baby, we'll ride in style

I have been neither a dependable blogger or cook lately. Some vague form of uninspiration must be the cause, but I can't pinpoint the why of it. I have often expressed that cooking in the evening when I get off work is therapy for me, but as of late I have been more prone to convenience foods. Maybe that means that I'm so well-adjusted that I don't need the therapy anymore?? Who knows. I'll be back in the saddle, eventually, I'm sure. I'll just blame it on hormones, that's so easy and since I have a complete lack of knowledge regarding hormones, it's a mystery diagnosis that can't be questioned.

I'm getting all juiced about Obama. I was only vaguely interested in the election during the primary process because at the root of it, I'm one of those pessimists who feels that the country has gone so far down the shitter that no mainstream candidate would or could engineer the sort of change we really need. However, my little Democrat heart has started to rat-a-tat-tat with the hope that evil motherfucking Republicans will be ousted after these eight long years of hell, and I like it. I was reading a blog by my ex, who has been seized by a great shining hope in the light of the convention, and he mentioned our 2004 post-election slump. Our anniversary was Nov. 3 or 4, we could never settle on which, and that year we'd both taken off work/school to celebrate together. W was recrowned the night before, however, and I remember us moping listlessly around the Blockbuster video together, unable to muster any energy to pick out a movie, or care about anything. More than anything I wish my dad could have outlived the Bush regime; he was a self-professed "Yellow Dog Democrat," and after his retirement discovered the left wing blogosphere and became obsessed with anti-Bush rhetoric and conspiracies. He drove my mom fucking crazy.

Anyway. Every time I talk about my dad I feel weird about it, like it's too heavy or I'm trying to garner some sort of sympathy. This "Daddy's Girl" tattoo I have is the perfect example; random people in public will ask me about it, and then I have to say, "Oh, he's dead," and then they get all awkward. It's kind of weirdfunny, but to be honest, sometimes I just act like he's not dead. For example, when a fireman in the Whitehaven Kroger was asking me about in order to hit on me.

I'm doing a case in which a 70-year old couple are raising their daughter's six children, ages 13-5. Can you imagine? For God's sakes. My mother would fucking kill me.

I want to leave y'all with a fantastic tune, the "first rock'n'roll song" EVER, "Rocket 88" performed by Jackie Brenston & His Delta Cats. This is some mystery video that I found on Youtube, but you get the picture. There is some bonus Bette Page, meeeyeow!


All right, I hope everyone has a positively lovely holiday weekend!

Blood from his heart spilled out onto my dress and was warm

If my body's slow recovery is any indicator, My So-Called Drinking Game party was a rousing success. It is a very hilarious and intoxicating thing to do, but it has unfortunately clued me in to the fact that I just can't drink like this anymore. Over the past two months or so, anytime I have had a hangover, it's been a total body experience that last well into the next day and after being a complete lush and ignoring the obvious for all this time, I think I'm going to finally listen to my poor wrecked tummy and head and just take a little break. I mean, this is a beer hangover for God's sakes, it should not be so vicious. It is unfortunate that I must take a hiatus from my wino ways right after discovering the delight of this game, because it's a real crowdpleaser. Oh yeah, and high school? It's a battleground for your heart.

We're riding the Megabus to Chicago Thursday night to spend the long weekend with the adorable Simon Strikeback. His band was opening for the Indigo Girls the weekend we got married, so he couldn't come to the wedding. I don't know when I became the kind of person who gets so excited about exploring cities, but I'm really anticipating wandering Chicago with Simon & Brandon since the last time we were there, New Year's 2006, I got a huge blister on my heel and could barely limp. That's what you get for trying to be cute. Anyway, it's apparently swimming weather so maybe we'll hit up Lake Michigan? I'm sure we'll have some fantastic pizza, we did the last time. The crust of that Chicago-style pizza is like freaking pastry; tender and delicate. All my trip planning revolves around eating.

So, Neko Case is coming to Oxford, MS in September. I could not be more ecstatic. I love her.

Brandon has to go with me because no one I know really gives 2 shits about Neko; well, Simon does, actually, but he lives too far away for it to matter. B will have to suffer through it with me, unless I go alone, which is possible. He does not care for her "suicide music."

Best phrase I've heard all day: "Enigmatic scats," used to describe mystery poop that may or may not come from the ass of Bigfoot.

A Call to Drink...

To all my Memphis/West TN peeps:

We are going to be playing "My So Called Drinking Game" tomorrow afternoon/evening at our house, and y'all are invited. Bring your own booze (I think beer and/or wine would be better; if you drink liquor during the course of this, we'll probably be scraping you off the floor). I am not sure what time we'll be starting up, but probably fairly early. Then we can all either stumble home to bed to maybe to Mezcal to soak it up with chips. Just call me or Brandon and we'll tell you when, or message me on Myspace or WHATEVER. It's not up to me to tell you how to get your shit together.

Love,
Amanda

All this and sexy too

A bit of the photographic goodies from Rebecca & Michael's trip to my mother's lovely farm in historic Decatur County, TN can be found here. You will be quite sorry if you don't check them out. They're from the talented lens of Mister Brandon Scott Dill, keeper of my heart and daddy to my future babies.

Lord, hold my tongue, guide my thoughts

I'm not dead; I've just spent the week first relishing the return of my long-lost, long-limbed Californiated husband, then attending two days of orientation at UT, all the while trying to adjust to a big transition at work. This was capped off by a LOVELY pelvic exam this morning, not by aforementioned husband, but rather by a nurse practitioner named Seraphine. She was very nice, by the way, and provided me with exceptional care as well as 12 more months of security against an embryo taking hold in my all-too hospitable uterus. Thank you, Women's Physician Group of Memphis.

After the first 30 minutes of graduate school, I was disappointed to find out that although they have been validated by their GRE scores and essays and transcripts, a lot of my fellow students found it necessary to complain over the unexpected administration of a 30 minute standardized test gauging our critical thinking skills. I didn't know I was so mature until I found this so incredibly annoying. Of course, the possibility that I am just always pouncing at the chance to be incredibly annoyed, especially at people whose presence in my life I cannot control, is a matter to be considered.

I am at once afraid and excited about grad school. It will be hard, I think. I was rather shocked to discover that one of my syllabi was 29 printed pages. But I am very hopeful that it will give me a chance to prove that I am capable of succeeding at school, something I never did @ MTSU, partly because I didn't see the use of any of it, and partly because it's hard to do assigned readings when you have a rather phallic pink Graffix bong surgically attached to your face. Anyway, it's all kind of a big deal and I'm going to have to learn a lot of complicated things, that's my point. Also, I had to have a TB test and glory to the heavens, I found out I will not be going down like Doc Holliday.

Have a good weekend y'all.

Everything a misogynist wanted to tell you about sex

Tonight's selection is from...


...which lives on the back of our toilet. One quick flip through it exposes you to the sexist, racist, homophobic revelations of one David Reuben, M.D. (in this case, M.D. seems to have stood for "Mean Dick".

In response to the rather bizarre question "Do Western women masturbate that way?" which seems to arisen from a discussion of ben wa balls, Dr. Reuben states the following:

"In the early days of the Industrial Revolution in this country, many young girls worked in garment factories. The hours were long, the pay poor, and the working conditions dismal. They operated treadle-type sewing machines which required constant pushing of the treadle with one or both feet. Gradually the girls discovered that by pushing the treadle a certain way with their thighs pressed together, they could rub the labia minora and massage the clitoris. What had been drudgery became almost a pleasure. The long hours at the sewing machine melted away as this new diversion took hold. Fortunately (or unfortunately) electric machines were soon introduced and the pleasure went out of the garment industry. The introduction of electricity was not all bad news, however. It opened up new horizons in the area of masturbation."

I don't think this needs any commentary, really. This book is chockful of misguided stereotype-enforcing gems, and I invite anyone pissing, pooping, or merely passing the time in my humble little bathroom to give it the once over. There's so much crazy shit in there that I can't begin to make you understand. Only a Caucasian, white-collar man could turn a sweatshop into an erotic privilege.

The infrastructure will collapse

Yesterday's moment of shame: I was in Midtown Video, waiting to check out, and Juno was playing on their huge, discolored television set. I saw this movie in the theater, back in December when it came out. It was right after I had started listening to Kimya Dawson a lot, plus it looked cute and cool. And I'm not saying it was a bad movie, I'd watch it again. But Ellen Page makes me want to pop her head like a grape, and the dialogue was a little Dawson's Creek-y. (Speaking of which, some commercial for a new TV drama that stars Joshua Jackson came on at the movies the other night, and before I could help myself, I shouted "Pacey!" Ok, maybe I didn't shout).

OK, back to the story in which I am a total stereotype of a woman approaching 30... The birth scene begins, which is accompanied by Cat Power's cover of Sea of Love. And my face starts doing that crumple cry thing, because a baby is being born on television. And my uterus wants a baby inside it, Goddammit! And then I'm like SHUT THE FUCK UP UTERUS, YOU'VE GOT TO GO WITH ME TO GRAD SCHOOL AND THEN WE'LL TALK ABOUT IT.

Am I the only one who wants to have sex immediately upon hearing this song??


The kind of sex you have with someone you at least sort of love, in a room that is dark but slightly illuminated by a streetlight shining in the window. Lots of intense eye contact sex.

None of these thoughts are helping my dedication to my work this morning.