Pastillage and Porn

Have you ever seen the movie Bambi? There’s a scene in it when Springtime bubbles forth from the jovial, bird infested forest, and all the little creatures begin popping out babies left and right. Later, those same babies reach what I can only guess is the pre-pubescent phase of Disney animal-hood when all the little critters start getting hormonal and stupid. In one particular scene all the lilliputian, fluffy chested girlie bunnies are thumping around fluttering their eyelashes at all the jacked up boy bunnies. The boys of course get “twitter-pated” and do something astoundingly moronic, like flutter into the air via erect flapping ears, which then sets all the tiny girl bun-buns a giggling in this frantic, rabid clown kind of way.
That giggle. The trilling, tumbling scale of nervous, high pitched, pre-pubescent bunny giggling that has no beginning, reason, or end, is what I’m trying to get across here. Because in my class this quarter there is a girl who, by no surprise, would actually remind you of a wide-eyed, giggling, Disney bunny-bun-cootsie-boo. Quite often she sits directly behind me and directs copious amounts of energy to giggling precisely as I have just described, which only makes my minds eye come up with some rather bizarre visuals at those times when I can’t really see her.

I have an active mind.

She even does that nervous, rapid-fire, giggle-talk thing, which makes me wonder if she would pee her pants should I suddenly turn around one day and yell, “Ggaaahhhh!”
At any rate, rabbit-giggle girl is actually a fairly nice person as far as Disney characters go, so I can’t complain too much, despite my tendency to curl up like a bug and twitch whenever I hear that laugh. What I will continue to kvetch about is her table-mate, who derives an immense sick pleasure in popping her knuckles every ten minutes. Divvy that up across four hours and it turns into one hell of a long day. For some odd reason, knuckle popping is to my ears what Fran Drescher is to an operatic lullaby. It doesn’t matter how well you dress it, nothing distracts from the pure ugly trashiness of that sound.
Bunny giggles and Fran popping; OY VEY!

Thankfully Thursday we spent the entire class time in the lab building a four foot sugar and pastillage sculpture.
(Thankfully - HA!)
The only requirements were that I spend my entire Veterans day pounding out pastillage in preparation and then accumulating second degree burns over 50% of my body during actual assembly.
And people, I’m not trying to be the wicked witch here, but I’m REALLY struggling with this group effort thing. As it happens, Ray fell victim to the economy and dropped out, so now the group consists of myself, Gabby, Jane, and a new little fish we’ll call “Unhappy Lotus”, whom was yanked from her old group and thrust upon our floundering team. Thankfully, Gabby has proven to be a valued Zen master. Calming me down and redirecting the energy whenever I level burbling pots of molten sugar at various individuals with vexation in my squinted eyes.
And, I’ve somehow gone from group “Thinker” to “Lets Ask Mom”.
WTH?
When did that come in to play?

...On second thought, if I have to be mom, then I get to doll out the beatings, right?
Or, as my instructor would say, “You vill all do as I say now, orh els da bveatings vill commence!”

I knew I liked Germans.

Beatings aside, I think the @#$%! sculpture came out OK. I like my fish, and the flowers weren’t too bad, nor was the pagoda; at least until I walked away and somebody assembled it with a jackhammer.
(“I said do not to touch it, or els I vill be forced to bvreak das fingrs!”)
The tree Gabby and I made *almost* looked like a cherry tree, and the “mountains” were actually kind of cool too.
It did make it to the front windows for display, but it wasn’t without drama. Just as we were finishing, the tree snapped in half, but I caught it just before it fell to the ground like Beyonce’s infamous fall from that Orlando stage back in 07’.


On the other side of the domestication coin, the goat is finally out of the laundry room and the little buckling has lost his boy bits. YEAH!
I tell you, the things that please me are so incredibly simple it’s embarrassing.
See, I’m not a wicked witch, merely a simple one.

I have started my yoga, which should help calm my inner “I-kill-you-for -free” laments, and Wednesday is doing well with her Karate. She seems to enjoy knocking her instructor across the room with her flying front kicks. (I’m fairly certain that’s not their technical Ka-ra-tae name, but that’s what I see from my side of the glass, so that’s what I’m calling them. HwwaAahhhh!)
Gomez is maintaining his irons in the fire and following up on every possible job lead that doesn’t involve psychopaths or the spawn of Satan.
Pubert is still twitter-pated, which keeps him out of trouble (well, let’s hope it keeps him out of that trouble as well) and so far his grades are the best they’ve been outside of homeschooling, but his attendance is still hit or miss.
The Explorer finally got fixed, again, to which it responded to by breaking, yet again.
Then my Harley died.
Oh and guess what! Gomez’s Benz decided it didn’t want to be left out, so I just now got back from schlepping my way back to the abode, in flip flops none the less, from the shop down the road. It was only a few miles. To make up for it I shopped my whole way back home and had an epiphany. If more Americans were forced to walk we would be out of this economic downturn in no time.
I’m telling you, walk a woman by a few shops without spending any money and you’ll earn the Pulitzer for solving our nations credit spending habits.
Should you fail at this task (Example: moi) and she ends up spending roughly half of what Obama did on the bank bailouts, well at least then you’ll know where the money actually went, and you’ll have single-handedly dug us out of this crisis; we may even give you the Pulitzer for that as well. Heck, Obama got one, and all he did was loose billions of OUR dollars, and then he’s gone and forgotten to do any of the things he’s promised since then.
Double DOH!
Maybe I’ll give myself one if we’re giving them away for political stumping, rhetoric, and selective forgetfulness, because I haven’t gotten much accomplished today either, but I did do an awful lot of stumping about, and I fully intended to accomplish something .. at some point .. REALLY.
Provided I don't forget.
Hopefully it’ll sell well on EBay. I could use the cash for Christmas this year since I just blew my budget on the cars, and during that walk home.
OH YES I DID.

Speaking of home; now that I’m stuck here like a porcupine to a maple tree in winter, I decided to spend some quality time on the back porch with the pooches. While I’m sitting there contemplating how long it would take to walk to 7-11, and if a slurpee is really worth my efforts, a large bush in our backyard began to whine and shimmy. This of course set my dogs off like raging bulls full of gunpowder at a glass candle festival. It turns out my neighbors with all the noisy hunting dogs had accidentally let loose all the baby hunting dogs, and since all the big mean ones have dug numerous trenches under our fence, the babies simply followed their noses into our yard.
Yip-frickin-pee.
About this time I hear the neighbor lady, whom I’ll call “Fried Chicken”, laying it on the hubby (I’m assuming here people .. it could very well be her brother, if I’m gauging that West Virginian accent right.)
I'm just going to call him "Taters N Beans".
So Fried Chicken’s cackling on and on, telling Taters N Beans how he’s done this wrong, and needs tuh be doing tha like this and she knows he don’t give a s**t, but if he knows his a** from his elbows he better get his d**k out of that knothole and stop f*****g around like a damn faggot.

WHAT?! Holy Mary, mother of all things sacred and not said out loud or in public while you are sober!
I began to feel like I was eavesdropping on the makings of a porn video, except Paris Hilton was missing, and I’m betting Ron Jeremy has a classier vocabulary.
Oh yes, all this was playing out in front of their child .. Tater Tot
(saw that one coming didn’t you.) - who’s gender I have yet to determine, since I only ever hear them refer to said child as “ Get the baby out of the dog s**t dumb a**!” or, “No baby, don’t hit the dogs with that stick!”
Of course you have to say all the above with a real southern twang, not a drawl, mind you, but that trailer home dwellin, "I beat my wife on Jerry Springer" TWANG.

I’m wondering if anyone ever told them you can name those things.
Babies, that is, not porn videos.

Anyway, I hated to interrupt that precious family moment, but I needed to let them know their puppies were running amok in my yard. So after yelling over the fence a la Home Improvement Wilson-like, I asked if they would like me to shove the puppies back under the fence to them. Fried Chicken hollered I should just throw them over the top to her.
Yes, she did.
I told her I would be happy to hand them over, just to make sure we understood each other.
This apparently was a mistake. It sent her off on a litany about having to walk through dog s**t to get to them, and touchy-feely skinny b****es with their damn ankle biting dogs.

I'm assuming she was referring to my dogs, but she's sadly mistaken, cause they ain't skinny.
*snicker*

So I suggested the bitc .. um, she meet me out front to collect her progeny ..er, puppies.
I brought Lucy (pic), my 85 lb. skinny bitch with me just to piss her dogs off.
My intentions worked out beautifully, if the furious barking and snarling followed by more rapid fire cursing coming from the other side of the fence was any indication.
She was as ungracious as I expected, and as Lucy was sniffing her up and down as I turned to leave I warned her, “ If you know your a** from your elbows you better not f**k around, she’s an ankle biter.”

Oh yes, I did.
And I’m feeling very Zen about the whole thing.
JD