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Can anyone tell me if it is common for girl dogs to mount and hump people? I didn't think girl dogs did that.
xoxo Candyce

When I was in Kindergarten another little girl brought a potato to show-n-tell. Yes, a potato. And it was a perfectly worthy show-n-tell subject, I am telling you. This potato was a true natural wonder, a peculiar take on the standard tuber form.

This potato was shaped like a dog! It had four legs, a head with ears and a snout, and a little nub for a tail. A person didn't have to squint or turn it around or stretch the imagination in the slightest to see that this potato was shaped just like a dog.

She had even made a little collar and a leash for it. And she was nice enough to let me hold it on the bus ride home that day. Believe me, I entertained fantasies of stuffing it in my pocket and threatening to pull her pig tails if she dared say a word to the bus driver.

Because I was so incredibly jealous! You just can't go out and buy show-n-tell fame like that.


I think THIS is the adult version of the potato puppy. And I guess LJ is the adult version of show-n-tell.

So while we were exploring the new house, Dave found a pile of photos stashed in the storage shed out back.

They mainly consist of girls in bikini's, people dressed for prom, and school pictures. Mid eighties attire.

There is one boy that resurfaces in several of the photos, leading us to believe these pictures belonged to him. My guess is that he was the former owner, and his wife didn't like him hanging onto these photos of old girlfriends, so he hid them in the shed and forgot about them.

This is my favorite picture of him:

I'm about to go to bed now. But before I do, I thought I would share the moment I'm having. It is a moment of reflection, a time of thoughtful analysis, a little "state of the union" address in my head.

There was a time in my life when I was absolutely mortified when my older sister first soaked a pair of my underwear in water, then laid it out flat in the freezer, and after what must have been a good stretch of time, removed it and proceeded to send the frozen pink disk of fabric flying out the window of our second story apartment and over the head of the male suitor that had come calling for me.

At this point in my life, taking a pair of panties I've worn all day and sealing them in a ziplock bag and mailing them off to a total stranger doesn't sound like a bad way to make $50.

Good stuff on my LJ friend's list tonight. Thank you.

Bored? Check out "How to live. What to do. Pt. 2" by willbloom.

And please, please read "Screwing In Cars With Boys" by slit.

Insomnia. New haircut. The Epoxies. Xerox art. Mix tapes. Band practice. Dada: Art and Anti-Art. Cold feet. People talk too much and say nothing at all. Tip toe through the sleeping house.



I've been thinking about appendages, amputations, phalanges, prosthetics.

I couldn't sleep the night my grandmother's leg was amputated. I paced and fretted until finally I called the hospital and it took me awhile to get to talk to someone who could answer my question. They put her leg in the incinerator.

The first time I went to my boyfriend's childhood home, we sat in his old bedroom eating peanut butter and marshmallow cream sandwiches. He showed me his comic books and the window he climbed out of to sit on the roof and look at the stars and smoke. He handed me a box which contained the petrified tip of his ex-girlfriend's finger. She had contracted spinal meningitis and nearly died. The tips of her fingers turned black and hard and brittle and fell off. She saved them in a jar. Except the one. She gave it to him.

When I worked at a grocery store all of the guys from the meat department hung out in the break room together at their own little table by the microwave. Among the whole group there was 5 heads and 47 fingers.

I met a guy named Kip at a bar awhile back. He is missing both legs from just below the knee, one arm, and a few fingers from his remaining hand. He was playing pool. He didn't win, no, but he wasn't bad... considering. We talked about recording equipment and the Vagina Monologues and the time he spent in jail.

When my dad was in the hospital last summer, his room was right across the hall from that of a man who had just had his leg amputated. He moaned and yelled out, "Oh God!" constantly. The nurse would pop into my dad's room for a minute, muttering about how the amputee was taking up the staff's time and energy and how she'd be glad when he was gone. I wanted to stick her leg in the incinerator.

There was the other guy I met in the same bar where I met Kip. He had one leg and not many more teeth. He fell down countless times before we got him to the car to take him home. Home was a small room with a cot and a black and white t.v. and nothing more. I found out later that a friend of mine picked up the same drunk, one legged guy and took him home.... literally. The poor guy was passed out on the sidewalk and his crutch was nowhere to be seen. My friend picked him up, threw him over his shoulder and carried him for ten blocks.

My uncle Rusty didn't have his fingers removed so much as they melted away. He was a electrician, working on power lines. He touched the wrong one and now his fingers are stubs. He got half a million dollars and bought his church a bus, his daughter a pony, and his parents a trip to Mexico.

My son wants to have his arm removed and replaced with a bionic arm, made of rust proof titanium. I hope he outgrows this desire.

The electrician that works for my landlord has a prosthetic leg. It is super sleek, futuristic, with shocks and joints. This impresses my son very much. Especially when he takes it off and leans it against the washing machine so he can slip into the tight space between the dryer and the wall.

My boyfriend and I play this game called "Remember when..." It references that annoying thing that everyone does--asking a really vague question that has an endless list of possible answers such as, "Remember that comedy movie from the 80's with the gruff white guy and his outrageous black sidekick?"
Except our game is about all the shitty things that have happened to us more than once, thereby being vague. This is best played when your life is falling apart... again.

It goes like this:

Hey, remember that time our car broke down?

Hey, remember that time you got arrested?

Hey, remember that time we had the asshole neighbors?

Hey, remember that time you got stuck in another state and Dave had to drive all the way there and pick you up?

Hey, remember that time you had to pawn your guitar to make rent?

Hey, remember that time I flipped out and you called the cops on me?

Hey, remember that time your mom was in the hospital?

Hey, remember that time we didn't have a drummer and that weird guy tried out?

Hey, remember that time we all got lice?

Hey, remember that time we broke up?

On and on it goes.

Would it be too much to ask of Ken, the one eyed wonder kid that is my landlord, to at least knock on the door or ring me up before he starts doing oddly unnecessary repairs around my open windows?

I can't sleep because I am afraid I will pee the bed.

I'm totally serious.

The other night we went to see the Ring, right? No, it wasn't that scary at all. The thing is, before the movie we went for coffee. I had a LOT of coffee. The waitress never takes me for real when I wave her away and say, "Nah, I've had enough." She just fills the damn cup up again, like she is doing me a favor. Thank goodness she isn't a bartender, right?

Anyway, we were watching the movie, and about ten minutes into it I had to pee. But I didn't want to miss anything important, so I waited. And I waited, and I waited, and I waited. See, since I had never seen this movie before, I didn't know when a slow, unimportant part was coming until it was already over. I kept leaning over to James and whispering, "I really have to pee!" Of course he would respond with, "Well, go pee!"

I held it and held it, waiting for the right time. Then I realized we were at the end of the movie, and I couldn't hold it anymore. Right when that creepy little girl came crawling out of the t.v. set, I bolted up out of my seat and ran to the bathroom. By the time I got back the movie was OVER. There really wasn't that much movie left, but I also had to pee a lot, so it could have been a good ten minutes of footage.

The thing is, every time I have slept since then, I've had some crazy dream where I am sitting on a toilet, urinating. I'm sure we can all remember back to the day when our bladders were weak and the hallway was dark and the tile floor was cold and our underoos were brand new--a dream of peeing on the toilet meant you were actually peeing in your bed.

I haven't actually peed the bed in any of my dreams this week, but how strong is my bladder after the abuse I administered while holding through most of the Ring? Do I dare push its limits yet again?

In one of my dreams, I was peeing in a high school bathroom without a shirt or bra on. Oh, let me back up for a second. See, I was in the boys locker room, getting felt up by this young jock. I had taken off my shirt to make it easier for him... and then when things were getting really hot and heavy (dry humping), I had to pee really bad and just bolted. Anyway, after I relieved myself, I recall thinking how glad I was to have made it to the toilet in time. And as I walked out of the stall, two elderly women (who I can only assume were "lunch ladies"), walked in and screeched, "Young lady, where is your shirt?!?" I was mortified. Just like I would be if James and I wake up in a puddle of my urine tomorrow morning.

I guess I am going to refrain from drinking any liquids for the next hour, go to the bathroom a few times, and get out the spare mattress.

I was just thinking over the career suggestions I have received in the past few years: lawyer, assasin, investigative reporter. Professions that just scream Heartless Bitch.

Does this mean I am ill suited to bottle feed baby llamas? Would someone give me a bad reference if I applied for a job as a cross walk attendant? Is my desire to be a roller skating clown just a pipe dream?

Circus Circus



Senor Pinata vs. Rat Fink Yeah Yeah Yeah



Polka yr eye out, punk!

Oh shit. I just heard that the little bro of one of my best friends hit the back of a semi while going 70mph. They sent him to Little Rock... maybe I won't be seeing anyone in Fayetteville tomorrow.

- Haven't had a chance to write lately.

- Remember my shitty neighbors? Well, Friday night they decided to throw beer bottles at my friend's car while they were leaving and baseball bats and steel pipes were brandished in response. We tried to deal with it as well as we could, but even involving a somewhat neutral party, plus the landlord, and eventually the police in the situation didn't really leave anyone satisfied. I don't want to move (I love my house) but it doesn't seem like this is going to stop any time soon, and with each incident more and more of my friends get dragged into this. This is a small town, and it is only a matter of time before somebody comes upon somebody in a dark parking lot and there won't be anything I can do about it. I don't know what to do.

- The Circus came to town this weekend. Now I have posters of creepy clowns and tigers jumping through rings of fire to hang on my walls.

- Any other local people going to be at the Mirror of Truth (No War Against Iraq bus tour) demonstration/show in Fayetteville tomorrow? A load of us Ft. Smith kids are coming up, so maybe I'll see ya there.

I'm so sick and tired. I picked up a cold over the weekend, and then last night...

My son was running up the cement steps in front of our house and tripped, hitting his mouth on one of the steps. His face was so swollen and bloody that we couldn't really tell what exactly was damaged, so we took him to the E.R.

They examined him and found that he had scraped up his chin really good, knocked out one baby tooth, cut open the inside of the lower lip, split the gums between his front teeth, and knocked the two front teeth somewhat up and back. They didn't want to mess with the cuts on the inside of his mouth and referred us to an oral surgeon.

Last night was a long and restless night, as I couldn't breathe through my nose and I had to get up every 30 minutes to look at my poor baby's swollen, battered face and wipe off more blood and spit each time. Not to mention his stomach was upset and he vomitted and could not have any liquids at the request of the oral surgeon. James handled the door, as the pool of blood on the sidewalk and bloody footprints leading to our front door wasn't enough to prompt people into thinking, hey, maybe this isn't a good time to visit.

The oral surgeon ordeal was a long and tedious wait, as they were taking us on an emergency basis. It was horribly heart wrenching to hear Kyle say, "I just want to see my mommy's face" as he was going under sedation and they were practically pushing me out the door. They stitched up his gums, removed a baby tooth, and pushed the two front teeth back into place, where hopefully they will stay and he won't need more surgery.

Everyone send some healing vibes to my little dude, okay?

- I had fun trick-or-treating. I got lots of candy. This one lady leaned into my face and said, "Oooh, it is satan!" and it took a lot of self control to not spit in her eye. There is nothing worse than having your costume misinterpreted. It makes a person start to question her sense of artistry, and I really don't need that trip--not at the price of a mini snickers bar.

- This week has been a bad rendition of last summer. Every couch and bed in the house is full, the phone is ringing off the hook... but everyone just looks haggard after too many late nights of drinking and the conversations are reruns and there aren't any good shows and so everybody is just dancing out of habit.

- I feel like I could sleep for 3 days.

I'm still sewing together an apron for my scary hag get up.

I am starting to get nervous about trick-or-treating. I'm starting to wish I would have just decided to be Melvis (that's me in an Elvis wig) and hang out with the grown up's, but I've already committed myself to trick-or-treating.

The last time I wore a mask and went trick-or-treating, my Dad had to carry a 45 pound smurf home for something like 12 blocks. I had fallen off someone's porch and my costume was shredded and I was scuffed and scraped from head to toe.

Masks in general give me anxiety. That soft rubbery latex reminds of when I was being hassled by this group of Klingons, and that unloads a whole bunch of bad work history mishaps from my past.

The Klingon problem happened when I worked at this laundromat several years ago. God, I know, a laundromat. But it was probably the nicest laundromat I'd ever seen, so I thought it might be okay. Anyway, there were these two guys that would come in and do their laundry together every Sunday. The one I had only talked to casually. I knew that he was an amateur boxer, and he looked like he had a hairy back, so I tried to steer clear of him. His friend was a little older, less brooding, going bald. We talked about books and unlike the other lonely divorcees that did their laundry there, he didn't get all pissed off and neurotic when I wouldn't go out on a date with him. He just looked apologetic and rather ashamed for asking a 19 year old out for drinks.

Mr. Balding told me about how he and Mr. Brooding were in this group that dresses up like Klingons (he had to tell me this was a Star Trek thing) and holds a blood drive in the Toys 'R' Us parking lot every year. Okay, so why you need to wear a costume to do that, I dunno, but it seemed like a nice enough way for some boring old guys to spend their time. He told me that their group only had male members, and how they were looking for some female Klingons to round out their group.

What unfolded was a methodical campaign to recruit me into their weird blood letting Klingon cult. Every week they showed up with some new Klingon propaganda, including an application for me to fill out at my convenience. They brought me lunch most of the time, and as I ate between loads of laundry they showed me their Klingon masks, spoke slowly to each other in Klingonese with explanations here and there, so that I too, could speak the language someday. Mr. Balding did most of the talking, with Mr. Brooding hanging back for the most part, though he gladly stepped up when demonstrations were necessary for my training. One day they came in with serious business to talk about. They asked me to sit down, and they explained that I might hear bad things about Klingons and that they wanted me to know the truth about their kind, or else I might be wrongfully frightened away forever. Apparently Klingons are known as heartless, cruel, intergalactic warriors, but the fact is, Klingons are merely misunderstood. I kind of stopped listening then, but I gathered that the annual blood drives was their strange attempt to improve their bad image.

After awhile even free food couldn't make another Klingon indoctrination session palatable, and I began spending my working hours listening to the tortured poetry of the guy that lived with his mom and 16 cats. He brought me cookies baked by his mom, which were surprisingly free of cat hair considering the source. The Klingons backed off, but their feelings about my rejection of them was clear, and Mr. Bald became Mr. Bald and Brooding, which was landed him in the same "pathetic, but possibly dangerous" category as Mr. Brooding (with a hairy back and boxing gloves).

I gotta get back to sewing.

- Today is cold and overcast and the leaves on the trees are turning and I love it.

- This is enhanced by the fact that I just polished off a bowl of tomato soup and cheese toast and my boyfriend just brought me a hot cup of tea. And I'm wearing a soft sweater. Ahhhh. I love it.

- We went pumpkin shopping earlier today, too.

- I feel about a thousand times better than I did a few days ago.

- We had a really nice get together on Friday night that sort of restored my feeling of wanting to connect with other people. After the fight on the porch and other incidents with people around here lately, I was starting to feel really hateful and hopeless. So Friday night was really good--I got to see several friends I haven't seen in awhile and meet some of my boyfriend's coworkers, as well. His coworkers were all really nice. That makes me adore him even more... he picks good people to be friends with and I admire that so much.

- Later on there was some falling down in alleyways, rollerskating on the sidewalk in my big fake fur coat, dressing boys in skirts, and misdeanor trespassing.

- Tagged along as James and Matt made 20 bucks apiece for dipping chewing tobacco at the mall. Easier than donating blood, I suppose.

- Last night was trying to get a hooker for a friend and then getting scared shitless by the cops.

- And then snuggling on the couch with my baby watching Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

- James found that video for $3, plus two Gang of Four records for a buck apiece. Score.

- And in a few hours I'm gonna go to see Ass Chapel. Fun.

-October just hasn't really been a fun month for me. And it only has less than one week to redeem itself. Luckily, it still has Halloween left to stun me with. We shall see.

-I sort of lost it yesterday. I made a great big dinner and got mad because nobody came to eat it. Halfway through my lonesome dinner, I realized it was in the middle of the goddamn day and everyone was still at work. I must remember to utilize clocks. And then last night I had everybody out of bed and trying to rush them into a closet... I thought there was a tornado, see, but it was really just a plane circling around trying to land in the fog. And then I washed 40 bucks in a pair of my pants but only 20 bucks came out of the dryer.

-So today I am repenting for my neurotic behavior and proving that I am not a nightmare to live with by cleaning toilets and taking out the trash and stuff.

Have a good weekend, gang.

1. I just poured myself a glass of vanilla coke, walked away, came back and took a drink. Why did that vanilla coke taste like shit? Oh, because the glass I just poured is sitting over there. And the glass I just drank out of has been sitting here since, like, last fucking week.

2. Why does the mailman send the mail flying through the slot at 60mph exactly when I am walking by, thereby scaring the shit out of me? Does he plan this? Back at the post office: "Oh man, you should have seen her jump and holler today! Whoo boy! This sure makes up for the dumb outfit and poor weather conditions."

3. Our phone number is 783-4899. The city jail's is 783-4988. You might be surprised at how many people can fumble these digits. And not just once, but 3 times in a row. Sometimes at 2am. If I get another phone call for the city jail, I'm gonna fucking scream. Oh, sure, it was fun telling people that we are keeping their loved ones in large tupperware containers for the crime of beating up Irishmen, but it is just getting old now.