Super Pussy

WARNING: If you’re offended by adult humor, get out now.

After a couple years of marriage, the flame of Ken and Barbie’s passion had all but died. Ken, like many married men, had become consumed with putting on weight and collecting stuff. Barbie, however, was a high maintenance gal. A quickie once every 10 days or so wasn’t cutting it for her. She pressured Ken into accompanying her to see a sex therapist. Ken was hesitant, but Barbie guaranteed him the session wouldn’t interfere with either his eating or acquiring, so he agreed.

The sex therapist encouraged the couple to be more spontaneous. She also suggested games of the role playing type. Ken agreed to give it a try and promptly forgot about it.

Not so Barbie. A couple days after the session, Ken returned from work to find Barbie standing in a chair clad in nothing but a mask and cape.

“Super Pussy” Barbie proclaimed to the startled Ken.

After a moment’s thought, Ken replied “Baby, I think I’ll have the soup.”

Dream Come True

A little over 25 years ago I was living in a one bedroom apartment with this crazy chick from Ohio. She was a junior at the University of South Alabama and was thus entitled to rent a dumpy house in a dilapidated area from the school. When my lease at the apartment expired we decided to move into university housing. The price was right.

One morning after we’d been in the house for a couple of weeks we were up and doing what we did every morning we didn’t have to be anywhere — smoking pot and drinking coffee with Kahlua. For some reason I happened to remember a strange dream I’d had the night before and I told her about it. I don’t remember any of the particulars of the dream, or her reaction to it. That was 25 years and many scorched neurons ago. The gist was that we’d had our power cut off (in the dream).

A few minutes later, while we were still sitting around doing nothing, someone knocked on the door. To our shock, and indeed awe, it was a guy from Alabama Power. He was there to yank our meter, the net effect of which would have put us in the dark. We hadn’t even gotten our first bill yet, much less neglected to pay it. My girlfriend and the power guy got on the phone with the office and tried to sort the situation out. It proved to be a clerical mistake having to do with transferring the account, and its deposit, from my name to my girlfriend’s name when we’d moved a couple of weeks back. It was a fluke thing and one of which I was totally unaware, at least consciously, until the power dude knocked on our door.

I vaguely recall another strange dream come true sort of deja vu experience from my childhood, but that was so long ago it’s very sketchy. At any rate, strange shit happens.

Gators vs. Buckeyes

For the last couple of years I’ve gone along with the media’s forecast for the outcome of the national championship game. Two years ago they gave USC very little chance. Last year it was Texas that was doomed prior to the contest. This year the media largely agrees that Florida has little chance. That indicates, to me at least, that the Gators should be favored.

Additionally, Florida has already beaten a more talented team than Ohio State. Ohio State has great players but not as many as LSU, a team Florida man-handled early in the season. It should be noted, though, that Ohio State’s Jim Tressel is at least twice the coach as LSU’s Les Miles. Whether Urban Meyer can be mentioned in the same breath with Tressel, Carroll, Spurrier, and Saban will begin to be revealed tonight. If Chris Leak doesn’t implode, I think Florida has a very good chance to win the game late.

Florida 35 – Ohio State 28

The Eighth of January

“The Eighth of January” is an old fiddle tune. It’s the first substantial tune of any kind I ever picked out by ear. I was 14 and had been playing the banjo a few months. I stumbled upon the first 5 notes or so purely by accident, happened to recognize the melody, and was off to the races. “The Eighth of January” is the tune “The Battle of New Orleans” is set to. (I’m not sure, but I think the original tune, “Eighth of January”, actually commemorates the battle.) The fiddle tune is just played much faster.

Looking back on it, the banjo was another of the strange twists my life has taken. It was an odd choice for a city boy whose first 15 years were spent in a house almost devoid of music. (Sadly, this was true both literally and figuratively.) My absentee father had long since exposed me to music and I was fooling around with playing by the time I was 10. Playing music, though, wasn’t “just something we did” in my mother’s household. The banjo-blame lies squarely with Dad’s younger brother, who was an accomplished banjoist and took the time to point me in the right direction. Dad was also a culprit. He bought me a banjo. Additionally, I’d been to my first Bluegrass festival that summer and seen the great Bill Monroe on one his “on” occasions. I’d been to a few rock concerts prior to that, but rock-n-roll is largely devoid of the virtuosity and power that is commonplace in Bluegrass. Monroe’s show had a profound affect on me and still ranks among the very best I’ve ever seen in any musical genre.

Digging deeper, I believe a desire to please my father was instrumental in my taking up the banjo. He didn’t push me that way, but I knew it would meet with his approval, and approval was something I was desperate for at 14. Additionally, it provided me the opportunity to become “good at something”, and I was desperate for that too. I frequently practiced as much as eight hours a day the first couple of years I was learning to play. That was when my obsessive-compulsive tendency first reared its head. It’s also when I realized the secret to most anything worth doing in life is putting in the time to become good at it. A desire to excel at music was one of the things I used to justify my leaving my mother’s house and moving 400 miles away to live with my father when I was 15. The banjo shaped my future in both dramatic and subtle ways.

Unforgettable

A long time ago, and therefore very far away, I was in love. It had happened before. It’s happened since. Never like the time in question though. Not even close. It’s one of the stranger twists my life has taken.

We were in our mid-late 20s when we got together. We both loved music, liked movies, enjoyed good fiction, and appreciated good food. The sex was off the charts. It got hotter over the four year course of our affair. Really.

The problems were simple. First and foremost, she was a fundamentalist Christian. I’d been brought up the same way, but managed to break the chains. She couldn’t. Her father was a preacher and her social support system, save me, was hardcore Jesus-freak. She had basically outgrown that simplistic view of the universe, but was too indoctrinated to make a break with it. Lastly, she wanted kids and I didn’t. She tried to talk herself into not wanting them, but she did (want them). In the end, Jesus and motherhood doomed “us”.

It’s been nearly 15 years since we last spoke and I still miss her. Sometimes it still hurts. Only for a minute though. Time cures that sort of thing, albeit very slowly. Our relationship made no sense. Love can take on a life of its own, however, and when that happens, all you can do is hold on and hope it doesn’t destroy you. I wanted her, but I know that for her to have been happy, I’d have had to have given her a couple of kids. I’d also have to be studying my Sunday School lesson about now. In a phrase, the price was just too high for us to pay.

Big, Bigger, Biggest

Way back in the day, circa ‘81, me and my best running buddy hung out in a biker bar called the Sahara. I don’t know why the bikers put up with us. Maybe because we bought ludes and acid from them. They even protected us upon occasion. As diminutive and stupid as we both were, those occasions weren’t all that rare. Mostly, though, we just chased girls and drank too much. We were harmless to everyone but ourselves.

At some point I began to notice my buddy dancing with large women. Stupid attractive women have always really liked him, so I didn’t understand his behavior. He explained that he liked dancing with fat girls because it made them feel good. Sounded good to me. I forgot about it.

Then one morning he called and informed me that he’d woke up with “a cow” in his bed. The good news, he told me, was that when he’d taken her home (home to her house) he’d met her two good-looking roommates. He assured me I’d soon appreciate his taking one for the team.

A few days later my bud and I were waiting in the parking lot of some apartments while another dude went in to buy some weed. Suddenly my buddy slid way down in the seat, kind of like a jack-in-the-box in reverse. “The cow!” he whispered. Just then two big girls, well into the two hundred pound range, came lumbering by.

I was horrified. “Oh man, you didn’t” I said.

“No, no man. Those are the good-looking roommates”. He peeked over the dash and pointed. “There’s the cow.”

Better Lucky Than Good (part four)

Note: See parts one, two, and three This is the final post in the series.

Luck smiled upon my step-mother. She was a late bloomer, but once the wheels turned for her, they did so in a big way. Her’s is a “right place at the right time” kind of story.

Step-mom grew up a dirt poor hillbilly in East Tennessee. Her father abandoned her family around the time she was born. Her mother did the best she could.

On the day she graduated high school step-mom moved from the country to Chattanooga, Tennessee. She’s always had balls. She’s blessed with what I’d guess is average intelligence. She was also blessed with beauty. Nice features, pretty straight white teeth, and a nice rack all came with the package. I suspect my father knew he was in the market for some of her the first time he saw her.

The two were married and produced a couple of healthy beautiful boys in short order. My dad was working as a sports editor for one of the papers in Chattanooga. When the government shut the paper down for unfair trade practices Dad’s story book second marriage met reality.

Post Chattanooga Post, Dad worked in various guises around town. He couldn’t get on with one of the other papers though, so he finally took a job across the state at the Memphis Press-Scimitar. That was around ‘72. The next couple of years were hard, in as much as both Dad and Step-mom hated Memphis.

They adjusted though, and while my half-brothers were still in grade school, Dad and one of his and Step-mom’s good-time buddies talked step-mom into going into the real estate business in Desoto County, Mississippi. That was 1979 and as luck would have it, Desoto County was just beginning to boom at the time. (White flight out of Memphis.) After a tough few years, which anybody whose ever worked in real estate can relate to, she turned the corner.

By the end of the ’80s she was earning in excess of $100,000 dollars every year. I have no idea what she makes now, but they live like royalty. I worked for her for a minute in the late 90s and she had closings everyday. Usually more than one.

Step-mom has no special gifts that would have predicted her success in the cut throat real estate business. She’s not especially bright, but I’ve never met a realtor who was. She’s not charismatic or even moderately charming. What she is is doggedly determined, very energetic, extremely motivated by money, and utterly unencumbered by any sort of scruples. She came that way from the factory. It didn’t hurt being in the right place at the right time to get in on the ground floor of one of the biggest urban migrations in the US. The gods grinned at her and she smiled right back.

Better Lucky Than Good (part three)

Note: See parts one and two

Luck played a huge part in my maternal grandmother’s mother’s life. Most of it was bad. Who knows how things might have panned out for her had she gotten a different set of breaks? What actually happened to her is interesting and instructive, especially to those who profess to make their own luck.

Great Grandmama was married to a poor Georgia farm boy who’d decided to seek his fortune in town. They met at the Georgia State Sanatorium in Milledgville around 1900. At that time it was the largest employer in Georgia. She’d gone there to study nursing but somehow wound up as the operator for the facilities primitive phone system. Great Granddaddy worked in the laundry.

After they were married Great Grandmama’s relatively prosperous father set the young couple up with their own laundry business in Palatka, Florida. I have no idea of the potential of such a business. I would imagine with a little luck and a lot of hard work, it would have thrived and provided a comfortable, maybe even prosperous life for the couple. That, however, wasn’t meant to be.

Great Granddaddy developed some sort of respiratory condition from inhaling the fumes of the chemicals used in the cleaning processes. It must have been serious. On the advice of a doctor, the couple sold the business, pulled up stake, and moved to a section of land they’d bought sight unseen in Wilmer, Alabama. The plan was to return to farming and country life.

Even though they owned their own rich farmland, the challenges of farming proved to great. After a few years the couple and their three daughters began a series of moves around Mobile County. Great Granddaddy worked a variety of jobs. To say the least, times were hard.

Then, after a few years, luck smiled on the family. Great Granddaddy took a job as foreman of a large citrus plantation in Theodore. The job came with a nice house to live in, and that was a first for my grandmother. She remembers having plenty to eat, and that included all the fruit — oranges, satsumas, tangerines, etc. — that they cared to consume. She began to feel a part of the student body at Theodore School. Life was good. By far the best she’d ever had it.

Then, in the summer of her eleventh year, a powerful hurricane struck the South Alabama coast. It totally destroyed the plantation where they lived, and with it their livelihood. The family had no choice but to return to their abandoned farm in Wilmer. That December my grandmother turned 12. Three months later her mother gave birth her sixth daughter. Two weeks later Great Grandmama died from pneumonia. Cold, malnutrition, and lack of medical attention were all factors in her demise. The stars in their courses were against her her entire adult life. Who can overcome such as that?

Joy of Dogs (part two)

You haven’t lived until you’ve waded through a stinking lake of basset hound piss in the middle of the night. I lived through it once. Now the memory motivates me to bound out of bed before the first whimper clears the big dog’s throat.

Last night close to three nature called my 80 pound, eight year old basset. I was sort of pissed because I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and that leaves me short tempered. Still, I pulled myself from the trap and lumbered down the hall to let her out. Naturally she fooled around out there for the better part of half an hour. I’d just dozed off on the sofa in the dog room when her huge bark brought me back.

So I let her in and returned to bed. Before I could even pull the covers up, she started whimpering again. It was starting to thunder, and she and Number Two, a mongrel terrier type, are both terrified of bad weather compliments of Hurricane Frederick. So I stormed down the hall and popped her big ole ass with the sports page. The terrier took cover, but the basset didn’t flinch. I threatened to kill her, she stared me down, then I headed back to bed.

Before I could even get my door shut good she was rumbling down the hall. I know when I’m beat, so I opened my door and let her in. I climbed back in bed and on cue, the terrier started screaming. I called him, but he wouldn’t come. He was still fretting about my spanking his sister. So I got back up, went down the hall, picked him up and set him right back down. That reset him and he bolted for the safety of my room.

A few minutes later, as the storm abated, the dogs settled down. A few hours later, now, I feel like I’ve been up partying for a couple of days. Help.

Joy of Dogs (part one)

We have a house and yard full of dogs. Number Three came in August, a rescue like numbers One and Two. Now I know that three is one too many for me. I also now know that it’s way too late for me to do anything about it.

Crap collects at quite a clip when there are three dogs contributing to the collection. For some reason my dogs like dumping right off the patio. That way, when I’m sitting on the sun deck, the stench is overpowering. So I police the yard for poop several times a week. I transfer the turds to the very back of the yard in hopes the dogs will take the hint and start shitting back there. The project has been going on for about a month. So far, though, they aren’t going for it.

Anyway, I did the poop patrol a few days ago. Then, a few minutes later as I sat in my chair trying to enjoy a Sudoku and some DirecTV, I kept smelling dog shit. Instinctively I checked my slippers, even though I wear a special pair of dog shit shoes when on poop patrol. Next I suspected one of the beasts was farting. I ruled that out pretty quick. I can differentiate between dog shit and dog gas. After about 30 minutes the stink was really irritating me. Then, on the back of one of the legs of my jeans, I found the culprit. I still don’t know how it got there, but there was dog shit all over my pants!

To make a long story shorter, that was several days ago, and I’m still smelling dog shit when I sit in my chair, and I really like sitting in my chair! I’ve been over it with a fine tooth comb. I’ve moved it to see if there was fecal matter beneath. I’ve sniffed the damn thing from top to bottom. Nothing. Then, just when I’ve put the whole terrible episode behind me, the shit smell looms into my nostrils yet again. Shit!