Thursday, September 29, 2005

Loverboy has nothing on me.

I'm anticipating my weekend. It appears that I'm going to have the whole of Sunday to myself! No football games blaring from the TV, no Miss Peanut bouncing on my lap demanding the whole of my attention, nobody's needs to cater to but my own. What the hell am I going to do with myself for 8 hours?

I have some tentative plans:
  • I just bought Diana Gabaldon's latest masterpiece, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, that I just can't bloody wait to dive into. Her books are always so lush and detailed - and long! - that I need a day to get through them. I'm not a librarian, but I do read quickly ;)
  • I took some cute pictures of the wee sprog today that I could scrapbook.
  • There's always laundry, but is that any way to spend my free time?
  • Some unbridled movie-watching could be in order, as I won't suffer from filmus interruptus, as I normally do.
That ought to do it, although I welcome any and all suggestions. Even the perverted ones.


I'm a generally unfuckwitted, liberal, not-too-generous, not-too-selfish, seizure-inducingly boring spod!
See how compatible you are with me!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

I got this from April at Pissoff! Who got it from Rowan, who got it from Someone else, and so on, and so on...

Are we compatible?

Monday, September 26, 2005

In which my weekend sucks...

My weekend started out great, if a bit dull. Saturday was the day my car finally got an oil change. The idiot light started to go on when the car first started, so I knew I couldn't procrastinate any further. She's a happy vehicle now. I putzed around the house after that, doing some housecleaning.

Here's a discovery: I hate housecleaning. I would rather give blowjobs to ten perfect strangers in exchange for housecleaning services than actually wield the dustrag myself. Sorry to be so vulgar, but there it is. Housecleaning sucks. I'm not in the least houseproud. My mother wilts in embarassment whenever she visits. "Did I teach you NOTHING?" No, but I give damn good head, Mom. My friend Melanie can verify that I have a "dirt problem." Should've bought that fucking Kirby from the outrageously pushy saleswoman. I'm holding out for a Dyson, though - they really suck, and in a good way. Actually, I'm really holding out for a houseboy named Jorge who will work in exchange for... nevermind. I've been vulgar enough for today.

Sunday was Scrapbooking day. You know I'm a suburban wife/mother. Of course I scrapbook every moment of my little darling's life. I got together with a bunch of old hens and cackled my way through a couple of scrapbook pages. They're pretty good, too. I'd show you, but people love to see pictures of people's children as much as they love hearing those oh-so-adorable anecdotes about them. As in, not at all. So you've been spared.

The only part of my weekend that sucked in real life (hey, I said I was through being vulgar) was when my grandmother asked me to create her living will.

My sweet little Italian grandmother is suffering from what the doctors think is emphysema. It could be that, or it could be idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. That would really suck, as she would only have about 6 more months or so to live. Now I have to do her living will, where her only wishes are to NOT be sustained by machines once she is pronounced brain-dead (a la Terry Schaivo). I was brought to a crashing halt just by imagining my grandmother dying.

That totally sucked. Silently crying my way home on Rt.1, fighting beach traffic, and trying not to upset Miss Peanut sucked. The living will sucks. Losing my grandmother will suck beyond all comparison.

Writing this post sucks, too. So I'm stopping now.

Saturday, September 24, 2005


Ever heard that everything's bigger in Texas? Well, it's true.

I was there in July for an educational conference, and had this monstrous margarita during a dinner with colleagues. It was soooooo good, I can still taste the tequila. And that's a good thing.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Is there a 12-step program for this?

Yesterday, it came to my attention that I may have a rather unhealthy addiction. It affects how I interact with people, and how they may perceive me. I am addicted to BBC America.

I can trace my generalized addiction to all things British to my father. His grandfather was a Welsh coal miner. I mean, how stereotypical can you get? Yes, he also loved to sing. We're a very musical family. Not all of us have mustaches, though, as I wax. But I digress. My father also grew up in an area of Pennsylvania where the surrounding towns have exotic names like Bala Cynwyd, Bryn Mawr, Treddyffrin, and St. Davydd's. The heritage cannot be denied. My name is not Bronwen by mere coincidence.

I grew up with the BritComs on our Public TV station, like The Good Life, To the Manor Born, Waiting for God, and Keeping Up Appearances. Oh, I nearly forgot Are You Being Served. How can you forget that? "Mr. Humphries? Are you free?" And who can forget Monty Python and the Flying Circus or Fawlty Towers? My father always watched these shows. Being a Daddy's girl, I loved them, too. We'd watch some together - I can still remember sitting on the sofa cracking up together to Monty Python's The Holy Grail. We would quote bits of the movie at the oddest times. We still do. Weird, huh?

When I met the WCM, I found out just how unusual my family was. See, my father and stepmother, while wonderful people, were very, very strict. We were taught to speak correctly, use proper table manners - even by French standards as I later discovered, and Lord knows they are the supreme arbiters of table manners -, and have an appreciation, if not a great love, of World Culture. If you could not converse properly at the dinner table, then you were to remain silent. We had conversations about Opera at the dinner table, for crying out loud! At the end of the meal, my brother, Owen, and I had to ask to be excused from the table. We had piano lessons, ballet lessons (just me), horseback riding lessons (well, Owen did. I fell off the damned thing and refused to get back up. They're fucking enormous, horses are!), swimming lessons, musicianship lessons, Girl Scouts (just me again), and more. We were busy kids.

In my father's library, you'll find titles by George Eliot, Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Anthony Trolloppe, P.G. Wodehouse, Dorothy L. Sayers, Antonia Fraser, and other British authors. Figures a British Literature major would have these texts. Shakespeare, of course, goes without saying. Whenever I was short of reading material, which was often as I read at the speed of light, I helped myself to his books. I grew up surrounded by attitudes and artifacts from cultures other than my own.

This was definitely not the case with the WCM. He was raised by the stereotypical American family, as the youngest of five children. He's loud, brash, and tends to think that the US is the center of the world. I hate traveling with him, as I've said before, because he's the Ugly American that people worldwide love to hate. Strange how opposites attract. Also strange is how I enjoy ramming my head into the wall repeatedly. But again, I digress.

Then I got Digital Cable. We got it because of the many different Discovery Channels - the WCM is a scientist, and I love learning because, duh, I'm a teacher. We're like that. I rue the day I ever succumbed to Digital Cable. Thus began my formal addiction to BBC America.

It began innocently enough with reruns of Are You Being Served and Keeping Up Appearances. Then it moved into Dinnerladies and The Thin Blue Line. Blackadders I - IV rounded out the first stage of my addiction. Then came the harder stuff: EastEnders marathons, So Graham Norton, AbFab, Changing Rooms, and Ground Force. Finally, V Graham Norton, What Not To Wear (damn, Trinny & Susannah can grab my tits anytime they want!), and Footballer's Wives.

It got so bad that I would get the DTs whenever I missed an episode of Changing Rooms. Life without Graham Wynne and Carole Smiley wasn't worth living. If I couldn't see Charlie Dimmock's bosom flying free and unfettered during the heavy planting on Ground Force, my hands would tremble. Missing Graham Norton would give me palpitations. Stand up stand up all you lovely people, if you've ever had heart palpitations while being naughty?

The US networks picked up shows from the UK, too. We have our versions of What Not to Wear, Faking It, and Room Rivals. I was amazed that NBC thought they could remake Coupling to suit American audiences. It flopped big-time, as did The Graham Norton Experience. I thought the same would be the case with The Office, but that seems to be translating better. But, yet again, I digress from my original point.

It came to my attention that I have this addiction, because I used a word in a blog comment that the blog's owner thought to be unusual for an American to know. I was sure it was one of my grandfather's words, but it turns out I was wrong. I used the word "manky" and Poppop's word was actually "mangy" - applying to unwashed or diseased animals. How would I know manky then, I reasoned, if not for my BBC America addiction?

I've always been careful about this kind of thing - appropriating bits of other cultures, that is - as I was definitely the odd child out in my school. Before I learned (was socialized) not to, I would use epithets like "flipping" this or "bloody" that and the only person who didn't give me a "whaaaa?" look was my 5th grade English teacher, who was Welsh. (I got quite the dressing-down over using the word "bloody" too, as he considered it to be very rude. Oh well. Not 'round these here parts, dude.) I really don't care to repeat my school experience, as it wasn't that pleasant.

I guess this entire long-winded post boils down to this: I don't want anyone to think I'm being pretentious or "taking the piss" (another beautifully descriptive English slang phrase), because hey, I've watched enough British TV to legitimately assimilate some vocabulary. I know what Tesco's and ASDA are. I can name major department stores (Thanks, Patsy & Edina, er, and Susannah & Trinny), restaurants, and even brand names. You can't confuse me by offering to "knock me up" or telling me to "keep my pecker up." And don't ever ask for a snog unless you're serious.

Dawna Walter, from Life Laundry, always used to annoy the ever-loving shit out of me for using a hokey English accent whenever she said certain words. She'd sound all normal white-bread American when she was describing someone's mess, but would say something like "Now it's time to get rid of all this clut-TAH." It made me want to hurt her, the pretentious twat. I hope my diction doesn't make me a pretentious twat, too.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Now I can bag Spike!

You scored as Buffy Summers. You are a very strong individual. You do, however, have some trouble admitting how you truly feel. You've experienced a lot during your life, but you more than manage. Always willing to help, you're a great friend.

Buffy Summers


Dawn Summers






Willow Rosenberg


Xander Harris


Tara Maclay


Rupert Giles


Which Buffy The Vampire Slayer Character Are You Most Like!?
created with

Well, ok. I always considered myself to be a Giles, but I suppose Buffy is acceptable.

I really miss Buffy. I've tried watching Firefly, the new Joss Whedon offering, and I find it a bit too eh for my taste. It tries to be what Star Trek was intended to be: a Western set in Space.

Give me my nice Spike back. I don't care if James Marsters isn't really British. He gives good accent! I want my Rupert Giles back too. Anthony Head is just too nummy, even if I couldn't stand his character in Manchild a few years back, and he is British. Alyson Hannigan, my dear sweet Willow Rosenberg, is in a new show this season. I don't think I'm going to watch it. I was quite attached to my sweet Willow (even through the whole Tara thing. It's not that Willow was a lesbian, 'cause frankly, I heart lesbians. It's that Tara was a supreme wuss and I couldn't stand her. Kennedy made a much better lover for Willow - she kicked ass and took names! but I digress.) and I don't think I could see her in another role. Dawn I could do without. Xander, dear puppy dog, I will miss forever.

C'mon Joss. I don't want to suffer through any more moronic twaddle from the networks.

Give us a spinoff.


Sunday, September 18, 2005


I've had to enable the scrambled word verification thingy for comments.

Sorry. The Spam was getting to me.

I fucking hate Spam.

Even in eggs.

Oh Baby

I was in the mall today, occupying Miss Peanut whilst the WCM was enjoying his football in relative peace. It's like that, you see.

Anyhow, I was following Miss Peanut around, dipping in and out of the various stores - KB Toys, the Disney Store (what she calls Disney World), Baby Gap - a girl's got to have her threads, you know - when I saw two of my former students and their baby.

Ok, so I know I've been teaching for a while - since 1992. My former students could be the parents of teenagers by now. A few of them are, actually. This particular couple, however, just barely escaped 8th grade last year. Yeah, really.

I couldn't avoid running into them, as they'd seen me. So I chatted for a while, held the baby, cooed with genuine enthusiasm - I love the smelly, squirmy little boogers - all the while thinking, you poor little thing. Mommy was a constant discipline problem who came into our school wearing an electronic house-arrest ankle bracelet. She'd been sent away to an alternative school for several months before coming back to us. Daddy was constantly suspended for fighting, and had almost been expelled. Neither of them are what you'd call emotionally stable model-parent material. Poor innocent little baby.

I'd had both of them separately in my 8th grade "French for the Gormless" class. I honestly like both of them, as neither of them gave me a hard time, and were well-behaved in class - much to their other teachers' surprise. Mommy is a real hard worker when properly motivated. Daddy is completely led by Mommy, so maybe he'll develop a good work ethic.

I hope that they can pull it together for their own sweet little Peanut.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Bonjour! C'est moi.

Sadly, that's pretty much what I look like... D'accord, classe, répétez après moi: un, deux, trois...

Monday, September 12, 2005

Foul Language Alert!!!

My dining room carpet is a dog shit magnet. I don't know what it is, but my damn dogs keep crapping on my rug! What the fuck?!

I've had the WCM power wash the goddamn thing. I've sprayed it with enzymes. I've vacuumed the ever-loving fuck out of it! Yet, they continue their ass-dumping assault.

You know, it wouldn't be so bad if the rug wasn't various shades of brown and burgundy that effectively camouflages the turds until someone steps on them. Did I ever mention that I go barefoot at home? DID I??!!!

I don't know what the deal is. I don't leave them in the house too long. They go out all the time to "take care of business." They are possibly the world's most cherished, spoiled, pampered housepets you'll ever meet, but they're slowly shitting their way out of my house.*

Tomorrow, I'm pitching the shit magnet. Want a rug, anyone?

*disclaimer: I love my dogs like family. Every rug and stick of furniture in the house would go before they would. They're seriously pissing me off, though!

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Something fun

Biomechanical Robotic Organism Normally for Worldwide Exploration and Nullification

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

The DaVinci Code

I've always been able to fall into a book like diving into a pond, surfacing only when, like a fish on the line, I've been rudely yanked out of it. Such is what happened to me this weekend.

After waiting for the hype to die down, the WCM & I got on the library waiting list for the book. After picking it up, the WCM asked if I'd like to read it first. A kind gesture, considering it was reserved in his name, and he'd been the one to go fetch it. I demurred, feeling that some kindness was in order - after all, he'd done all the legwork. He asked again, and I believe his words ran along the lines of "I don't want to start reading this book and then have you take it and refuse to give it back to me when I'm ready to read another few chapters."

Well, damned if that didn't happen.

See, I read quickly and voraciously. I plunge in, face-first, eagerly gobbling up the text, emerging only at the end of the verbal gorge-fest, a few hours later. The WCM reads a few chapters at a time and can take days to finish a book. He's a snacker. I'm a binge-eater. Hmmm. I see a pattern.

Anyhow, after he'd read a few chapters, I was overcome with book lust. I discreetly absconded upstairs with the book, under the pretext of bathing Miss Peanut, and promptly slipped under the surface of the page into the Stygian abyss of religious mythology, pagan symbolism, and the desperation of long-held secrets. I was pulled out, blinking and disoriented when the WCM came up for bed and tried to claim the book.

"Oh, hell no!" was my reaction, and I let the man know in no uncertain terms that if he tried to wrest the book from my grasp, the Hoobity would be indefinitely suspended. You know, good things come to those who wait, patience is a virtue, so sayeth the Lord, Amen, and he let me continue reading.

I finished the buffet, er, book at 11:50 pm, nearly having langorously drowned in Dan Brown's plot and prose. I truly had savored every last twist and turn (although I had called a couple of them myself). Gasping for air, like the proverbial landed fish, I hugged the book to my bosom, vowing to buy my own copy.

You know, it wasn't about a certain Plantagenet King or any red-headed Scotsman and his surgeon wife, but it was just as consuming and enthralling a read. I highly recommend it.

One caveat - don't start reading it in the evening - you'll want to devote the day to devouring it in one gluttonous gulp, as I did.


I've been consciously avoiding blogging about Katrina, as there's exposure everywhere. I'm also quite liberal, and I try not to talk about it at home, either, as the WCM and I only fight about it. So, I've been reading a few blogs that talk about it here and there, like The Colossus of Rhodey and Suburban Bliss. Good stuff there, from both of them.

The one post that really expresses my feelings, though, is from a person I haven't spoken to in nigh on 17 years. We had a massive falling-out in 11th grade (mainly on her part) and just didn't talk after that. She is an amazing writer, though, and has crafted a beautiful and eloquent rant about Katrina. You should read it. Go visit her blog, Fiendish Plot, which is hosted by a company based in New Orleans.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

I've heard of compensation, but geez!

I was driving along, following my usual route from Peanut's daycare to home, when my eye was drawn to the bottom of the ginormous honkin' macho dually truck in front of me. At first, I though I was just a huge pervert, 'cause I kind of am. But then, I realized that it just had to be what my sick mind thought it was.

It was this.

I've heard of the male phenomenon of "Vehicular Compensation" before, but gee whiz! This elevates Vehicular Compensation to a whole new level.

What they won't think of next!