Author: Anne Orsi

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Bitch Session

I’ve got a case of the grumps.

I haven’t blogged properly in over a week. I just haven’t felt pithy and funny. The fiction I’ve written in the past two weeks sucks to high heaven. I can’t even get excited about politics.

My reviews disappeared from my 360 page and Yahoo won’t do anything to put them back. I like writing reviews. I like reading reviews. I actually make friends because of the reviews I read and write. I want my reviews back, dammit. If Yahoo is going to give me something for free it ought to freaking WORK right. How dare they ignore my demands for satisfaction? Do they think I can’t take my business elsewhere? Right. Like I’d leave 360 now. They have me and they know it, so they take away my freaking reviews. Yahoo is like the phone company, apparently. They don’t care; they don’t have to. Rat bastards. I want my free service! ALL of it!

One of my best friends has decided to go all depressed and suicidal for the second time in four months. If it weren’t for the fact that depression is a killer, I’d be rolling my eyes. I have another friend – actually the mother of one of Jack’s friends – who actually tried twice to suicide last fall, and I ended up with half her kids while she lay in a coma. I really get irritated with people who think suicide is a solution. It is so messy and hurts so many people. Selfish suicidal bastards.

It’s raining. Weather changes always give me migraines, and the weather in the last ten days has gone from snowy and 23 degrees to gorgeously sunny and 78. Fucking weather. Who’s responsible? I’m gonna sue. Now I’ve heard tornadoes are a possibility. Fucking weather.

My head hurts. I can’t take any more Imitrex this week because of the rebound headaches. I hate taking narcotics. There’s something about addiction that is oh-so unappealing to me. I go to bed with an ice pack and my two cats and I lose days at a time. This is no fucking life. I’m not contemplating suicide. I’m selfish, but not that selfish. Yet. I’m just whiny.

One of my orchids won’t bloom. Last year it was given to me for Valentine’s Day by the person my favorite only child now refers to as “The Jackass.” I fed it. I watered it. I repotted it. Not even a hint of a bloom. In a fit of pique this week I bought myself a new orchid in full bloom, thinking the old orchid would get jealous and decide to perform. But, no. It’s just sitting there, passive and still. Lazy-ass old orchid cost me money. Piss me off.

My passport picture makes me look fat. Ok, so maybe I AM fat, but it doesn’t have to be so in-my-face about it. I just got a new passport because I’m taking Jack to England over spring break and I never got around to changing my name on the passport after my divorce. Last year I went to China under an assumed name. It’s a wonder I wasn’t accused of being a terrorist. Now that I’m back to my real name and have gotten completely rid of the assumed name, I feel better. But the fucking PICTURE sucks. I call a do-over. What? No mulligans on passports? Shit.

My laptop is in the shop. The power cord connection came detached from the motherboard. I have a Sony Vaio – one of the tiny 11-inch ones that I keep by my bed because it’s light and easy to hold on my lap. I love my little Vaio. Fucking power connection. Now I have to get a new motherboard. Does anyone know if that changes the entire identity of the computer? I think my messenger archive is going to be lost, and before the battery died I didn’t have time to copy it all. I don’t want it to be lost. There are fantastic messenger conversations just waiting to be made into blogs and if they’re lost then I’ll be majorly bummed out. Not to mention that I just bought the damn laptop in August and already there’s this problem. At least it’s covered by the warranty.

BUT… I did something crafty and diabolical. Heh heh. They said it would be 2 weeks before my laptop would be ready. So I found another laptop on sale, a discontinued model still sporting Windows XP so I don’t have to up and learn Vista before the kinks are worked out of it. There’s a restocking fee of 10%, but that’s reasonable rent for two weeks, considering. I can’t be without my laptop. It is my lifeline. I’m addicted. So I bought it, installed Messenger on it (like I can live without Messenger!), and have not removed a single sticker or registered a single bit of software on it. It now sits next to my bed just like the Vaio did, and will for the next two weeks. Then I’ll return it. Two weeks to repair? Diabolical. I can be diabolical, too. So there. Sometimes I really amuse myself.

I keep finding things I lost in the divorce that I need. My roasting rack. My wok. Kitchen gadgets I don’t remember to replace when I’m out and about. I’ve gone for a year and a half without them now. Annoying. Heading to Amazon to put them on my wish list….

Please add your gripes to the comments. This is an official bitch, carp, moan, and whine session, brought to you by the pen of Aramink. I don’t want solutions. I just want to bitch. Salud!

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Giant Cocks and Baby Chicks

 

I don’t usually take part in a lot of the “drama” that goes on around Yahoo 360, but something has come to my attention that just has to be brought up. It involves a couple of people on my Friends List: Sherry and Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf. The manner in which these two of my friends have gotten locked into such a gossip-worthy situation is horrific and impacts the lives of 50 innocent living, breathing beings.

That’s right. I’m talking about Sherry’s grand-chicks.

Here’s what seems to have happened.

Sherry’s daughter, Katie, became the bearer of about 50 fertilized eggs recently. Dismayed by the ramifications of her daughter’s hyper-fertility and impending single-motherhood, Sherry tried to disguise the pregnancy as an FFA project.

What made the situation even more mortifying for Grandma Sherry is that the same thing had happened the year before. Katie’s offspring were placed for adoption in what was a lucrative baby-selling program which netted sweet Katie a tasty sum toward college tuition, but the young baby-mama apparently didn’t learn her lesson well enough. Katie has up and done it again.

Well, when a perfectly healthy, normal teenager becomes the mommy of 50 baby chicks, it’s obviously time to look for someone in the woodpile. That’s where Guy comes in, sort of.

We all know that Guy’s progeny is the Giant Cock. Guy just can’t seem to keep the Giant Cock under wraps. Every Wednesday the Giant Cock explodes onto the pages of Y360, and some of that stuff seems to have splashed onto Katie somehow. Sweet Katie has now encountered the Giant Cock somewhere not just once but on at least two separate occasions, with disastrous results.

Neither of these friends has yet come into my office to ask me, on behalf of their respective progeny, to participate in the paternity suit. I dread explaining the ethics of a legal conflict of interest when they do.

Sherry, for the love of all that is white meat, keep Katie contained on Giant Cock Wednesdays! You know that’s when Guy lets him out to play!

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Mother’s Eyes

Above Crystal City, in a hidden part of the Koneryl Mountains, a shadow shifted. The figure of a small man staggered out into the waning light of the afternoon sun. Weeks of searching and days of ritual without sleep and starvation had taken its toll but he had what he had come for. Dark eyes searched the mountainside for any sign of movement. Nothing. With slow, trembling hands, the figure took a small pouch from beneath his belt. He turned his back to the sun and, with another furtive glance about, emptied the contents into his palm. Five dark but rainbow-brilliant stones landed in his hand.

These small stones were the stuff of legends. Mother’s Eyes! The largest was smaller than a wren’s egg but that was no matter. A grin lit up his dirty face as he considered the possibilities. In his filthy, battered palm he held the wealth of cities. Each stone contained no less than the living spirit of the land itself. The stones emitted a warmth that sank into his very bones. Nothing was more rare; nothing was more valuable. In the right hands, one stone could bring forth water in the Sisseir. No, no, size didn’t matter at all.

A wave of dizziness struck him and he staggered slightly. Even his euphoria couldn’t push away his hunger or weariness. Carefully he slipped the precious stones back into his pouch, tucked it safely beneath his belt and tied it securely.

It wasn’t safe to stay here. Weeks playing the half-minded stable hand while sneaking his supplies piece by piece outside the city hidden in manure, of monitoring every word he said and every move he made, were no guarantee. Someone could have taken notice at how he lingered at dung heaps and decided to find out what he was taking such pains to conceal. Yes, someone could have taken notice.

He glanced around once again then went to the stream gushing madly from the mountainside near the mouth of the tunnel. The icy water stung his face but revived him somewhat. He drank deeply then filled his waterskin. He wasn’t far from the city but the climb down would be difficult. He wondered briefly if he should stay another night in the mine but decided against it. He had been too long without food and if he stayed he might not have the strength to get down the mountain. As it was, he wasn’t sure that he could make it at all. He had to go now and the quicker, the better.

The paltry weight of his nearly empty pack shifted and threw him off balance as he tried to put it on. A precarious moment passed before he regained his equilibrium. The tempting thought of just leaving it behind slipped briefly through his mind but was discarded immediately. No trace of his presence here must ever be found. Too much was at stake to risk it. It took several minutes for him to control his shaking hands long enough to strap the thing on securely. He cursed at his weakness and at the sun racing so quickly to end the day. Unable to do more for the moment, he sank down on an outcropping. He surveyed the mountain as he rested.

Nothing met his searching eyes but bare rock and a number of streams spewing heedlessly forth and down, down, down to more bare rock below. His path lay beneath more than one of these torrents. Tiny rainbows glimmered in the last of the day’s sun as mists settled onto the very rock he had to traverse if he were to leave this mountain today. He looked at his hands, felt their weakness and prayed to all the gods he had ever heard of to grant him safe passage down to Crystal City. Only the sound of the rushing water answered him. He sighed.

A brilliant flash of memory of the Mother’s Eyes spurred him forward. There were obligations to fulfill, reknown to be won and great riches to be had. Even so, it took tremendous effort to stand and even more to take his first step downward toward his future. As his foot touched the mountain again, a great weight settled onto him.

“No,” he groaned. The stones! The stones were fighting this leave-taking just as they had fought to remain hidden in the depths of the mountain. Oh gods! How could he make it down now with their resistance adding to his ever-increasing weakness? Tears of exhausted frustration threatened but he willed them away ruthlessly. Not now, not after he had come so far already. The stones were not going to defeat him nor was his exhaustion. He took a deep breath to steady himself and took his second step down.

A dozen painful, slow steps later he seemed to have worked himself into a kind of momentum. He told himself that so long as he could avoid climbing over the boulders strewn along the mountainside he could maintain his pace. He drew upon a mantra defining his task to refocus his mind away from his physical exhaustion.

*****

Two hours later he was forced to a halt when the steep mountainside dropped suddenly as a sheer cliff face. The cliff was only about ten feet down, but he saw nothing on which he could gain purchase for his feet or hands. The light pack would make his descent over this precipice even more awkward.

He sat at the ledge, his legs crossed. He considered jumping, but fear of a broken leg stopped him. Slowly it occurred to him that if he lowered himself the drop would be equivalent to twice his height, and surely he could survive that intact. He inspected the ground below for rocks and decided on place to land.

He removed his pack. Holding it by a strap he lowered it as far as he could, then dropped it. It fell open when it hit the ground below and one of the bowls used in his recent rituals rolled out. He must remember to get the bowl to prevent it from betraying his presence on the mountain.

He maneuvered his tired body around to face the small cliff. He hung by his waist, his upper body lying on the ground and his arms resisting his brain’s insistence that he push himself further back, to allow himself to dangle over the edge. He wiggled backwards, less and less of his body keeping him safely at the top of the small cliff, until finally his elbows, upper chest and forearms were all that helped him cling to the top.

He heaved with all his might, both physical and mental, and fell.

It was dark when he regained consciousness. The ache in his head almost caused him to lose consciousness again as he struggled to get the spout of his water bag to his mouth. His swollen tongue barely felt the cool liquid running over it, and some of the water dribbled out of his mouth. And then he did lose consciousness again.

*****

He awoke only moments later to the cold, wetness of his waterbag emptying its contents over his face and neck. Unthinking, he sputtered and struggled to get it off of him. Nausea struck him like a fist, hard and fast. He rolled over vomiting nothing but a little water and sputum then dry heaving endlessly it seemed. Each spasm sent waves of agony through his brain unmanning him utterly.

When at last the heaves left him, he collapsed in a heap, spent and in agony. His outstretched hand hit the bowl he had dropped earlier and sent it spinning into a nearby stream. He didn’t care. He no longer remembered where he was or why.

Disorientation consumed him. He wept like a child in pain and confusion. Soon, his weeping subsided into choked mewlings. He didn’t have the strength for anything else. As his own noises died within him, the sound of rushing water entered into his limited awareness.

An emptiness and thirst awoke in him howling and gnashing at his empty stomach with each passing second. Conscious thought beyond him now, instinct took over. He began to crawl.

It seemed hours before he even began to see the buildings in the city below clearly, but it had not even been one. The moon was beginning to grow bright overhead in the dark sky, but its light was lost at the edges of Crystal City where smoke and haze of the bustling occupants
blotted it out.

‘Home,’ the concept throbbed in his weary mind as he dragged his tired and broken body ever closer. Only one more bend of the river to cross and then he would be there. So close, but so tired, he dragged himself to the river’s edge and leant down to dip his hand in for a much needed drink. He never even felt as his legs began to slip from beneath him and the bankside crumble away. As the cold water began to engulf him as he slid as if in slow motion, all he could think of was the peace. He did not even care that the pouch carrying the stones- the valuable cargo that he had risked his life to bring back – had somehow fallen off his belt into the river as well… and that the Mother’s Eyes themselves had escaped and seemingly swam away to be lost, as was he, in oblivion.

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Wench’s Virgin Training School – Again

I am thrilled to report that Wench’s Virgin Training School is quite popular. Enrollment numbers are quite encouraging and the Camel Endowment is quite large. Ahem.

Please allow me to make a full report to our Trustees, Students and Sponsors.

In just three months of operation, the school has enrolled 19 female revirgination candidates. They are, in order of enrollment, KimberKat, Cyndi, Lisa, Silly, Sue, Sherry, Shira, Catherine,Blue, DWMeowMix, SweetP, Selinda, Gypsy Firecracker, Lia, Susan, Jen, Cherish, Bobbie-Lynn, and Melissa.

We are still waiting for 7 more students: Free, Juls, Red Carol, Tricia, Superbitch, JeniT, and Nancy . You may remember that these potential virgins were contacted by either Habib Aktar or Hachbar Vinmook (and maybe by both) to be members of their harems. Their admissions applications have been approved but they have not yet picked up their copies of Virgins for Dummies or the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, nor have they appeared for class. If anyone knows where these truants are, please have them report to me immediately.

We have a Winter Dance coming up soon. We couldn’t have a Christmas Dance because…well, Hachbar and Habib don’t exactly celebrate Christmas. We need volunteers to decorate the gym with the appropriate tissue garlands, incense burners, and silk rugs. One exciting feature of the Winter Dance will be the BookChick, Cyndi’s exhibition performance of the Dance of the Seven Veils. She is our Dance Instructor, and classes in both “Advanced Seven Veils” and “Belly Dancing 101″ are being offered in the spring term. (“Seven Veils” will only be available with Instructor permission based upon an audition, as “Belly Dancing 101″ is a prerequisite for it.)

We’re going to have a fundraiser and sell chocolate bars and gift wrap. It is necessary for the school to raise enough money to repurchase Ohio. Our dear friend and champion, OhBilly, traded Ohio for the honor and virtue of one of our students when Habib had her on the run. Also, Basser has passed me a letter from the National Security Advisor that if we do not reinstate Ohio soon, Habib may be considered a terrorist for having caused Ohio to secede from the Union involuntarily. We have to buy back Ohio, and that may take a little doing. Texas was also traded for one of our students, but apparently the government doesn’t much care about that.

We have a special ed student, proving the accepting and inclusive nature of Wench’s Virgin Training School. Sherry’s 504 plan is in place, and Mad Diane LeDeux,, who is our Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins, handles special education instruction at Wench’s Virgin Training School. Unfortunately, Mad Diane has had to wield her whip a few times. We are sad to report that we do have disciplinary issues with some students. Shira is in the habit of sleeping behind her veil and Silly keeps showing up for class naked. For some reason Mad Diane is particularly enthusiastic about Silly’s floggings.

In a related matter, Blue has asked about cuff and stick training. It has been determined that this class shall be an elective for advanced students, except for those who Mad Diane believes need the extra discipline. Mad Diane will be the class’s instructor, of course.

Hachbar has become quite a benefactor for Wench’s Virgin Training School. I am pleased to report that he compensated me with much livestock and health insurance. Because of his generosity, I am able to concentrate on the school full time.

Hachbar also wants to sponsor a new building on the campus of Wench’s Virgin Training School. He has directed that all virgins shall use their feminine wiles to lure contractors to build the new school. This will indeed be a test of our revirgination program because of course, the contractors will not be allowed to touch the virgins. Hachbar has decreed that the penalty for touching virgins is death by camel humpy. What Hachbar doesn’t know won’t hurt him, though. If virgins get touched, all they have to do is go back to Virgins for Dummies, Lesson 1, and start the revirgination program all over again.

Habib has not been seen around the school very much. Hachbar informs us that Habib had a delicate operation called an “addadictomy.” I thought all that facial hair was proof certain that Habib already had a Y-chromosome, but Hachbar insists that Habib was missing from many of the opening festivities of the school because of that surgical procedure. Habib hotly denies this, and we can certainly understand why he might be a bit embarrassed about it. One simply does not discuss one’s elective cosmetic or prosthetic surgeries in polite company.

Shortly after Wench’s Virgin Training School opened, we received a dire warning from Basser.It seems that US intelligence operatives somehow got the idea that our school is an Arab Training Camp! According to Basser, Homeland Security was tipped off by an undercover inside informant. Homeland Security has now put the country on Yellow Alert because of this misinformation. Navy SEALs stealthily infiltrated the bushes behind the school and began monitoring us. When they saw Silly was naked, they even began filming!

Homeland Security was disturbed primarily by the fact that because so many women were attending revirginification classes, men could get drunk in bars with no worries about a phone calls demanding they come home. For some reason Homeland Security considers this a national threat beyond even Bill Gates running for president.

The government is now closely watching the school’s banks accounts, activities of students and instructors that occur outside the school, our cable TV bills (searching for naughty pay-per-views, I suppose), breast exam results, and so forth. Under the Patriot Act, the government has access to everyone who deals with us and our virgins. Despite my best legal wrangling with the government’s dark-suited men with their dark glasses and their dark SUVs with the dark-tinted windows, the Patriot Act allows them to violate our rights anytime they want by claiming it is in the best interest of the government. They have specifically asked that our gynecologists check us for Arab intrusion and that our hair stylists check us for fleas. As headmistress of Wench’s Virgin Training School, I find this highly insulting.

What’s even more insulting is the intimation that the government thinks that there are spitters here at our school. Basser said that the SEALs objected to the camels, which stink and spit, and advised me that Navy Men do not like spitters. I was quick to inform Basser that so far as I am aware, the camels are the only spitters at this school, and the Navy men just need to stop playing with the camels. The lip gloss gets in their fur and makes it difficult for Lou’s crew of camel jockeys to groom.
The problem was rectified very quickly, though, when we got use of the FEMA trailers still languishing at Hope, Arkansas (just a few miles down the road from where I live). David (that adorable green puppy!) Reminded us that the trailers were sitting there empty and unused, and naturally we had a great use for them while awaiting our expansion. Each virgin is now assigned a FEMA trailer when she arrives at school, and the Navy SEALs have graciously agreed to leave the bushes and stealth mode behind and take rotating shifts guarding our virgins! There are two SEALs to a virgin on each shift. This has been a great reassurance to Homeland Security and the safety of our virgins is guaranteed.

Before Silly gets too worried (I know she’s thinking about this), let me assure everyone that there is plenty of lip gloss. Our budget has ample funds set aside to purchase lip gloss in 55-gallon drums, and one drum will be placed in each FEMA trailer.

Initially we got wonderful financial advice from that scion of numbers, the Spy Man himself. Thanks to his input, we have established the prices we will charge for our virgins. A virgin in training will go for 6 camels (2 humps preferred), a 12 cup coffee maker, The Idiot’s Guide to Disarming Bombs, and a gift certificate from “BURQAS R US.” A graduate will cost 12 camels, 10 horses, a year’s supply of Glade room deodorizers, a Brookstone electric shaver with the body hair attachment, and an oil well producing at least 500,000 barrels a day.

Of course, Hachbar’s explanation of the livestock exchange rates was very helpful in establishing the virgin prices:

 

1 camel = 2 horses
1 horse = 2 sheep or goats
1 goat = 1 sheep
pig = worthless

 

I am sad to report, however, that Spy turned out to be a, well, an embezzler. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe. But shortly after publication of the last blog about the school, he bought an Aston Martin with school funds and headed to the casino in Monte Carlo. He assured me it was to increase our holdings and for marketing purposes, and he even took Silly with him, ostensibly for some undercover work. He left a note, which was found after his departure, that he had purchased a Walther PPK gun with Silencer for $650 and an $1,800 Hugo Boss Tuxedo. He wiped out the remaining funds in out bank account, leaving us with only 23 cents.

He abandoned the Aston Martin in Monte Carlo, apparently, because he took the company Lear jet back to the school. He dodged in and out under cover of darkness, I am sorry to say, and left another note. Our bank account was overdrawn by $150,000, and still he had the temerity to demand reimbursements for mini bar charges of $1,452; a cash advance at the Monte Carlo Casino of $72,000, and entertainment expenses of $33,400! And this was despite the fact that he had won $500,000 playing baccarat! I tell you, the NERVE of some people!

What’s worse is that he swiped money from the school’s coffers and wired it to the bank account of the Young Republicans. They called and thanked me, or I might never have known. I nearly died of embarrassment. Of all the organizations in all the world, he had to choose the Young Republicans! He is now officially known as ”Spy Non Grata,” if his name must be spoken at all. Please use his name sparingly in my presence as it makes my blood boil.

For every bad egg like Spy Non Grata, though, there is a good egg. Feudalserfer, my beloved friend and now my partner, has established the Satellite Academy. That’s right, Wench’s Virgin Training School has launched into space and a campus is now located on the moon! Legal aliens only may apply, though. We don’t want gate crashers.

A huge party in the Feud’s blog celebrated the grand opening in glorious style.

And speaking of blog parties, Billy’s Dusty Springfield Blog, the official 69 training ground for Virgins, has not seen a 69 since Christmas Eve. Ladies, if you want to be considered experts in 69, you had better get busy! I’m just sayin’….

The last official count, on December 12 at 7 a.m. Central Standard Time was:

 

  • Melissa in the lead with10, with #’s 369, 869, 1169, 1769, 1969, 2169, 2369, 2569, 2769, and 2869.
  • SweetP demonstrated her prowess with 7 glorious 69s. She stole #’s 269, 1069, 1269, 1369, 1469, 2069 and 2669.
  • Silly, the original 69er of the training blog, elegantly stealthed in for 5, #’s 69, 1569, 1669, 1869 and 2469.
  • I scored twice with #’s 169 and 769.
  • Susan captured #469 in a dazzling display of 69 activity.
  • Lisa, the tnbrneyedgirl, brought Billy to his knees easily with the prowess of 10 well trained virgins in her acquisition of #569.
  • Natalie showed that she is definitely not afraid to get her hands dirty with her procurement of #669.
  • Cherish showed great stamina and a truly adventurous nature in her grabbing of the only 69 worthy of being read the same either backward or forward. #969
  • And Sue bombarded the blog in an effort to grab 2269.


Billy, honey, can we get a current count?

Oh, and you don’t mind the Virgins using you to practice their 69 technique, now do you?

Disclaimer: Please note that all prices and exchange rates either expressed or implied are subject to change without notice. The Wench of Aramink reserves sole discretion in the adjustment, revocation, and/or evaluation of said prices and exchange rates. All sales are final; no refunds and no exchanges. Internet sales are subject to all applicable regional, national, and international laws and taxes. Paypal is accepted. Virgins may be traded on eBay. All transactions void where prohibited.

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Why I Should Always Check My Horoscope

 

Once I looked up my horoscope on this online astrology site and now, intermittently, I get an update. Not every day, every week or every month, mind you, just occasionally. It’s probably been six months or so since I saw a horoscope from this site. Maybe it only sends me a message when I have reason to watch for falling rocks or something.

When I log in today it’s there. Usually I just delete it. Today I ignore it and check for more interesting mail.

Next is a note from a lawyer buddy of mine at the child services agency. His kid is taking part in a fund raiser for school and he wants to sell me something. If I don’t buy it, will he refuse to negotiate settlement on the next case we have? I flag it so I could remember to call him at the office Monday and find out if it was intended as extortion.

There’s a flagged reminder that the Arkansas Arts Center is having a reception for a new Impressionist exhibit tonight. I’m planning to go alone if I can’t find anyone to accompany me. It sucks not having someone handy to go to these functions with.

My family emails me instead of calling me. That’s considerate. I hate the telephone. I use it all day every day at work and I absolutely hate to talk on it otherwise. I’m not crazy about it at work, either. Cauliflower ear is a disease I hope someday to shake for good. First my brother asks that I look over a new document for his business to make sure it conforms to the law. I do, it does, and I tweak it just a little so he knows I didn’t just rubber-stamp it. Then my sister wants to know if I have our grandmother’s recipe for a cheese souffle. I hope I do. It sounds like an incredibly fattening, delicious thing to have for dinner. Ah, yes. A spattered, stained card in my recipe box is the mother lode. I consider entering the recipe in Master Cook so I can get the calorie count. I decide I’m better off not knowing. I type it into an email to her. I hope she invites me over.

The phone rings. Damn. I look at the caller ID and it says “private.” There is only one person who ever routinely blocked his number when he called, but I haven’t heard from him in probably seven or eight months. The first time I dumped him he stalked me. The last time I dumped him he vanished in the face of my righteous rage. I really don’t want to deal with him again. After this long surely it’s not him again. The blocked caller ID has to be just a coincidence. I pick up the phone. What is it with me and my self-destructive behavior?

“Hello?”

“Hi, gorgeous,” he says. Shit. Why did I answer? Why? WHY?

“Hello, Doug,” I say, keeping my tone even. If I sound glad to hear from him, he’ll take it as an invitation. The last thing I want is to see this man. No, the last thing I want is this man stalking me again. I tell myself to be cool, distant.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Fine,” I answer cautiously. I really don’t want to encourage him to talk.

“How have your headaches been?”

I debate how to answer this. If I say they’re bad, he’ll probably suavely offer to sex me up to cure them, which I don’t want. If I say they’re not a problem he’ll want to talk about what I’ve done to make them go away. I weasel out the best way I can.

“They’re fine,” I say. Noncommittal, I think. Either I’m telling him I’m fine or that the headaches are alive and well. I bet he won’t figure out that what I’ve said is no real answer at all. He’s not all that smart.

“That’s good,” he offers cheerfully. Good for whom? Me or the headaches? I wonder.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, not really caring what the answer is.

“There’s a reception at the Arts Center tonight for the new exhibit. Impressionism. I know you love impressionist art, so I thought maybe we could go together.”

Shit, shit, shit. I love going to art exhibit openings, and he knows it. Think fast, I tell myself. Think really fast.

“How nice,” I say.

“So how about it?” He’s from Oklahoma originally, so he must not understand that ‘how nice’ is that ubiquitous Southern euphemism for ‘fuck you.’

“Um, well, I’m seeing someone,” I say hesitantly.

“Someone special?”

“Yes,” I say. I don’t elaborate.

“Oh.” He seems stuck for something to say. I resolve to be as unhelpful as possible. There is silence.

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yes,” I agree.

“Okay. Well, take care, then.”

“Bye.” I hang up, glad that ordeal is over. Never, never answer the phone when the caller ID is blocked, I chastise myself. Never, never, never!

I spend the afternoon looking for someone to go to the exhibit opening with me. I have no luck. Everyone’s got plans, is out of town, doesn’t feel well, or just plain doesn’t want to go. I decide to go to the reception alone. I know that I’ll know people there. Half an hour before the reception starts I freshen up my make-up, put on a dress and (ugh) stockings, fix my hair, and head out. I arrive a few minutes after 6:00, when the reception started.

Fifteen minutes later my plastic cup of cheap wine and I stroll around the gallery examining the paintings. I am inspecting a nice landscape when I feel someone close at my elbow. Without looking to see who it is, I move a little to the left to make room for him.

“Hello, Anne,” he says.

Damn, damn, and triple damn. It’s Doug.

“Hi,” I say, putting more space between us.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks.

Oh, crap. Now what am I going to do? I don’t answer. I just smile at him, and I know it’s a sickly smile. I feel like throwing up.

“I’m going to get a refill,” I say, indicating my plastic cup. “Excuse me.”

He walks after me. “I’ll come with you,” he says.

“You really don’t need to,” I say, and I dodge into the crowd where I hope he won’t follow. He follows. I feel like running. I make it to the bar and signal for the bartender. He is busy and I am short. He doesn’t see me. Doug is still at my elbow. He plucks my plastic cup from my hand.

“Let me get it for you,” he offers. I hope that if I obtain enough juice of the vine it will make me braver and intelligent enough to get away intact. He gets the bartender’s attention and my cup is refilled. He hands it to me with a smile.

“Thank you,” I say. I am polite, but I move away from him. Again, he follows.

“Are you here with your boyfriend?” Doug asks again. I think he suspects I might be lying about a man being in my life.

“Oh, look! Pam and Russell!” I exclaim brightly, and head toward them.

“Hi, guys! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” My false cheeriness must really confuse them, but when they see Doug I hope they will figure out all is not well. I stand with them and make small talk. I don’t invite Doug into the conversation. I hope he gets the hint. Unfortunately, he greets Pam and Russell and joins the conversation anyway. I look around for another conversation to jump to. My attention is yanked back by Pam’s well-intentioned question.

“So, are you two seeing each other again?” Shit.

“No!” I yelp. Doug is silent. Russell gives me a funny look. My mind is doing somersaults trying to come up with a safe subject.

“So, it’s a nice turn-out, isn’t it?” I offer. God, how lame. Lame, lame, lame. The small talk continues for another minute. Russell and Pam excuse themselves to seek refills of their own plastic cups. Doug and I stand there awkwardly for a few seconds.

“I should be getting home,” I say. “Jack’s there alone.” Jack is actually at his father’s house, but what Doug doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says. Please, no, I think.

“Oh, that’s really not necessary.” I turn and head to the cloakroom to retrieve my coat. Naturally, Doug follows. He takes the coat from the attendant and holds it for me. I shrug into it with a quick, “Thanks.”

There is no escaping the inevitable. He walks me to my car. His is parked right next to mine. He knows I hate driving and if I had a date I wouldn’t have been in my own vehicle. I feel like a naughty child who’s been found out.

“Well, goodnight,” I say as I take out my key and aim the remote at the car.

Doug puts his hand on my arm. I freeze. To be honest, the guy scares me. I was crazy to let him back into my life after the stalking incident. He proved it when he betrayed my trust a month after we resumed our relationship. I don’t like him. I know what he’s capable of. I don’t need it in my life. I’m still angry about him hacking into my email last summer.

He turns me to face him. He keeps his grip on my arm and touches my cheek with his other hand. I turn away. “I need to go,” I say.

He ignores me. He kisses me on the lips. I don’t move. I don’t kiss back.

“I’ll call you,” he says. He opens my car door. I collapse into the driver’s seat, shaken.

I don’t remember the drive home. My mind is jibbering in half hysteria. I pull into the garage and close the door behind me without getting out of my car or turning off the engine. When I am inside I check all the doors to make sure they are locked. My stomach is in a knot. I go to the bathroom and throw up.

It’s still early. I go into the kitchen and get myself a glass of ice water. I sit down in front of my computer.

My email is still open. I see the horoscope I didn’t read. I click on it.

Cancer (June 22-July 22):
This day is not exactly your best friend.
Be on guard because a friend or business associate could betray you.
Maintain a low profile and you’ll get through the day unscathed.
Be invisible.

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Tony the Good T. Rex

When Jack was a little guy he was dinosaur crazy. Well, truth be known, his mama was (is) dinosaur crazy and she decided it would be a good thing for Jack to be crazy about them, too, so she made sure he knew about dinosaurs.

One of the main things I did was tell him stories. We told lots of stories, but his favorite ones were a series of stories about dinosaurs. The main character in all of the dinosaur stories was Tony the Good T. Rex, a vegetarian carnivore. We took The Tony Show on the road when he started school. I would bring his plastic dinos to school and tell his class stories. Each kid would get a dino and would act out the part that dino had in the story.

I continued this through fourth grade, when Jack’s teacher turned his class over to me for two hours every Thursday afternoon all year long. We had a great time. At the end of the year, I got some of my lawyer buddies together and we put on a trial for the class. I want to post that trial, because it was so much fun, but I have to work my way up to it. You need to have the same background as the kids did so the story makes the most sense.

Here is the very first story that introduces Tony.

Tony the Good T. Rex

Many, many years ago there lived a young Tyrannosaurus Rex named Tony. Tony lived with his family in the deep caves high in the mountains.

Tony did not like the food his family liked to eat. They liked hamburgers, steaks, and any other kind of meat they could find to eat. Tony preferred sweet fruits and vegetables, fluffy bread, salads, and berries from all sorts of plants. He hated meat.

In the mountains where Tony lived no plants could grow. The ground was much too rocky and steep. Tony had to wander very far from home to find the kinds of foods he liked.

Tony’s brothers and sisters laughed at him for eating fruits and vegetables. “What kind of T-Rex are you, anyway, Tony?” teased his older brother.

“Yes,” added his younger sister. “You eat the weirdest things. Yuck.”

None of the other young dinosaurs in the neighborhood would play with Tony either, and Tony was very lonely. He decided to go look for friends in other places. Surely there was someplace in the world where dinosaurs ate fruit and vegetables.

Tony’s mother was sorry to see him go, but she understood. Tony’s father was a big, tough, brawny T-Rex, was disgusted, because he always hoped Tony would develop a taste for meat. Tony’s brothers and sisters just laughed at him.

“Yeah, right! You think you’re going to find plant eaters to be friends with!” the other dinosaur kids taunted. Tony turned his back on them and headed down toward the lush green forest below his mountain home.

The further he walked, the greener the land became. Tony snagged a mouthful of pine needles. “Mmmmm, crunchy!” he thought as he munched happily. He dipped his head and took a bite of the broad leaves of a plant growing near water. What a wonderful taste! He came upon a bush that had lots of plump, juicy fruit. He picked the fruit with the claws on his hands and ate until he was stuffed. Yes! This was the place for him!

Tony spent his first night away from home lying in the lush green grass looking up at the stars. Somehow the stars seemed closer here, even though he knew the mountains where he was born were higher than the plains were he found himself now. He fell asleep thinking happy thoughts.

The next day Tony decided to look for friends. The food was wonderful, but everyone should have friends to share dinner with. He was very happy and began humming a little song and dancing just a little bit as he wandered along.

Before long, he came to the edge of a lake. Across the lake he saw two dinosaurs with incredibly long, thin necks and very. He decided to try to make friends with them.

“Hallloooo!” he called, and jumped and waved so the other two dinosaurs would be sure to see him. The strange dinosaurs turned their long, graceful necks to look at him, and almost before he realized what was happening, the both had walked into the lake and began moving away from him.

“Come back! Come back!” Tony called. “Let’s be friends!” But the two long dinosaurs swam away from him a little faster. Tony might have followed them, but he did not know how to swim.

Tony was disappointed that the two dinosaurs were not interested in making new friends, but he did not let it bother him. He knew he would find friends soon. Sure enough, as he continued wandering through the green land, he came upon two other dinosaurs.

These two dinosaurs were even stranger looking than the two with the really long necks and tails. They had little, bitty heads that were low to the ground, high arching backs, and spikes at the ends of their tails. And all along their tops they had funny looking rocks.

Tony knew how to make friends, though. “He walked straight toward them with a big grin and said, “Hi! My name is Tony and I want to be your friend!”

He was startled at the reaction these two dinosaurs had. The bigger one immediately turned his back and waved the spiky end of its tail at Tony in a threatening manner. The smaller one got into the same position right behind the first.

“Don’t come any closer or we’ll poke you full of holes!” shouted the bigger of the two.

“But I just want to be your friend!” Tony protested.

“Forget it!” yelled the smaller one. “Go away!”

This made Tony sad, but if the two strange looking dinosaurs didn’t want to be friends Tony knew he could not force them. He wandered on through the green places. He wasn’t humming his happy song, and he wasn’t dancing any more. He had no idea that making friends would be so hard!

Tony came to a wide open field. He saw a family of dinosaurs in the field. There was a mother, a father, and a baby. The mother and father had three long horns that stuck out from their heads. The baby didn’t have the long horns yet, but he looked as though he was trying to grow them.

“Haaalllllooooo!” Tony called across the field. “My name is Tony and I want to be your friend and play with you!”

The dinosaur family looked up and the baby dinosaur immediately started running across the field toward Tony. “Okay!” the baby called in a squeaky baby voice.

But his parents had other ideas. The huge daddy started to run toward Tony, too, but he ran with his long sharp horns pointed right at Tony’s soft belly. The large mommy ran toward the baby and blocked his way so he couldn’t reach Tony.

“Go away, meat eater!” shouted the daddy as soon as he saw the mommy had stopped the baby. “We don’t want your kind around here!”

Tony was horrified. He took two steps back and ran toward the trees near the field. He didn’t stop running until he was deep in the jungle. His sides hurt from running so far and he was out of breath. He saw a big boulder and sat down on it.

He thought about the friends he had not made. The two dinosaurs with the long, long tails and long, slender necks hadn’t said anything mean, but they had run away from him as fast as they could. The two dinosaurs with the spiky tails and the funny rocks on their backs had threatened to poke him full of holes. The father of the baby who was willing to play with him said that Tony’s kind was not wanted. Tony felt very sad. In fact, he felt so sad he began to cry.

This part of the jungle had never heard a T. Rex cry. Tony cried very loudly because the more he thought about his day the more he felt sorry for himself. And the more he cried the louder he cried. Pretty soon all the leaves on the trees nearby had fallen off because of how loud Tony was crying.

The animals who lived in that part of the jungle had never heard a T. Rex cry, either. One by one, then in twos, they came to see what was making such a strange noise. They all stayed hidden in the jungle, though, when they saw it was a T. Rex.

All of them stayed hidden but one, that is. A young Iguanodon named Pete, who was about the same age as Tony, finally decided to find out what the problem was.

“Why are you crying?” asked Pete.

Tony looked up and saw Pete standing a little way away. He blinked away his tears. “I’m crying because no one will be my friend,” he said.

“Why are you looking for friends in this part of the world?” asked Pete. “Why aren’t you looking for friends in the part of the world that has other dinosaurs like you?”

“Because they make fun of me for eating fruits and vegetables,” explained Tony.

The dinosaurs hidden in the jungle began whispering to each other.

“It’s a trick!”

“How does a T. Rex know about fruits and vegetables?”

“Pete had better be careful or he’s going to be that T. Rex’s dinner!”
Pete heard what the other dinosaurs were saying, and he knew that dinosaurs like Tony were not usually very friendly.

“I think everyone is afraid you’re going to eat them,” Pete told Tony.

“I won’t! I only like green food and sweet food! I hate meat!” Tony declared.

There was more whispering.

“When Dip Diplodocus and I were at the lake, this T. Rex called to us and said he wanted to be our friend,” said one of the long dinosaurs.

“He said the same thing to us, didn’t he?” exclaimed the little stegosaurus to her brother.

“That’s exactly what he said to us, too!” piped up the baby triceratops.

There was more murmuring and whispering among the gathered dinosaurs.

“I have an idea,” said Pete. “Let’s gather leaves and fruits and see if he really does eat them. If he does, then we will know he’s telling the truth.”

“Good idea,” agreed the Daddy Triceratops. Everyone knows that meat-eaters like him don’t eat salads. If he does eat it, then we’ll know he’s not trying to fool us.”

So the dinosaurs gathered the leaves that had fallen from the trees and brought them to Tony. They placed all the fruits and vegetables and leaves in a big pile.

“I hope you’re hungry for this,” said Pete.

Tony grinned his big T. Rex grin and started eating. “Yum, yum!” he said as he gulped down a huge serving of fruit. “This is delicious!” he said, smacking his lips after a mouthful of leaves. Pretty soon he had eaten the entire pile of fruits and vegetables and leaves.

“Do you ever eat meat?” asked Pete.

“No,” said Tony. “I don’t like meat at all.”

Pete grinned. He looked at the rest of the dinosaurs gathered around.

“What do you say?” he asked Daddy Triceratops.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” said the big horned dinosaur. The mommy triceratops, standing next to him, nodded. The two dinosaurs with the long, long necks dipped their heads in agreement.

Pete stuck his hand out toward Tony. “My name is Pete and I’m an iguanodon,” he said. “See how my thumb sticks up?”

Tony grinned and put out his own two-fingered hand. “I’m Tony, and I’m a T. Rex who eats fruits and vegetables,” he said as he shook Pete’s hand.

And that’s how Tony found his first friends in the plant-eater part of the world, and how he met his very best friend, Pete.

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Fetish IM Conversation

So the other night I had been chatting with my friend, Magic Toy Missing, for about five minutes when I got an IM from a stranger. The stranger started out innocuously enough, even to the point where I felt like I should be polite. Then came the fetish talk. No shit. He’d have been on “ignore” long before we got to that point but I had not just Magic but Susan egging me on to have a good time with the guy.

Keep in mind that as soon as I realized what was going on, which was 5 minutes into the conversation, I was sharing everything the guy said with Magic, then later with Susan. As usual, everything but the conversation with the stranger is italicized.

Oh, and his yahoo ID is “shakespeare_lovee” for anyone who wants to share their fetish with him. Please let me know how it goes if you do. I’m dying to find out.

HIM: Hello. How are you tonight?
ME: Do I know you?
HIM: no i find your yahoo ID in parents channel (Parents channel? Does he mean the Member Directory?)
HIM: i have a friend her name is susan. i take your yahoo ID to her (What does he mean? Susan gave him my ID? Why?)
HIM: is it problem for u?
ME: no… (There must be some reason Susan sent him to me. Or was it Sue, planning to set me up for another IM blog? I wonder…)
HIM: asl plzz (Oh, shit)
ME: sorry, I don’t play that game (Oh, for Pete’s sake. Either you want to talk or you want a freaking date. Which is it?)
HIM: it isnt a game. i never chated u before (No, shit. It I had seen you before you’d be on “ignore.” And you aren’t from around here, are you, buddy?)
HIM: trust me (The hell I will!)
ME: I don’t mean to be rude, but is there something you wanted to talk with me about? (I’m really not in the mood for this.)
HIM: i saw your picture and i like u much (Did he see me on Susan’s friends list? She has a lot of these guys on her list since she speaks Arabic. Crap. I don’t want to alienate a friend of hers.)
HIM: u are looking friendly (Whatever.)
HIM: do i disturb u? (Yes. But I’ll be nice. You might be a friend of Susan’s.)
ME: thank you. You obviously have me at a disadvantage, though, because I neither know what you look like or what interests we might have in common.
HIM: i only want to chat u (Yeah. That’s why you’re so interested in my “asl plzz” – if you saw my page you should already know my “asl plzz.” Time to let Magic know what was going on: “I’ve got one of those Arab guys who just messaged me, telling me our friend Susan said to look me up. I wonder if she wanted me to tell him to go fuck himself”? Magic responds, “probably….do it anyways….” I laugh, and copy the conversation so far to Magic, who responds with a heartfelt “woohoo!” He’s so pleased that I have an admirer. He’s a good friend.)
HIM: if u want! (I don’t want. Be nice, Anne, I tell myself. He’s a possible friend of a friend. Me to Magic: “So what should I tell him? I’ll give you credit if you help me mess with his head and I post it as a blog!”)
ME: What shall we discuss? Today I’m quite interested in Venezuela. (I just wrote a blog on it, in fact. But if you really came from my page you would already know that, especially if you were interested enough in me to look at what I was interested in. I look back to the IM with Magic. Magic’s a little slow to respond, but eventually he helps me out with a topic by saying, “ummmmm… hummm….” in a thoughtful way. I’m glad HE’S not trying to pick up chicks on IM. I’m TEASING, Magic! So I copy the remainder of the conversation so far to Magic and giggle. Venezuela. That ought to hang him up! Magic is laughing at me.)
HIM: i want to see u (Oh, shit! Of course you do. Next you’re going to ask me to cam with you.)
HIM: could u plz invite me your cam (uh-huh. I copy this bit of scintillating conversation to Magic and cry for help. Magic, to his credit, does try to get helpful. “Point the cam at some thing totally weird. That should work,” he tells me. I look around for something bizarre to point the camera to. All I see is the silly flamingo pen someone gave me as a joke a couple of years ago. No, I don’t think that’s quite the ticket.)
ME: I thought you already had seen me. You said I looked friendly. (I’m playing for time, my mind racing. Oh, hell. This is such garbage. I’m asking Susan if she sent him to me.)
HIM: yes u are friendly (Hell, no I’m not! Just give me time!)
HIM: could u plz invite me your cam
ME: No, I don’t have a cam. (Shit. She’s not online. Or she’s invisible. Me to Magic: “Help!” Magic just laughs at me.)
HIM: do u have any web cam female friends?
ME: excuse me?
HIM: do u have any web cam female friends? (I’m thinking, gee, um, there’s Silly, and OhBilly has been trying to get lucky with one of these characters. Hmmm…)
ME: Are you really asking me if i have any women friends for you to ogle over the internet?
HIM: yes
ME: Why would I want a friend of mine to be sexually assaulted by web cam?
HIM: what is the probem? (I copy this section of the message to Magic, who lets me know in no uncertain terms that he is dying laughing. You know, he sends me the emoticon with the little yellow guy rolling around beating the floor laughing his ass off. ‘Thanks heaps, buddy,’ I’m thinking.)
HIM: am i looking there a pervert? (Hell, yes, buddy! And if Susan sent you to me I’m gonna kill her! What a time for her not to be online!)
HIM: why u think sex? (DUH!)
ME: Well, usually the next thing a man asks when he’s hunting for someone to cam with is for the woman to take off her clothes. Trust me, I have no friends who would be interested in that.
HIM: there are a lot of phil. girls in chat channels and they are very rude (Really. Well, you’re fixin’ to THINK rude …)
HIM: i felt bored (you felt bored so you decided to pick on me? ME? What the hell have I ever done to you?!)
ME: what do you mean by “phil. girls”? (I copy Magic with the next block of the conversation.)
HIM: phillipian females (Me to Magic: “How am I doing, Magic? BTW, you AREN’T helping!”)
ME: how are they rude?
HIM: want to show their body (Magic just laughs at me: “lol….not sure….never had a man hit on me….”)
HIM: and most of them have very ugly body
ME: lol (Me to Magic: I’ll be happy to send this one your way)
ME: showing one’s body seems to be all the rage with webcammers
HIM: maybe (Me to Magic: Let me send ol’ shakespeare lovee to you and you can pretend to be a philippino cammer for him. Won’t HE get a shock!)
HIM: so
HIM: are u married? (Magic to me: “My cam is pointing at the floor right now….lol”)
ME: no
HIM: kids? (Me to Magic: “Point it at something else when this guy comes along. See if he likes that! ROFLMFAO)
ME: one boy. (Magic to me: “No way! lol” I think, ‘That does it. I’m sending Susan a message and hoping she’s online!’ Me to Susan: “Hey, did you just send some guy with the ID ‘shakespeare_lovee’ to chat me up? ROFL”)
HIM: God bless him (I don’t know about that. The kid’s a sworn atheist. Except on test days, of course.)
ME: and you? (Magic to me: my dad sent me a very nasty pic….. lol….you want it? Susan to me: “WTH?”)
HIM: i am single sweety (Susan to me: “No! WTF!?” AHA! She’s here!)
ME: how nice (Remember y’all, ‘how nice’ is southern for ‘fuck you.’ Don’t EVER call me ‘sweetie’ unless you know me really well. Me to magic: “I don’t think so! LOL Susan just answered me.”)
ME: You really don’t need to refer to me as “sweety” since I tend not to be very sweet. (“Yep,” I say to Susan. “Let me show you.” I copy her with the first part of the conversation, to the point where he asks me “asl plzz.” She says to me, “Get the hell outta here!”)
HIM: do u think u are ugly???
ME: WHAT? (He has no idea, but instead of being offended, I’m laughing at Susan, who is completely mystified at this point. “What’s THAT about?” she asks me.)
ME: no (I wish I could concentrate on you, buddy, but I’m laughing at Susan’s reaction now! Susan says to me: “I’m freaking shocked! What the hell?” I tell her, “I’m having one of THOSE IM conversations with him – but I didn’t want to be too rude if he really was a friend of yours.” “Shit!” she replies. “I don’t know a Shakespeare, unless he has a different handle on IM.” “I think he just made it up,” I tell her. “He’s obviously one of the ones we have Wench’s Virgin Training School for.”)
HIM: u are very sweet lady (“Ask him how he knows me,” Susan says)
ME: thank you (Susan’s offended. “What the hell is he saying my name for?” I think he made up the name,” I say to reassure her. “That’s B.S.!” I can practically hear her yelling, and I’m really laughing now. Yes, she’s offended. “Wanna help me mess with him?” I ask her. “Jesus Christ! How?” Yay! She’s on board with me!
HIM: whats your job?
ME: I’m a lawyer (Susan has been checking her friends list to be sure. “I don’t have a shakespeare,” she tells me. I reply, “He made it up – or Sue sent him to me, since she loves it when I post those conversations.”)
ME: What do you do? (Innocuous conversation – I’m thinking if I get Miss Susie in on this it ought to be good!)
HIM: i am a teacher (Susan’s still indignant. “Christ, I know I didn’t! I would never give out someone’s address!”)
ME: what do you teach? (Keeping him on the line long enough to trace the call – this is gonna be fun…)
HIM: genetics (“Thank you!” I say to Susan, and I definitely mean it. The last thing I want is people giving these creeps my IM address. They find it easily enough as it is!)
ME: really (‘Genetics? How full of shit is he?’ I’m thinking. He probably thinks I’m impressed.)
HIM: yes (I report to Susan: “He claims to be a professor of genetics)
HIM: and where is your husband? (‘He’s looking over my shoulder reading this conversation, idiot. Don’t you remember I told you I’m divorced?’ I think to myself. Susan’s reaction to the ‘genetics’ thing is the same as mine. “Yeah – where?” The skepticism drips from her keyboard.)
ME: Where do you teach?
HIM: in college (I tell Susan, “He says he teaches in a college. He’s more interested in where my husband is.” We both laugh at this.)
ME: What college? (“Wait a minute,” Susan says. “genetics – that’s ringing a bell.” Uh-oh. Maybe he IS one of hers.)
HIM: secondary school (Secondary school? Like high school? This guy needs to get his story straight. Susan remembers, “I had a prof that came as an avatar, a woman. I didn’t accept the invitation.”)
HIM: where is your husband? (This guy obviously didn’t read the part where I told him I am divorced, even though he said my husband must be blind – whatever that might have to do with getting divorced. I ‘m getting worried that he really is a friend and I will have to be nice to him, and suddenly I’m in a mood to mess with him, with Susan’s help, of course. “Let me look at his profile and see if there’s anything there.”)
ME: I am not married (She tells me the name of the genetics person who contacted her. It’s not the same. “Let me ask his name,” I say.)
HIM: u divorced? (Yes, and I sound like a broken record telling you that, just like you sound like a broken record asking me where my husband is.)
ME: yes
ME: What is your name?(Susan says, “He said that he likes to clone humans.” “Yeah, right,” I say. “He did. Right on his page.”)
HIM: u are very beautiful woman. he must be blind (My ex has better eyesight than I do. Let’s just not go there, ok, buddy?)
HIM: my name is umut. u? (I tell Susan, “He says his name is Umut. “He’s a mutt alright,” she retorts.)
ME: Anne
HIM: nice to meet u
ME: where are you from?
HIM: turkey
ME: Why genetics? what interests you about that field of study?
HIM: i like genetics. i fell happy to teach it
HIM: i really want to see u (I tell Susan, “This one isn’t responding well to my questions. I might be able to cut and paste a couple of conversations together for this one, but so far he’s not a real winner. As winners go in the IM category of conversations, that is!” She laughs.)
ME: You have seen my picture. that’s what I look like
HIM: but it would be nice to see u live (“He bad wants to cam with me,” I tell Susan. “I’m SO not going to.”)
ME: Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question since I don’t have a webcam (Susan’s amazed. “WTF!” I say, “Yeah. Really.”)
HIM: could u find it some where? (I copy Susan with more of the conversation)
ME: What? I don’t have one! (What kind of a dumbass is he, anyway?)
ME: What do you mean find it?
HIM: i really want to see u (I copy Susan with another chunk of the conversation)
ME: then look at my picture (God, is this guy whiny, or what?)
ME: that’s the best I can do for you (I copy more of the conversation to Susan)
HIM: but i see only your 3 pictures
ME: four. There are four. The one with the red lips is me, too (I had the red monkey lips representing the Hornifed Sex Monkey still on my top page)
HIM: hey
HIM: nice joke
HIM: u make me laugh
ME: I’m so glad (I really couldn’t care less. I copy the last of the conversation to Susan. Susan remarks, “Pushy bastard. Must be Arab.” “Turk,” I tell her” “Same difference,” she notes. “Yup.” We both laugh.
HIM: could u sen me your pictures plz?
ME: No, I don’t think so. (I pass this request on to Susan. She starts scrambling to find pictured for me to send the guy.“I have a naked man for ya,” she offers. I laugh. “That would be a hoot! I was chatting with Magic Toy Missing a few minutes before I messaged you, and I suggested sending this guy to him. Magic could turn on his web cam and give the guy a treat.” Susan laughed. “Too bad you didn’t get him to do it!” “I know. Magic declined the invitation to play. Said he had to wash his hair or something.” Susan has now located several pictures. She shares them with me and I laugh. “Oh, yeah. Like I should send him a woman in a thong!” She snorts. “Go for it. That’s as naked as my photos get. I got nothing else in the arsenal.”)
HIM: send me plz
ME: no
ME: I really don’t think we have anything to talk about (Susan’s trying to persuade me to go for the thong.)
HIM: what u want to learn about me? (Not a damn thing, buddy. But, being a sport, I share the conversation to this point with Susan. She says to me, “I like the naked guy myself.”)
ME: here you go
HIM: heyyy (He’s getting excited. This is going to be funny. I tell Susan I just sent the naked guy.)
HIM: what is this? (Susan says, “I can’t wait to hear this!”)
ME: it appears to be a naked man (Looks like a nude dude to me, Sparky. Do you like him?)
HIM: is it your ex husband pic?
ME: no
ME: someone sent it to me (I won’t tell him that a woman just sent it to me for the sole purpose of sending it to him.)
HIM: i think thats is not his picture
HIM: he must be find it some where
ME: You think? I was hoping it was real (I copy the conversation to this point to Susan, who says, “WTF?! LMMFAO)
ME: but I don’t know too many people who sit around naked and let their friends take pictures of them (Do I sound enough like Pollyanna here?)
HIM: i dont think so? (I copy the next few lines to Susan, who is still laughing. She asks, “So does he have his cam on?” “No clue,” I tell her.)
ME: oh, well. I had hoped he would be my next husband
HIM: i have very nice female friends but i have never sent them my naked pictures (“What does he look like?” Susan asks. “Darn it,” I say, “he hasn’t offered to let me view him, nor has he offered me a pic.” I can hear her chortle. “Tell him you will if he does.” I think NOT!)
ME: you mean you HAVE naked pics? (God, they ALL have naked pics. Who TAKES those pictures is what I want to know! Wait – no, I really DON’T want to know, either.)
HIM: yes of course (Of course. Me to Susan: eeeewwwwww! I don’t want to see!)
HIM: dont u?
ME: NO! (Susan says to me: “What the hell. Just put him on iggy after you get a laugh.” Don’t I always?)
ME: Well, ok, I have one (I send Susan this section of the conversation and she laughs at me. ‘Now where the hell am I going to get a naked picture?’ I wonder, trusting Susan as my spirit guide in all this.)
HIM: u must be joking (“Susie, find me a good one!” I plead, knowing that she has to be dying of laughter in front of her computer. “Of what? A woman? Naked?” Dammit, I can hear her hanging me out to dry…)
ME: well, no
ME: It’s not really naked (“Yeah,” I tell Susan. “Or maybe I’ll use your thong pic.” She has sent me a sexy one of a woman in her underwear.)
HIM: in bikini
ME: not exactly (Don’t ask me where I’m going with this, because I can’t tell you. I’m just hoping Susan comes up with something.)
HIM: if u want u can send me
ME: Why would I want to do that? (I send the conversation to Susan, hoping she finds a pic in a hurry)
HIM: if not ok dont agry sweety
ME: I’m not angry. I’m just curious. Why would I want to send you an intimate picture? (Sending Susan the last couple of lines, ‘Hurry, hurry, Susan,’ I beg silently.)
HIM: look, your chat friend send u his naked picture
HIM: do u feel excited? (Oh, Jesus. Next he’ll want to know the state of my panties.)
HIM: i think yes (“Almost there,” Susan assures me. Whew!)
HIM: maybe u want to make excited me
ME: no. Actually, I found that in Google images (I’m intentionally ignoring the question of anyone’s state of excitement.)
HIM: why u searched it
ME: because you were asking for pics
ME: I thought it would be funny
HIM: thats not about me
HIM: do u want to see my naked pictures?
HIM: be truth’ (Me to Susan: “Oh, shit! NOW WHAT???” Susan tries to be soothing as I am freaking out. “Tell him you have to go find it.”)
ME: How do you know you could trust me with photos of you naked? I might publish them on the internet (“No, you misunderstand!” I tell Susan. “He’s offering to send me HIS naked pic!!” “Go for it,” she advises. I’m throwing up a little in the back of my mouth.)
HIM: hımmm u right but that is your problem not mine
HIM: so i never send (I notify Susan of this turn of events. “Should I beg him for it?” I laugh. “Tell him you’ll show a little if he does. Ask him why he wants to talk to you. I mean, if he wants to cam than he better get serious!” I’m dying laughing. “There’ll be no bullshit then, She assures me. )
ME: send it if you want. I don’t care. (Does that sound nonchalant enough?)
HIM: is your first feet toe longer than second
HIM: or the same?
ME: ?? Why do you ask that? (Me to Susan: you won’t believe what he just asked)
HIM: i want to learn (I send Susan the toe question)
ME: why does that make a difference? (“Foot fetish, Susan diagnoses immediately. “Probably,” I say. What do I do now?” She’s instantly decisive: “Say yes.” I’m a little rattled, and I’m laughing too hard to type clearly. “I asked him why he wanted to know. Let’s see what he says,” I tell Susan. “Ask him if he’d like to suck on your toes,” she suggests. We both are rolling.)
ME: Would you like to suck on my toes? (“I did it!” I can practically hear Susan’s laughter. “I damn near choked!” she responds a moment later.)
HIM: hey don’t do this u are a lawyer sweety (“He better have a damn long tongue if it’s gonna reach Arkansas from Turkey!” I barely notice his response. I’m having a lot more fun with Susan than I am with him.)
ME: you started it (“Did you send him that pic?” Susan asks. “I sent him the man,” I tell her. “Don’t make me piss myself!” Susan laughs)
HIM: i want to learn lnger or the same
ME: why? (Susan sends me a new picture. “Tell him it’s a little preview,” she suggests.)
HIM: bc i am foot fetish (No – really? A foot fetish? “He’s still on the toes,” I tell Susan. “He just admitted to a foot fetish.” Susan’s fast. “Want me to look up podiatrist?” she asks.)
ME: I see (Do I sound surprised?
HIM: give me answer (Susan says she’ll go find a picture with a foot in it.)
ME: what is it you like about feet? (“Good plan. A closeup,” I chortle to Susan.)
HIM: what about u?
ME: what about me? (Uh-oh. What am I going to say here?)
HIM: yes (Ummm…)
ME: I have no feet (Yeah! That’s the ticket!)
HIM: there are 20000 people who have no feet. (He knows the freaking STATISTICS!!!)
ME: and you found one of them. How are those for odds, huh?(I send the foregoing to Susan, knowing it will make her crazy. “WTF?” she sends back.)
HIM: 20.000/5.000.000.000=%0,0025 chance
HIM: and i asked her about feet (Susan’s hysterical now. I can feel it, all the way between Pennsylvania and Arkansas. She’s hysterical.)
HIM: what a destiny
ME: yep (Susan’s crying. She says, “Now I have to find a naked amputee!! ROFLMAO I’m looking through fetish pics already!)
HIM: plz say truth
ME: All right. Truth is I really have four feet. I have feet on my arms, too. I had to learn to type with the toes on my hands (I copy this to Susan. “What the hell!” She’s beyond using acronyms.)
HIM: i think u believe evoluation (Susan says, “He’s probably jerkin off with his elbows.”)
ME: evolution? Yes. I am a study in retro-evolution, or devolution. I have four feet, just like an animal. (What an image THAT evokes!)
HIM: and that feet toes (Susan says, “That’s one for the mad scientists.”)
HIM: is your first feet toe longer than second? (“Scientists? Yes. Dr. StrangeloveShakespeare, over here,” I tell Susan. “No shit!!” She howls back at me.)
ME: They are the same
ME: No, one’s longer.
ME : No, the other is longer. I can’t tell. (Susan has finally recovered enough to ask me, “What’s he doing now?”)
HIM: hey come on
HIM: thats not diffucult for u (Is he getting testy? With moi? For shame! I send this section to Susan. She’s still laughing.)
ME: well, I can’t tell. I’m blind, you see. I have to do this by touch. (Susan’s response to this is yet another expletive. I think she was laughing too hard to think in real words.)
HIM: so if i send my naked pictures u will not see! (I decide I’ve gotta let Magic know about this. I haven’t kept him in the loop. Me to Magic: “Oh, god – they guy is a foot fetishist!” Susan, meanwhile, has recovered the power of speech. “This is too much fun!” she exclaims.)
ME: true. That’s why I don’t care if you do or not (Do I sound doleful? Resigned to my sightless and footless misfortune? And people wonder why I do this!)
HIM: u make me laugh here (He’s laughing at the poor little lame blind woman? That cad! I remind Susan, “Fucking with these guys is entertainment in my sad little corner of the world.” Susan says, “I never chat. Now I can see why.” She conveys hilarious sobs, and I copy Magic with the toe conversation. Now he’s laughing, too.)
HIM: do u need a love? (Oh, now he’s going to take pity on me! Susan breaks in, “Tell him you have an extra toe on each foot. That should get him rolling.” )
ME: I have an extra toe on each foot. Six toes. (I am obedient to Susan my Muse.)
HIM: for me?
ME: but of course
HIM: are u foot fetish? (I copy this to Susan. “What should I tell him?”
ME: not exactly. Either I have too many feet or not enough, so they don’t much interest me. (“Tell him you’ll rub them on him,” Susan suggests. Magic tells me I got myself into this and he’s not going to help get me out.)
HIM: do u like me? (“No, I can’t do that,” I tell Susan. “He’d have to leave the computer to go clean up. I wouldn’t want him to get splooge on the keyboard.”)
ME: Like you? I don’t know you. (“Hell,” offers Susan, “it’s probably already gummed up!”)
HIM: i am 28m turkei
ME: you’re young enough to be my son (“Good God,” I report to Susan. “He just told me he’s 28!)
HIM: what was your age? (Well, it WAS 28, but that was a loooooong time ago…)
ME: 44 (Susan is encouraging about this relationship. “Tell him you love younger men,” she says. “EEEEWWWWWWWWWWW,” I respond. “Young enough to be my offspring? GROSS!
HIM: only 17 years we have. is it problem for u?
ME: yeah. It feels like kiddie porn
HIM: hey i am young men
ME: yeah. And I’m an old lady
HIM: u are my sweet lady (I copy Susan. Her response, predictably, is “LMAO.”)
ME: I really don’t think so (I’ve copied Magic with everything to this point. Magic tells me, “That’s great.” I can see that he is happy that I have found true love on the internet at long last.)
HIM: what u think lady?
ME: 1) I think I’m NOT yours
ME: 2) I’m NOT sweet
ME: 3) I’m really not very nice at all
HIM: is it importand for u?
ME: and 4) I’m not a lady. I’m a man
HIM: we spend very enjoy time
HIM: that is big joke! (I’m copying Susan, who agrees that we’ve had about all the fun we can stand for one night.)
ME: I think it’s time to go
ME: goodbye, Umut
HIM: hey
HIM: plz say true
HIM: are u really male? (Susan points out that it doesn’t seem to matter one way or another to him. “No,” I agree, “he just wants to keep me talking.”
ME: no (“Yeah, Susan says. And for what? He isn’t getting anywhere.” He wants to know for real if I’m a man, I tell her. “Tell him the first pic was you,” she suggests, “and that you’re gay.”)
ME: what do you think? (Oh, I am SO coy!)
HIM: i think u ar female
HIM: u must a male
ME: I probably ought to tell you I’m a gay male (Susan suggests now that I tell him I’d like to take him by the toes and roll him over in the clover.)
HIM: come on
HIM: i look your picture
HIM: u are female
ME: I need to go. Goodbye, Umut
HIM: are u female?
ME: goodbye

Susan and I talked awhile longer, then it occurred to us to ask Sue, who loves these IM conversations, who may have sent him to me. So I send Sue an Instant Message: “Are you there? Some guy from Turkey with the ID shakespeare_lovee just IMed me and said my friend Susan said for him to look me up. He’s a freaking foot fetishist!”

Sue wasn’t online until later, sadly, but she’s been having fun asking me all about my feet ever since. Magic pops back on and asks, So, did you get rid of your boyfriend? Sheesh. Some friends!

So it’s official. Shakespeare and I are a couple. My feet are all tingly.

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Venezuela

Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez made headlines last week when he told the United States government to “Go to Hell” in a Sunday radio address. My first reaction was to laugh. Then I asked myself why I was laughing.

I might be laughing because someone in the Americas has the outspoken temerity to stand up to Washington’s bullying of the rest of the world, especially smaller, less economically and militarily powerful countries like Venezuela. It is refreshing for someone in the position of Hugo Chavez to stand up to Washington’s arrogance.

Chavez made headlines in September when at his address to the U.N.’s General Assembly he said the UN was basically powerless as an organization to make much of an effect on world politics. Referring to Bush’s speech the day before, Chavez said, ”The devil came here yesterday and it smells of sulfur still today.” I admit that I laughed at that statement, too. My opinion of George Bush isn’t very flattering, and I will admit that on at least one occasion I flippantly referred to him as the anti-christ. Last year, when Chavez was in the U.S. for the annual meeting at the U.N., Chavez declared in a Washington Post interview that the Bush Administration was a terrorist administration. In case you’re wondering, that statement did not make me laugh.

Chavez’s posturing is especially refreshing in light of the fact that he overcame what was probably a U.S.-backed coup d’etat in April 2002. In fairness, Washington investigated itself and officially denies it had anything to do with that coup. Whether or not the U.S. government-backed it, it was clear that Washington would not have been unhappy to see Chavez go. The administration actively supports Chavez’s political rivals, despite the popularity of the Venezuelan leader among his people and in Latin America in general.

Chavez’s ire rose most recently in response to a U.S. State Department statement that the legislative body in Venezuela has allowed Chavez too much power when it gave him the authority to make the extensive socialist reforms, including the nationalization of public utilities and the country’s main telecommunications company. Gasoline is already heavily subsidized by the government of this oil-rich Latin American nation and sells for around 12¢ per gallon.

But is socialization such a bad idea for these basic necessities? In Venezuela, the same as in the rest of Latin America, there is a huge gap between the rich elite minority and the hoards of the desperately poor. Economically, Latin America has not been the global powerhouse that Europe or North America are. Our neighbors to the south have not yet thrown off the yoke of poverty enforced by centuries of Spanish colonization and dictatorial regimes.

Recently, though, the countries on that continent have started working together for a common political and economic good. The example of the European Union, countries which joined together for economic strength, is one I would not be surprised to see South America emulate in the reasonably near future. Venezuela was instrumental in helping Argentina out of its devastating economic crisis a few years ago when the International Money Fund stood by and did nothing. Venezuela bought much of Argentina’s debt and contributed significantly to stabilizing the country in the face of catastrophe.

Chavez is a significant economic leader in the region. He is the driving force behind ALBA, the “Bolivarian Alternative for the Americas” that Cuba, Venezuela, and Bolivia have joined together to form, and which Nicaragua, once again under the control of Sandinista Daniel Ortega, will soon be joining. ALBA is an alternative to NAFTA-style free trade among Latin American countries, where the countries come together economically but retain their own political sovereignty.

Venezuela is positioning itself as a force to be reckoned with on more than just the economic front, though. Despite a U.S. arms embargo against Venezuela, that country is increasing its defense spending at the rate of more than 12% a year. “According to the US Defense Department, since 2005, Venezuela spent more than China, Pakistan and Iran in procurement of weapons,” El Universal reported. The article quoted Lt. Gen. Michael D. Maples, Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, who said that Chavez’s government “emerged as a major purchaser of weapons and resorted to Russia for high-tech weaponry in order to neutralize the US influence.”

How major is major? Well, since 2005 Venezuela has spent $4.3 billion acquiring weapons. That’s almost $1 billion more than China, which spent $3.4 billion, and Pakistan, which spent $3 billion. Venezuela has spent two and a half times the amount Iran has spent on arms since 2005.

Iran is the country the Bush administration is focused on right now because of its possible intent to acquire nuclear weapons. The Bush administration is doing practically nothing about North Korea, which not only has acquired nuclear weapons but has actually test-fired its Taepo Dong missiles in our general direction. (Make no jokes about the name of those North Korean missiles which have such trouble staying up, ok? I’m trying to be serious here.)

In light of the military might of the United States, Venezuela’s acquisitions may seem inconsequential. Purchases included 24 Russian Su-30 multi-role fighter jets, 50 transport and attack military helicopters, 10 new Russian multi-purpose helicopters, 53 Russian Ak-103 assault rifles (before you laugh at that number, note that there was a deal for 100,000 more). Venezuela also purchased a license to build a factory to produce Kalashnikov assault rifles.

Venezuela has spent hundreds of thousands to refit older helicopters and on maintenance of two submarines (for the first time ever Venezuela is tending to this matter herself) and to improve existing weapons systems. More than half a billion dollars went to streamline and revamp the entire Venezuelan military.

Chavez is politically allied with Castro’s Cuba, and this week went so far as to say ‘When they name me, they name Fidel and when they name Fidel, they name me.’ Any moves the U.S. might make against Cuba in Fidel Castro’s waning days as a dictator will be seen by Chavez as an attack on Venezuela.

The Venezuelan people recently re-elected Chavez President. Despite his popular support in free elections, the Bush administration perceives Chavez as a threat to democracy because of the socialist reforms he wants to enact, his political alignment with communist Cuba, and his outspoken opposition to President George W. Bush’s “War on Terror.” Chavez, in turn, sees Bush as a threat. He has accused the Bush administration of attempting to assassinate him, not just overthrow him.

The official position of our government is that Chavez’s government is eroding democracy and human rights in Venezuela. Our government also claims that Chavez wants to undermine American influence in the region. I am forced to disagree. By supporting a coup d’etat of a leader that had been elected in fair elections, the American government, not Hugo Chavez, is acting as the greatest threat to democracy in Venezuela. Chavez is attempting to make utilities, which we rich Americans consider the basic necessities of life, available to more Venezuelans through socialization. That appears to me to be a betterment of the human condition in Venezuela, not a worsening of it.

And let’s consider this: if George Bush believed that Venezuela had been behind a temporarily successful but ultimately failed coup d’etat of our government, and believed that the Venezuelan government had a hit out on him, don’t you think he’d be doing all he could to undermine Venezuelan influence among our neighbors and allies? And wouldn’t it be reasonable to build our arsenal and strengthen our military in the face of such threats?

The logic of our government’s foreign relations completely escapes me at times.

Oh, and get this. Venezuela is providing low-income Americans with two million barrels of heating oil at a 40 percent discount price. The program, which is similar to many Chavez has spearheaded in his own region, underscores the fact that he recognizes a difference between the American people and our leader. I, for one, am greatly relieved by that news.

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Another Tedious Messenger Conversation

This one opened up with several lines of text in Arabic, which I neither read or speak. Then he buzzed me and did one of those really obnoxious Audibles in some other language. I knew right off the bat I had a bona fide moronic IM Cammer. As usual, my thoughts are in italics.

Oh, and because I know you will ask, the guy on this IM is Abdullah  He also sent me an invite to connect oas friends on Yahoo 360, which I denied based on the fact that communication between us is clearly impossible. If you go to his page, notice that his friends are named Sexy, Horny, and Boobs. Nice.

HIM: your eyes are sweet (Awwww. He’s starting out nicely. I wonder if he’ll ask me to dance?)

ME: You’re nuts and you’re obnoxious. Do you have any idea what you are even saying? (If I go on the attack he won’t understand me.)

HIM: i dont understand you (No shit, Sherlock. I didn’t expect you to.)

ME: I don’t understand you, either. What is with the bizarre comments? Do you even speak English? (That’s it. Be righteously indignant that he dared contact me in a language I don’t speak.)

HIM: do you love sex frre? (WTF? Sex frre? Sex fire? Sex for free? Sex for a fee? WTF?)

HIM: do you have camer? (Heh heh. He can’t spell camera. I’ll pretend not to understand.)

ME: WTF are you trying to say? (Oh! I could say camel instead of camera!)

ME: I don’t keep camels, no. (Lou does that for me at the Virgin Training School)

HIM: your body sweet (How the hell would he know that? I don’t have any pictures of my body posted!)

HIM: i can see your chest (I don’t think so. If you’re looking at someone’s chest, it ain’t mine.)

ME: No, you can’t see my chest. What makes you think I want to give you sexual gratification? If I had the ability to do so, I would have you arrested for sexual assault. (Right. Like I care what this guy says or wants. He’s an idiot.)

HIM: your chest is sweet (And how would you know?)

ME: How would you know? You have no idea what my body even looks like. I could be a 700 pound quadriplegic with club feet and a potato face, for all you know. (What other nasty images I can evoke here?)

HIM: i can see your chest (You can? I don’t think so!)

ME: No, you can’t. Even if you’re peeping in my window you can’t see my chest. I’m dressed for Pete’s sake.

HIM: ok (Why do I feel like I’m talking to Latke on Taxi? You know, Andy Kaufman’s character?)

ME: Go pick on some woman from your country. Maybe they are stupid enough there to display themselves like meat at the butcher shop. (I doubt it, though. That’s why you are trolling the Internet for wanton Western women. Why does my gender have to be so stupid here?)

HIM: no (Yeah, you’d get stoned in the marketplace if you did, wouldn’t you?)

ME: You have no idea what you’re even talking about. Go away. (He really has no idea what I’m talking about.)

HIM: no (He’s just saying no for the hell of it. He has no clue.)

HIM: your body sweet (We’re back to this?)

ME: Get a life (Get a life, moron)

HIM: your eyes are sweet (Aren’t they? They are laughing at your lame ass right now.)

ME: So you assault me? Go away. You are insulting and rude. (I wonder if he uses Google Translator?)

HIM: ok (What a freaking idiot)

HIM: i can see your chest (We’re back to this AGAIN??)

ME: No. (How much clearer can I put this? Even Google Translator ought to be able to interpret this.)

HIM: your chest is sweet (You’re a moron)

ME: You’re a jerk

HIM: i would like to play sex with you ok (Oh, my gawd. He is a hornified jackass.)

ME: No. (You’ve got to be kidding.)

HIM: send me 10$ doler (WHAT? I’m laughing out loud at this point.)

ME: You’ve got to be kidding. (Surely he doesn’t really think THAT’S going to happen.)

HIM: send to me (ok, buddy. Tell me who to make the check out to)

ME: ok, I’ll send you $10 – what is your name and address (Hee hee! Right!)

HIM: $1000 (Oooooo, the stakes are raised!)

HIM: ok (He’s certifiable!)

ME: SURE (I hope he realizes just how enthusiastic I am about this.)

ME: what is your name (Come on, buddy. Tell me more.)

HIM: no (Did he understand that? I wonder…)

HIM: $10000000000000000000000000000 (Uh-huh.)

HIM: your chest is sweet (Oh, my gawd. Not again!)

ME: you’re an idiot

HIM: i can see your chest (ok, I’m getting bored with this.)

HIM: ok (Time to tell him to go screw himself)

ME: hell no

HIM: you are abeoutiful (Guess he’s not using Google Translator. Google Translator can spell)

ME: you’re a pig (let’s see him translate that and still want to talk)

HIM: think you (OMG! HAH! He thanked me for calling him a PIG!)

HIM: your body sweet (This guy is absolutely tedious)

HIM: your chest is sweet (YAAAWWWWWNNNNN)

ME: you’re a frigging moron

HIM: are you married? (He cares? Oh! HE wants to marry me! Be still my heart!)

ME: WTF does it matter

HIM: i can see your chest (Time to tie this one up)

ME: Do you really not get it? NO!

HIM: your hair are sweet (Oh, wow. Something new and different. He must have looked in his dictionary.)

ME: You are a complete ass

HIM: i can see your chest (boredboredboredboredbored)

HIM: ok

HIM: no

ME: go away

HIM: your chest is sweet (Hey, buddy, your pick-up line isn’t working. Watch me throw my drink in your face.)

ME: how the hell would you know

HIM: ok

HIM: think you (He has no clue what he’s saying. I’m done.)

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Midrashim

The other day someone noticed one of my feeds that seemed uber-apropos for a self-proclaimed Wench who runs a Virgin Training School: “Jeremiah and the Lustful She-Camel” screamed the headline from Slate Magazine.

Oh, my, but there are volumes of possibilities in that headline! I’ve written a silly story about it that has very little to do with the actual article. You can read it in a moment, but first I’d like to talk a bit about the article and the series that begat it, as well as some books I recommend to anyone interested.

The article is part of David Plotz’s series Blogging the Bible: What’s Really in the Good Book. Plotz is a faithful Jew who, like many of us who have attended services in the religion assigned to us by virtue of our birth, reached adulthood believing that he knew what the Bible taught and what the stories were. In the article in question he examines the Book of Jeremiah and comments on how Jeremiah spends a good deal of time early in his sermons talking about sex – or at least comparing people’s bad behavior to sexual misconduct. He describes them at one point as “running about like a lustful she-camel.”

In the introduction to his series on the Bible, Plotz explains that at a bat mitzvah for a friend’s daughter, he picked up a copy of the Bible and idly flipped to Genesis Chapter 34 and began reading. What he saw startled him and started him on a new quest to discover the book he assumed he knew fairly well. He is now blogging a book of the Bible at a time and reexamining what the book says. It’s an exercise I have immensely enjoyed following. I highly recommend the series to anyone interested in religion.

Like Plotz, when I find myself unwillingly stuck at a religious ceremony, which is pretty much anytime I find myself at a religious ceremony, I pick up the Bible and idly flip through it. Almost without exception I find something that appalls me about this so-called benevolent God we are taught about, or about the teachings of his Son as explained by Peter or Paul, both of whom I think corrupted the message beyond recognition.

Chapter 34 of Genesis is the subject of a marvelous contemporary literary midrash by Anita Diamant called The Red Tent. When I read it several years ago, Diamant’s interpretation and extrapolation of the story of Dinah, half-sister of Joseph (he of the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) sent me on a quest to discover more of these wonderful novels.

I’m a voracious reader, but the sheer number of midrashim I devoured over the next few months impressed even me. I felt as though there were finally people out there – other, sensitive, questioning, intelligent, appalled people – whose language I could finally understand and to whose thoughts and responses to Biblical stories I could finally relate.

I still read every contemporary literary midrash I come across. I like them. I like the fact that heroes like King David are shown to be petty and mean, like in Queenmaker, by India Edgehill. That’s how he impressed me in the first place. That and arrogant, of course. The same author has written about the relationship between King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba in Wisdom’s Daughter.

I like that Abraham comes across pretty much as a schizophrenic dolt, as in Orson Scott Card’s Sarah.

That’s right, the brilliant and prolific Orson Scott Card has written three midrashim so far. He is the Hugo Award winning author of Ender’s Game fame, the start of a classic science fiction series that brilliantly combines interspecies space battles and computer video games. This is the same Orson Scott Card who wrote the fabulous alternate history/fantasy series the Tales of Alvin Maker. Alvin, the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, whose “knack” for “making” makes him almost god-like, has interactions with actual historical figures from the time period including Chief Tecumseh and his brother, the Shawnee Prophet Tenskwatawa, Napoleon Bonaparte (exiled in this alternate history to Detroit for his crimes against Europe), and my own distant cousin and President-for-a-White-Hot-Minute William Henry Harrison, he of Tippecanoe fame. Card has written lots more that is absolutely wonderful, but I’ll let those of you who don’t know his work email me for more information if you’re really curious.

Card has written midrashim about Rebekah, wife of Isaac and mother of the twins Esau and Jacob, and Rachel and Leah, the wives of Jacob and mothers of Joseph and Dinah and the twelve tribes of Israel. I sincerely hope he writes more. I really enjoy his work and it delights me no end that he has delved into another genre I love.

Marek Halter, a Polish writer whose family narrowly escaped the Warsaw Ghetto during German’s occupation, has written the Canaan Trilogy which includes another book about Abraham’s wife Sarah, Zipporah, the wife of Moses, and Lilah, the sister of the Prophet Ezra. Halter also has written several other books about the Jewish people including The Book of Abraham, which is not about the father of the Judeo-Christian-Islam traditions, but about a man who lived after the time of Jesus in Jerusalem when the Romans sacked it in 70 C.E.

More books in the genre include Rebecca Kohn’s The Gilded Chamber: A Novel of Queen Esther; Brenda Ray’s The Midwife’s Song: A Story of Moses’ Birth; In the Shadow of the Ark, by Anne Provoost; and Lion’s Honey: The Myth of Samson, by David Grossman. A very funny but poignant look at the missing years in the life of Jesus is the subject of Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, a novel Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf recently turned me on to. I’m here to tell you, if a High Priest of anything advises you to read something about religion, you should.

The books I’ve listed here are just a few of the contemporary literary midrashim that exist. If you’ve read something in this genre that I haven’t listed, please leave me a comment about it. I’m always looking for more.

And please, don’t anyone tell me I’m going to hell for not believing what they tell us in church, temple or mosque, or for not accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Save it for someone who is more impressionable than I am and who hasn’t embarked on an exploration of religion to find out more about it.

Enough of the seriousness. On, now, to my own quasi-midrash: Jeremiah and the Lustful She-Camel. It is not a polite story.

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