bedroom on her bunkbed. She comes into the kitchen.

R: Mama, you come into my bedroom and you get on the bottom bed, and I’ll get on the top bed and we’ll be walruses and go to sleep like that.

M: Sweetie, I need to finish the dishes.

R: No Mama, you come into my bedroom and get on the bottom bed, and I’ll get on the top bed and I’ll be a baby walrus, and you be the walrus fairy. Please, Mama? [makes Sweet Eyes] Pleeeease?

M: OK, Baby. I’ll come play for a bit.

R [smiling]: Good dog.

Dude, I wanted to make an anthology.

Hey! I won my own contest! It would seem that I’m the only person reading this blog who writes poetry that stinks! Either that or no one reads my blog.

Lets just assume the former, shall we? It would appear that you illustrious versifiers need a lesson on writing poetry that a donkey’s ass would turn away from.

First, pick a topic. Make it really, really big, something that makes you vaguely nervous. Like Love. Or, make it something like, Flowers. Next, try VERY HARD to write about it.

If that doesn’t work, get drunk. That should do the trick.

I’ll give you an example.

LOVE
by Blue Ox

Love
Lifts you up
and puts you down
down, down,
down.
Into the pit
in Hell
descending
forever
Love.

Flowers
by Blue Ox

O come into the spring, with me into the
flowers
And we will dance and make
love in the
flowers
Rainbow stretching overhead
Butterflies tickle your
ear
And lets just take a deep breath,
O Flowers, Spring Flowers are
here.

I think I’m going to hurl. But now you get the idea. Try it out! You’ll feel so much better.

Transmitting . . .

Hello . . . hello, are you there? Anyone! If you can hear me, this is Blue Ox, from Austin, Texas, Planet Earth. Earth, are you there?

I – I don’t know where I am . . . I was driving down Stratford, on my way to a big job on the lake shore, when, I’m not sure what happened . . . my car went crazy and I couldn’t steer or stop, and it took off on its own and suddenly drove off the edge of Mansfield Dam! but instead of falling suddenly it started floating and I saw this really bright light, and then I must’ve gotten knocked out – and then, when I woke up, I was someplace . . . different, and oh my god, I think I’ve been abducted by aliens! I’m in a very large structure, and I found this transmitter – can anybody hear me? Oh – something’s coming! Blue Ox out.

———————————

Earth? Earth, are you there?

God, I hope you can hear me. I have only a few moments before the aliens come back. They are humanoids of some kind, with skin that appears to be made of something called “jcrew”, and they never have to work because money comes out their butts! I’ve discovered that I’m on a distant sphere called “Planet Multi-Million-Dollar-Condo”, and I believe I’m expected to clean it. Somebody, anybody, can you hear me? Blue Ox out.

——————————–

Hello, Earth, I really hope you’re listening to this.

At first I had all these thoughts, like probing and such, but as it turns out the aliens hardly even notice me. The leader just handed me a mop and a bucket full of toxic chemicals and pointed a well-manicured phalange in the general direction of the toilets. The first bathroom was so enormous, it took me 12 hours and I’m still not finished. Please, someone, can you send a rescue party? Blue Ox out.

———————————-

Earth? Anyone? Please respond!

The walk from the aliens’ cleaning storage closet to any other part of the dwelling, such as the nourishment preparation area, takes two hours. I have to make this trip every time I need a new sponge or I forget the toilet brush. Also, the difference in height between floors appears to be about the same as the height of the Eiffel Tower. Can you imagine climbing 986 feet of stairs? I tried to stand up for myself, tell them I wouldn’t cooperate anymore, but they just gurgled (that’s how they laugh) and threatened to cut my gruel ration. And although alien gruel is putridly disgusting and looks like fish eyes and tastes like liver, I have no choice but to do as they demand, or die. Please, please find me. Blue Ox out.

———————————-

Earth. They have no feminine products here. Send tampons. Blue Ox out.

———————————-

Earth! Come in! Goddammit, somebody listen to me!

I can’t do it any longer. The days on this planet last 20 hours, and I’m expected to clean all day, and it’s filthy and I smell and the blisters and my aching muscles and no tips and the aliens are never satisfied with my work and Earth, I think I’m beginning to lose my mind. I’m starting to think nobody even care – O NO THEY DISCOVERD METRANSMITING BLUEOX OUT

————————————

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Blue Ox. Here. One. Last. Transmission, and then. No more. I had to. Pick. Coffee grounds. Out of their trash. One by one. Never leaving. No. Escape. Goodbye. Cruel Earth. Blue Ox . . . out.
*******************************************************
***************************************************************
PUNY EARTHLINGS! This is High General Blue-Orks of the Glorious and Ancient Paternity of Orks! Here is a link to recharge your head-battery! Yes, I, High General Blue-Orks, have gotten a promo for decoding Earth’s Message to Alien Invaders! I intercepted a transmission from your Blue Ox of Austin, Texas, Planet Earth, claiming to be abducted by aliens, but I found it simply engaging in victim mentality on the job! SUCH WEAK-MINDED APE-THINGS! And so . . . I abducted the Blue Ox myself! MWAAAA-HAAAAW-HAAAAAAAAW!!!

As it turns out, the Blue Ox has introduced my Grand and Majestic Species to a new type of brain-nutrient! The Blue Ox calls it “poetry”, and claims that its poetry “stinks”. The Almighty Orks thrive on all things stench! The power of the Stinky Poetry is so great, my Exalted and Magnificent Breed now requires it the same way you feeble underfeds require the substance “booz” in order to properly function! We must have more, just one more I tell you!!!

Therefore I, the Exalted High General Blue-Orks of Planet Orks-96, demand in return for the relatively safe passage of the Blue Ox back to your Planet Earth, a collection of the Stinky Poetry to be transmitted immediately! Pick up your pancils! Put the petals to the meddle! Chup chup, I tell you, and get to writing! The fate of your World Leader depends on it! MWAAAAAAW-HAAAAAAAW-HHHAAAAAAAWWWWW!!!!

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And now, I’m happy to announce the Blue Ox Stinky Poetry Contest! The winner will receive – well, an award, plus the Blue Ox 2007 Anthology of Collected Stinky Poetry! Transmit your worst, including title and how you’d like your blog-o-name to appear, by this Tuesday, the 12th to: psychobabyblue@yahoo.com . All submitted poems will appear on this blog, unless you beg me not to. And then I can come home.