cupcakes are muffins. in drag.

i wish i could take credit for this.
oh god, do i wish it was mine...(sigh).

i want to try & stay positive (for the kids).

criticism, competition & cutlery turn the sky blue.

mr. waffle pants. (name of a friend's cat).

all indie band names should include punctuation, which should be further defined as including only the following:
? ! , . () ... " & + (and maybe the *...i haven't decided yet).

the following punctuation should not be allowed in anything other than instant or sms messaging:
@ # $ % ^ =

and the following should not be included because they are the most boring of all punctuation (& should remain in the html world where they belong):
: ; {} [] - _ <>

a few phrases to try & slip into your positively raging weekend (taken from various conversations both real & imaginary):
*take the danger & put in the bank.
*fortune cookie hour is over.
*fake a seizure. that always works for me.
*adopt a less marital tone.
*the only things we had going for us were smooth thighs & a tenacity from being naive.
*clearly we made emo, dark soul sharing plans for tonight
and those trump this event. i just wanted to put it out
there in case you want to glam it up a bit.
*yep, still in the city...can't figure out where i would live after this...the mountains...the ocean...the democrats. its a good place for me.
*stay cool. alas, that will not be possible in the surface-of-mars biome you are currently inhabiting. (& the science talk?? apparently someone is listening to way too much NPR.)
*the white people are melting.

it's friday...can you tell from the nonsensical banter & mindless, unfocused drivel? am i writing just to write? (yes, yes, obviously yes).

see you in june, suckahs.

inflated sense of self & top-heavy egos

(line stolen from chuck...i couldn't help it)

going to see ladytron. happy as clam (why, again, are clams supposedly so carefree & giggly-girl-glad? this seems perverse. from what i've heard about these mollusks, the life of a clam is nothing short of boring, cold & crappy. they don't even have a face.) (reader, please note, i have no idea what i am talking about in the world of biology & one if not all of the "fact-of-a-clam" statements above are undoubtedly false. sadly, i have neither the time nor the interest in looking up clams on wikipedia. please feel free to further research this topic @ your leisure.)

LADYTRON.


(with a subdued shout-out to the underappreciated clam).

(oh, & i finally finished banksy's flowers on amy's deck...it only took 20 minutes-not really sure why i procrastinated for 20 weeks...)

limeade slushes & holding the door open

or
a reflection on growing up in the south

*the reader should note the writer Does Indeed recognize the difference between the deep south & texas. there are pertinent & important differences that can & should be elaborated on by someone (not me). but for the sake of this "piece", the author will call texas "the south"...be able to handle it, as we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.

so, with the old job, i used to go to arkansas at least a few times a year-and i was always surprised how driving out of the airport & seeing fields of cows & open space made me kinda smirk-y. i wouldn't have expected it, as i rarely go to home, and don't visit texas unless on a transfer flight (sorry mom). this is not an accident. i left my home state in a whirlwind of rancor & angst...never quite feeling right about it & never accepting my time there as anything other than a prison sentence. when i packed up my uhaul & finally got out, all i could remember was how i loathed every last detail.

so why the clandestine smiles when i get back to the south? am i repressing pleasant memories? do i (gasp) actually like things about growing up white in america?

i think the change first starts to get my attention when i am putting my carryon into the overhead. i go to slug my 80 lb (clearly surpassing the weight limit) suitcase & i feel it lighten immediately... wtf??!? my suspicion increases...i start to think for whole seconds that all of my shit has been siphoned through the torn front pocket...when all of sudden-BAM. i get it. that guy 14 rows back saw little ole me lifting something other than a fan or sweet tea to my lipsticked lips...and ran up to help me.

chivalry.

oh yeah...that was that thing where guys help girls out. scary feminist take these symbolic gestures as signs of an overriding socialized bias of female fraility. no, no, no. i always took the door being opened for me, being the first to leave the elevator & help with heavy things as just fan-fucking-tastic. i forgot about these southern men & their manners & how warm my blushing cheeks feel.

i like that.

i become more wide-eyed as i am greeted by the first stranger walking opposite me in the airport terminal. "how're you doin' t'day?". it always takes me 3 or 4 of these interactions before i remember this is what people who don't know one another do. oh yeah-and everyone makes eye contact. especially the opposite sex. age, race, amount of botox...it doesn't matter. you make eye contact. oh, and you smile. that's a big part. (i recall my very-different-opinion of this behavior when i left the state many years ago...all this namby-pamby smiling...because these southern smiling idiots are silly-headed ninnymuggins. with cotton between their ears.)

now i'm all dopey smiling back.

more later on this topic, gotta stand in line for mr. plane.

regnat populus

hotter than a really bad metaphor for something warm-like a gnat's ass or hell or fill-in-the-blank.

yes. it is hotter than any crap analogy.

h.
o.
t.

i must say, however, even though i have scrubbed all southern twang from my voice, as well as all tragic texas social tenets...there is something comforting about a town surrounded by fast food, walmart & gas stations with 60 oz. beverages. you don't get that in california.

my hand is a parking cone; my head is my head

first of all, xenophobia is spelled with an "x" not a "z"...another tricky bit about the english language...an "x" is a sub for the "z" sound, occasionally. just for funsies. we like to throw this in for immigrants & foreigners-to keep them guessing. our gift to the world.

(insert aggravated, disgruntled sighing here).

trying to get my imovie skills up & running again (those same talents that brought you the "ana's birthday" extravaganza)-it's all about the soundtrack & narration...and since i am apparently never going to get my voice back, my voice as The Voice sounds like an old 3-pack-a-day-hag (or grandma ruth, whatev). maybe this will work in my favor? keep your radio dial on this station.

beautiful, oh-so-gorgeous day in the city. can't complain (which is shocking me into numb fingers & nothing to say...as without something to get agro about, i am painfully boring).

off to work.

*ps
what i would have said-part 1
today, met a very talented girl (please note everyone under the age of 100 is a "girl" to me, not a "woman" which sounds manny) who said when discussing that she was a vegan (background story, i said..."i couldn't do that! i drink a gallon of milk a day")-she says "we are the only species that drinks milk". which is true.
i wish, however, that i had been witty enough to say "and we are also the only species that drives cars & has banks & puts on false eyelashes." alas, i thought of this brilliant comeback 3 hours post-conversation.
tragic.

xenophobia is not hot

(saying "hot" has expired.
but "not hot" is totally acceptable.)

i digress.

myanmar cyclone? depressing.
aid workers getting their plane turned around because the government is suspicious? really fucking dumb.

you're not a man 'til you've pulled a tooth out with a pair of pliers.

captain john hillstrand of the time bandit.

*fishes for crab 6 months out of the year.
*8" tall crab tattoo on his arm.
*smokes 476 cigarettes a day.
*wears his USA jacket like skin.
*fell into the water because too drunk to get to the boat.

people, this is a family show. gather the younglings around & embrace the magic of deadliest catch. as capt. john said "we'd rather be lucky than good any day..." if that's not foreshadowing greatness, i don't know what is.

bad to the bone.

into the light of a dark black night

blackbird fly...

yeah, so i've probably listened to this song 4,076 times. some of my earliest musical memories (rubber soul & white album, disc 1 will forever be tied to saturday cleaning...that awful/yet-strangely-comforting-routine we engaged in every saturday morning...sweeping, dusting, all the gross chores...and the beatles crooning somewhere in the background.)

it wasn't until the 4,053 playing of "blackbird" that i realized the bird chirping was actually in the track. i honestly thought it was either a very fortuitous coincidence or only in my head. i never said anything because i thought if i was the only one that heard it-this would be proof of my being the mayor of crazytown.

i think i was 27 when i finally figured it out.

wow.

oh, which reminds of the time i swear to god there were aliens landing outside my bedroom. all night long. i kept trying to convince myself it was something else...anything else-but it couldn't be denied. the sound was exactly the same spaceship-landing noise i had heard in the day the earth stood still.

i had to get out of bed...run to the parents' room...for my own safety & really to save the whole family from what was sure to be inevitable extra-terrestrial invasion & body snatching. i just had to force myself out of bed. i could feel the sweat beading up on my forehead. my joints felt stiff & paralyzed...(these creatures were pretty fucking brilliant-being able to control my body from the backyard). i couldn't swallow. i felt like my pillow case had covered my tongue & i had ingested orange shag carpet. i couldn't scream...

get out of bed molly, cmon, save the earth, save the family, don't close your eyes, they are waiting for you to close your eyes, throw your legs off the bed, this is your chance...

it was a bullfrog mating song-i found out after bursting like a banshee into my parents' bedroom, wide-eyed, hair all over the place, sweating & panting & screaming...

a bullfrog mating song.

& a blackbird.