Frankenstein's Howloween

He looks so much better with the bolts OUT of his neck


Fruit Bats


Total Treatness

Little Clown

Halloween 2006
(for reals)

ManBug

At our house


The ManBug clowns around.



On Sunday's Halloween



He took flight.

Halloween Ass Kiss

It's been brewing for a while, like a witch's steaming cauldron. I'm a little pissed off. Okay, hormones may play a part in today's tirade, but I don't care. This year in our fine upstanding community of Bumblefuckton, Trick or Treating is on Sunday from 1-4pm. Did you hear me my fellow Halloween revellers? SUNDAY FROM 1 TO 4PM!

For ef's sake! Who wants to celebrate Halloween on October 29th, DURING THE DAY? Spooky! Scary! Damn, this fries my fritters. Some say it's safer. Some say it's more convenient. I would personally like to rent a bullhorn and go down to the town square and tell those who decided this for all of us a few years ago to kiss my ass.

A few years ago I could have cared less. I had no Mini Me to pass the ritual on to. This year Snowflake has TWO costumes. Yeah, two. I suppose we will go on Sunday during the day, and then travel to one of the small surrounding communities where they still celebrate Halloween on Halloween.

There is something about being a kid, wearing a costume and actually going out into the frigid fall night on Halloween. The woodsmoke in the air, jack-o-lanterns glowing, there is a certain sense of authentic spookiness. It's just not the same thing on a Sunday afternoon.

Steaming Cup of Matt

Him: Good evening and welcome to Starbucks. What can I get you tonight?

Me: How about a big luscious steaming cup of you, Mr. Man?

Him: Excuse me? Uh, can you repeat that, please?

Me: Matt? (feeling like too much of an ass to repeat that line)


Silence

Me: Um, can I get a venti non fat with whipped white mocha?

Him: That will be $4.48. Please pull forward.

God! I don't want to pull forward now. I slowly inch my way up to the window and see a young man at the window. I also see Sylvia as I pull up (completely red faced and freaked out).

Me: (to the young man) I am soooo sorry. I thought you were my neighbor, Matt.

Him: That's okay.

Sylvia: Hi Heidi!

Me: Did you hear what I said?

Sylvia: Oh yeah. You know his name is Matt too, she says laughing. Your neighbor works tommorrow.

Me: Okay, thanks. Have a good night.

I feel like a total ass. This Matt is in high school and I tell him to keep the change from my five as I speed away as fast as possible laughing at my mistake.

Friday Night Thinking About Dan

I never thought my new love would have came via Snowflake. This summer I began taking him to work with me and although I hate, hate, HATE to admit it, the cathode ray tubes began to play a part in our daily routine.

The first time I witnessed the twangy video interlude between The Doodlebops(like the Krofft brothers on a very bad day) and The Wiggles (their smocks remind me of Star Trek), I knew I was in love. Harkening back to my stoned age, something pulled me to this lanky and swanky beat. It was Dan Zanes House Party.

Do you know Dan Zanes House Party? I'm a little late. I never listened to the Del Fuegos, so I never knew who he was until now. There is something catchy and cool and not at all juvenille(like Cecil B. Demille) about this music. It totally grooves. Okay, maybe it's a total Chris Isaak on acid thing. I've always had a thing for Chris. Reading a little more about Dan Zanes made me wish I were his pal. He is sooooooo cooooooool. I know I'm going to have to run out and buy all of this music(no futuristic DSL for this lady, yet).

I AM drinking a glass of wine, but I can't stop thinking about getting down on the rug to do the bug. Not actually "do a bug", but you know, dance.

Last Crack at the Season

Spilt

It has been a few years since I had grapes to harvest. When I reroofed the house four years ago, I had to cut the vine way back. Last year I had a small batch that I cooked down into jam because it was the last time my sweet blackberry boy pug ate them. He was like a truffle sniffing hog in the fall. Morbid, but I still have four little jars stashed in my cupboard. I will probably always keep them. This year was a bounty. Beautiful dark violet blue orbs hung thickly twisted around the old vine. The aroma hung in the air from twenty feet away. Grapey grape.

Last Monday I took the bunches, cutting them with my micro Leatherman with precision, leaving a few hanging for the winter creatures. A sweet treat in a barren landscape. The next day I hauled them all up to my parents house. We washed and destemmed them, cooked them, mashed them, strained them.

Back into the pot they went along with sugar. I was making jam. I have never used pectin or gelatin. This year I thought I would try using turbinado sugar(sugar in the raw). I cooked it and cooked it and cooked it. After sealing 36 jars, I had to run to the store and buy 24 more.

My cute first little 36 jars remained a syrup. Bah. All of that work for nothing. The other 19 jars(the ones I went to the store for) are nice and jam-like. It seems nothing like the jam I made before the vine was ever trimmed back for construction.

Tonight I brought the batch home and opened up each jar with a pop, letting it pool in the sink as if it were my own blood. There was so much and I did feel sad. Sad to see all of that growth, that life going right down the drain.

October 12, 2006

When a Catalpa Takes a Dump

June 2006


October 12, 2006

Snip Snip

I know it's the right thing to do, the "ethical" thing to do. The Bob Barker thing to do. I've ALWAYS done it. I feel so nervous and worried. It's been a very long time since I took a puppino to the Vet for spaying and neutering. Today is the double whammy for Frankalicious and Gingerella.

They are going in to be "fixed". I hate that term. It's more like you are breaking them. Pugs are so touchy anyway, being brachycephalic and all. They don't do well under anesthesia. Triple bad karma to me for being encouraged to have their front dew claws removed as well.

Snowflake and I took them in early this morning. They both left their mark (peed on the floor) in the reception area to protest the current state of affairs. He cried as we left them in seperate kennels. He didn't want to leave them all alone. O, O, O I felt bad. The kind assistant said I could call around 3:30 to see how they're doing. Sweet little sausage marbled rye has to stay overnight due to stiches in the hoo-ha region.

I'm sure they're thinking they got dumped again, left in a shelter. I can't wait to see them, to let them know they have a Forever Home. Forever.

Kinderfuckstick!

Kindermusik. Don't believe the hype. We sit around in a circle singing "It's our time to sing together/ It's our time to sing together/ Sing hello hello" to welcome one another by name and action(clap to Jellyneck, Swish to Sackhead etc). As the class progresses into more high pitched singing that only dogs can hear, we play with "instruments". Instruments like little sticks with jingle bells screwed to the top.

Last night Snowflake awoke from his nap 15 minutes before class. The class is at a very awkward time of 6:15pm. Mr. Crabcakes does not like to participate in the class so soon after nap time. Enter jingle jangle bells.

His classmate "Spacepuff" decided to put the bell end of the stick into her mouth, all coquetish like. Snowflake follows suit. I take it out and tell him no. She continues doing so. He tries to imitate her again, I tell him no. He sticks it in his gob again, only this time, the fuckstick "teacher" reaches over and grabs it out of his mouth and takes it away.

He is dumbfounded and starts to rant a little. I whispered to him that he had to listen to Miss Priss because she is the teacher and that is not allowed. Meanwhile, Spacepuff continues practice for future blowjobs without interruption.

I was so wanting to go off on Miss Priss, but didn't want to make a scene. For godzake it's Kindermusik at the Conservatory! Hobnobbing Snobnobbing! If she would attempt something like this again, I would erupt like Yosemite Sam getting his cajones scorched by the campfire, dagnabbit. She was way out of line. Say, sweet heavenly Snowflake just happened to have that jingle bell finaggled around a tooth and she just accidentally ripped it out?

Trauma, trauma, trauma in the conservatory! Scandalous! Oh Miss Priss, how I wish you had a child of your own! Preferably a randy little rascally boychild who absolutely hates organized monotonous conformity!

Here, here's a little flower for me. SERENITY NOW! There, now don't I feel better?!



Damn, that sure is purdy! Almost like it belongs on a box of pads right alongside Miss Priss as she twirls in the gauzy morning light!

O, Brother

All of the things we possess. All of the things we have lost and mourned. Tonight I sat and leafed through a book of poems by my brother. I can't ask him exactly what he meant here or there. I am left with this wonderful, sad and mysterious gift.

I treated him so badly. I cringe when I think of the things I said to him. It is easy to hate myself for these crimes. The day before he died he called me and asked me to come and pick him up so we could hang out. I was hung over and couldn't be bothered and snapped something back about him getting a driver's license. The next day he was dead.

Bitch, I think to myself. Effing bitch.

What have I learned from this experience? The line about treading lightly on people, I tried it. I got fucked. I took a chance on someone who was sort of alot like my brother. I do not claim sainthood in the matter either. The end result was a badly broken heart and beautiful baby boy. Not too bad of a deal, I think.

This magnificent boy I've been blessed with knows what makes me tick. He makes me laugh and drives me crazy at the same time. He is a little poet, constantly making up funny rhymes and songs. I see my brother in this little boy. When I look at him, I can forgive myself.

When In Rome

For years I thought Jane magazine was so fresh and snappy and sassy. The last time I read it cover to cover, it had readers from 13 to 39. When the office subscription arrived the other week I fingered it. Flipping it open to a reader survey, I almost seized when the most popular "older man" you wanna get it on with was none other than George Clooney. Whhhhhaaaa?

Um, how come I never thought of George as an older man? When I think older, I'm still thinking Harrison Ford older. Woe is me! I am NOT the demographic. Nor is Jane the old gal she used to be. I guess I need that subscription to More magazine now. Frick.

Fricking. There is no fricking in my neck of the woods save for the horney hell hounds that cohabit the bungalow. It's amazing how a cute dog can lose his charm so quickly when mounting another and shotgunning the ass end like a jackhammer. Stranger still is when they're looking at you while they're doing it. She wants to wag her tail but...

You know, you can't really yell at a dog and tell them to stop humping. It's just what they want to do. It's a constant reminder of my sexlessness. Three years. Three years! AHHHHHHH! I loved sex and now I can't imagine wanting to get close enough to someone for that purpose.

Yesterday they went to a new vet for shots. I was directed to this vet by my dog loving neighbor and friend, Nurse Trudde.

Oh, I say one thing, Gentle Reader. All the while thinking another.

This vet specializes in large animals, farm animals to be exact. He was kind of short and athletic. Tan with salt and pepper hair, blue eyes framed in round wire rimmed glasses. A scratchy gruff voice and funny. He was wearing shorts, showcasing his muscular calves and a heather gray t-shirt, telling charming antedotes about an old neighbor who had a little dog that humped everything, people, pillows, anything. He complimented the pugs on being good looking dogs and was amazed by their compact builds.

Mmmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm. He was just so sexy in a OLDER than George Clooney kind of way. I just wanted to do the PUG and mount him. Let me be your large farm animal Mr. McVet!

Leaving Them Looking

In between days, unsure if it is autumn or spring. A treat for the senses, a suspension of disbelief until budding or freezing explodes. No turning back as time rolls on like a hamster working the wheel. Marking the simple small moments in life. A beautiful fallen leaf. A smooth river stone. A taste of real delight. Sincere warmth from another.

The smell of smoke in the autumn air. Seeing breath again proves there is still life. The sharp crunch of acorns, twigs, pine needles and oak leaves beneath feet walking in the woods. The first gray days are tolerable with the trees blazing, turning colors,
reaching out, branches like arms. Nest in them. Leaves falling, denuding the deciduous, exposing their most private parts, leaving them looking like bare maidens. The sky is their skin.

Cheekiness

I love my little pug girl. She looks like a loaf of marbled rye. She's so sweet and demure yet to be honest, she's a humper. I have morphed their names into Gingerella and Franco(pronounce it with GUSTO like a red wine swilling, cigarillo smoking Sophia Loren). Sounds good, no? At this point The Chidler is Carlito. Franco likes to keep the Carlito's salami spic and span. So I wonder, who's the bitch? Since I've taken these pictures, especially the last one, I just can't get Alphabet St. out of my head. It's been a few days now without relief. You know how the old children's rhyme goes:

Talk 2 me lover
Come on tell me what U taste
Didn't your mama tell U
Life is 2 good 2 waste?
Didn't she tell U
That Lovesexy was the glam of them all?
If U can hang, U can trip on it
U surely won't fall
No side effects and
The feeling last 4-ever
Straight up - it tastes good
It makes U feel clever
U kiss your enemies
Like U know U should
Then U jerk your body
Like a horny pony would
U jerk your body like a horny pony would
Now run and tell your mama about that!