licen(se)tiousness

Yes yes, I'll get to the story of the skunk that scared the bejezzus out of me (and likely I, she) as I stood outside in the nose-drippingly cool night earlier this evening while reading Blanche Passes Go (Barbara Neely) under the meager low-watt porchlight bulb. If it weren't for the fact that I was born into this world a jumper, already easily startled and long ago accustomed to eeps and acks and shrieks and starts of various strains well, I have new reason to be and yet one more reason to knock off the ole smoking wagon so I don't have to GO outside to light up and do my reading. But I digress.

But anyway.
Anyways.
Did you ever notice how some people say 'anyways'?
As in: 'We have 1 anyway + 1 anyway. How many do we get when we combine them?'

Two.
Anyways.

Good grief, that drives me bats.

Another thing I can hardly bear is to listen to people use incorrect grammar. Repeatedly use incorrect grammar, as though they're trying to push somebody - any one - until their buttons simply jam tight into nose bustin' position.

This comedian, he says with a poke in the air and an elbow nudge to the audience, he says ... my wife and I, he says. We have an open relationship. It's as open as the South Dakota plains, yessirreeebob. She's on the west side of the state open and waiting for me while I schtoink anyone displaying a vaginal opening here on the east side. Harharhar~

Ba dum bum!
tinny canned audience laughter follows

I like the comedian; he's got a generally funny routine and he's smart as hell. He can sit with each of the show hosts and chat without sounding like he's still got a cob up his ass. But cripes I have to admit that my imagination takes me places it ought not take me. I can't figure out if he is he making up that part of the schtick to get the laughs or if he's getting laughs at the expense of his marriage.

I guess famous dudes get all sorts of latitude that regular schmoes don't.
But what the hell is that about?! What, because someone has something I want means I get to fuck him and then! - somehow - I acquire his magical lucky charms? Whatever happened to the old-fashioned crush? Flames, remember them? When someone had charm and charisma and made you feel all gooey inside, back in the pterydactyl days, when holding hands, or pterydactyl wingclaws, was about all you could muster without bursting a blush out the tops of your earlobes?


I was once involved -'in a biblical way', as the kids say- with a married guy. Hooked up in South Bend, Indiana where an NFL charity event was taking place. I dragged a girlfriend along (and by that I mean female friend) since my Interest had a pal who also needed some cheering up. oh-Ho! Cheer them up we did.

Never mind getting used as a loaner fuck buddy to some retired NFL feller while his hotel roommate sat on the can taking a shit in their hotel bathroom with the door open, watching us in the mirror. And I can mostly forget about the things we did that caused me to bleed. The fact is, my Interest had a wife and kids at home.

Wife.
Kids.
Home.

I thought I was something special, oh yes I did.
Goddammit, I bled for him.
He was sharp and sly and he had such a sexy voice. I talked to him weekly, at least. If ever a wooer there was, he wooed with the best of them.
But even after that particularly strange weekend, the one I thought would be a changing event in some way, it just wasn't. He was still married, he still had a family and every single connection he had, legal and emotional and physical, was solidly to his own family, a place I came to understand that I clearly did not belong.

I found no solace in him or in my hopes of what might be if if if .... if maybe I just gave it a little more time.

I was an interloper.
I liked that for a while: I liked being bad, I liked being stealthy and young and sexy to someone I should not be involved with.

What I could not permit was, not unlike the comedic vaginal opening, I was a piece of tittilating female flesh - nothing more.
NOTHING more.

I may as well have been a squash sitting in the sun with a hole cut in it. And yes girls, the boys they do use veggies sometimes so don't go gettin' all oogie about it, just deal. That's life. It's nothing personal, just like fucking you and walking away with no sense of committment or future or --

see? it's easy.

It's easy, he says to the audience of canned meat on vacation from the midwest, seeing LA and cal-ih-forn-eye-ay for the first time, new babes not in the woods but out on the streets where they've never before been, that's what they are. Street meat. That's her. That was me.

It's easy to shut your eyes and pretend you don't have to wake up to see your own reflection in the morning. Just pretend you're not you, she's neither your wife nor herself. Pretend she's a squash! Harharhar.

Harharhar the canned meat laughs back.

All I can say is this: The price of my freedom was far less dear than the cost of my need for attachment.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*

Oh, and that picture up there? That's my brand spankin' new purse, if you can believe it. Made from two old license plates, it was oh yes it was. My sweetie knew I'd been creaming over several Very Expensive Handbags for sale at a local store that was closing a location. But lemmetellya, even at steep 'EVERYTHING MUST GO' discounts, those handbags with their felt storage bags were still huh-wayyyy out of this gal's price range. So I waited. and waited. And then I remembered another favorite shop that also sells adorableness and it so happened that K. had a coupon worth a great discount at that shop. I made a careful decision (advice: if you decide to get a license purse, be advised that the little oblong tictac looking sachels don't hold much more than maybe some $, a lipstick and keys. Pretty small.) and ordered the square. With the discount I could afford the purse.

Best of all, I can use my new handbag as a defensive tool when I walk in the dark cuz my-oh-my, it may be old and recycled but the reflector stuff on the plate still works!

LITTLEARTH makes some really great products so shimmy on over and take a gander or four. Their products are all recycled items; nobody had to sit in a sweat shop for low wages, no toddlers were put to work to make them, no new forestation was cut to make them ... just nifty new uses for old stuff.

And the canned meat rose and joined in, "Amen".