I dunno what it is about blank books, all nicely bound with pretty covers in cloth or leather or sometimes cork or fancy paper.  And I dunno what it is about people who use words that make other people buy us these blank books.  I guess they figure we need someplace to keep them.

I probably own at least half a dozen of these things, all of which, I’ve recently discovered, have the first ten pages filled in, usually with something annoyingly boring and un-wordless-book-worthy, such as dreams.  It’s somewhat interesting to read a dream that was so horrible, so beautiful, so damned meaningful at one time that I felt the need to write it down.  But it’s also like reading a recipe with ingredients I’ve never heard of.  You’re sure if someone bothered to write down a recipe, it’s something good, but if you don’t know what a chizzywhoot is, you really aren’t sure what it’s going to taste like.

I was looking for a blank book recently, because I had an idea for things to write in one that wasn’t actually lame.  Since all of my blank books had the first ten pages taken, my efforts were temporarily stymied, and this case of the heebies that Englebert Ichabod, the reknowned heebie surgeon, operated on last week has thus far kept me indoors.  I’ll figure something out, no fear!

But the point is I was looking for a blank book, and I happened upon one for which the first ten pages were devoted to 1996.  Good grief.  Well I can now confirm, it’s true…. if you run into your past self, it does cause a rift in the space time continuum.  I also ran into the term <bg> which was funny, because that alone dated the document from BSA (Before the Smiley Age) although it’s much funnier than I actually wrote <bg> in a freaking journal.  I guess I thought future me would need to know I had been grinning.

I’ve never been very good at journal upkeep.  On the news recently they did a human interest story (as opposed to what?  caterpillar interest?) on this guy that had spent something like 40 years cataloging his life in 15 minute increments, writing down everything he did from peeing to dreaming, to um, writing in his journal.  According to his wife, he got up often in the middle of the night to write in his journal, which now holds the world record as the most tedious document ever or some such as that.   My hubby saw this story and couldn’t believe someone would do such a thing.  No, no, I replied…I’ve read blogs like that.

In the past I’ve always had trouble with the idea of throwing blank books away.  I don’t like throwing any books away, actually, unless I consider the writing so bad that it would be a bad-karma-inducing event to allow another human being to endure it.  But blank books even more so, I suppose because they imply so much potential.  But after meeting 1996 me, I think I have a date with the shredder.  Some things just don’t need to be remembered.

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I woke up this morning to the truly wonderful aroma of momma’s home made chicken soup. Okay I slept really really late today. Having endured a minor procedure on Monday, my internal clock, and my body, are all messed up. So I thought… mmm… soup. And then I thought… surely hubby isn’t in there cooking?!? Awww. He’s not really a gourmet, so I thought maybe he bought something pre-made-up at the market and just warmed it up. But still! Sweet!

The closer to the kitchen I stumbled, the hungrier I got. I tell ya, this soup was really starting to make my mouth water! Anyway, in the tradition of action movies, I’ll cut to the chase. I shuffle to the kitchen, slavering, only to find that indeed, he had been preparing a meal… for the cats. What I was smelling was Friskey’s Chunks O’ Chicken.

For just a moment I really really missed the hospital drugs. Good stuff that.

So this minor procedure involved a couple of stitches in the mid-section. And suddenly, I wake up in the middle of the night, in absolute agony from just trying to roll over, and I think… dammit… if I was Bruce Willis, I would have been able to take a bullet in the gut and get back up and have a fistfight with someone… and win.

Granted that I couldn’t win a fistfight against Bruce Willis (Or Segal, or Stallone, or Jolie or whoever is popular for pretending to kill people these days) on the best of days, but seriously. Life just isn’t like an action movie. If someone looked at me funny in a dark alley I’d be out of commission for a couple hours, but taking a bullet (or a couple of sound kicks even) would not leave me racing through the streets of Bejing after the notorious drug smuggler who killed my family and burned down my grandma’s house. (Sorry, Gran)

Also, I find myself completely out of one-liners right now. Dammit where is Segal when you need him!

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As many of you will have heard, David Beckham has recently been hired by Georgio Armani to model underwear…. for £20,000,000. Yes, that’s twenty million pounds. Not bad for standing around getting your picture taken and trying to look blase, constipated, and interesting all at the same time. (Models do have it tough!)

Which brings me to my point, that my husband is a big, fat liar.  Okay, this isn’t actually my point, but it’s a way-point.  He said to me, upon hearing this news, that, hell, he’d let someone take pictures of him sans trousers for 20!  And I said, of course, you idiot.  Anyone would model underwear for twenty million pounds.  He said, no, I mean twenty POUNDS.  Well, deal, said I.  So I went to get my wallet and camera, only to find he had sprinted off down the hall.  If he had actually been sans trousers at the time, I would have snapped the shots anyway, but sadly, he made the deal with breeches intact.  Hmph!

So… now the actual point.  How much would it take?  Sure, twenty million is enough, and twenty quid is too little, but what exactly is my ass worth?  Now, keep in mind, that although my BMI is about 28, I do have a little bit of pride.  If someone is going to snap my 28 ass, it’s gonna cost them.  But how much?

Well, ten grand isn’t enough, I think.  That would pay the rent (um, maybe) but not buy me any chocolate (an ass like this has to be maintained, mind you.)  I’d need enough to make up for the fact that I wouldn’t be able to face my friends, and would have to make newer, tubbier friends.  So… the question is really how much are my friends worth?

I think a hundred grand ought to do it.  So how much is your ass worth?

Georgio, if you’re reading this… you can reach me at the email address above.

————-

Note to bitter friends:  Will be unavoidably unable to blog for a few days.  Hope to be back toward the end of next week!  Girl-Fren might be convinced to keep you company while I’m gone.

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I’ve warned you before that I’m a crap poet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. So rather than explain the night I had last night, I thought I’d share this little bit of gastronomical insight with you.

Why Does My Tummy Get Upset?
by Jayne MacIntyre

Of all the bits we’ve got
And of all complaints we get
From temples down to toes
Why does Tummy get upset?

Our eyes don’t get irate
Nor our elbows get annoyed
Our ankles seem quite placid
And any arguments avoid

Why even when we’re achy
Have a fever through and through
Not even snuffled noses
Moan and cry like Tummies do.

So what is Tummy’s problem?
We demand to know just who
Causes so much aggravation
And emotional to-do.

I had hoped that you would ask me!
Said Tummy with a cry.
You treat me rather nicely
With the ice cream, mints and pie

It started with your pancreas
(She’s really quite a bother)
Then your liver took her side
And sense would not have stopped her.

Then your heart reminded me
How far I was below
And your bowel got irritated
Said I’d mucked up the show!

Your spleen is just plain spiteful
Without logic, sense or reason
They’ve all gone and ganged up on me
I’m telling you it’s treason!

I don’t have to put up with this!
I think I might walk out!
Of course I’m quite emotional
And rail and sometimes shout

So your elbows don’t complain?
I don’t suppose they do.
They don’t have to put up
With all the things that I’ve been through!

Aha, I truly understand
I have nosy neighbours too
So remember to be patient
If your Tummy upsets you!

——

© Copyright Bitter Women Poetry 2007. All Rights Reserved. Yes, I’m actually telling you not to copy or distribute this vomit inspired poem. — Jayne

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I thought this story was the perfect example of people who get so wrapped up in the rules of life that they completely throw common sense out the window:  Girls Get Detention for Hugging .

MASCOUTAH, Ill. - Two hugs equals two days of detention for 13-year-old Megan Coulter.

The eighth-grader was punished for violating a school policy banning public displays of affection when she hugged two friends Friday.

“I feel it is crazy,” said Megan, who was to serve her second detention Tuesday after classes at Mascoutah Middle School.

“I was just giving them a hug goodbye for the weekend,” she said.

Am I the only one who thinks this makes the teachers fit the perfect stereotype of the crabby spinster hall monitor that you see on Saturday morning cartoons?  Their school manual clearly states that affection is against the rules…

“Displays of affection should not occur on the school campus at any time. It is in poor taste, reflects poor judgment, and brings discredit to the school and to the persons involved.”

Yes, I agree.  It’s the “huggers” that are discrediting your school, bureaucracy, and the entire education system. I wonder if this group also prohibits dancing on the grounds that when yer movin that fast, them demons get rite in ya.

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