I still have issues

In glancing at my blog entry from a few days ago (yeah, all those site hits? Like 1900 of them are mine), I realized that my list of Food Network People I'd Bang wouldn't be any good without a list of people from Food Network I wouldn't sleep with to serve as a basis for comparison. So here it is:

Food Network People I Wouldn't Bang With a Loaner Pussy

5. Giada De Laurentiis

Or, as I call her, Lollipop Head. Actually, she's not that bad, her recipes have been pretty decent and her show is pretty good, but what put her on the list is that she is one of those people who has had a charmed life and you just want to punch her in her big planetoid head. Oh, you're the granddaughter of a big movie producer and you grew up in a rich family! Oh, your family wanted you to be an actress but you turned it down to go to culinary school in Paris! Now you work on TV and get to travel the world and rub it in everyone's face on 'Giada's Weekend Getaways'! Oh, and you turned out to be pretty on top of all that! Actually, she might be good for a grudge-fuck, come to think of it.

4. Duff Goldman

Just because his chin looks like it got a Brazilian wax and his show is just a 30-minute long commercial for his bakery. I would, however, totally get it on with the redheaded secretary.

3. Sandra Lee

Besides her unhealthy obsession with canned cake frosting and vodka-based mixed drinks, this woman is the poster child for meth. Seriously, she doesn't blink! And every show she does her outfit matches the set. Every. Little. Detail. Matches. Her earrings, the napkin holders, everything! I mean, who has time to go out and buy all this shit and obsess over every tiny thing? Someone smoking meth, that's who! If she's not on crank, I think she's the undead.

2. Gail Gand

Oh, there's nothing much wrong with her in the looks department, and I'm not entirely sure why I think this, but she just seems be someone who is really kinda clingy and needy. Like someone who would call you seven times and send you thirteen e-mails the day after you slept with her. Also, her show is boring and her recipes are too tedious and difficult. Sorry, I don't have 3 hours to make decorative sugar floss for the chocolate cake that took me 2 days to bake. I'm all about the Betty Crocker, baby, and that's why our love could never work. It's not you... it's me.

1. Michael Chiarello

If you looked up 'douchebag' in the dictionary, you'd come up with this guy. Seriously, he's such an asshole that on New Year's Eve Ryan Adams blogged about how stuck-up he was. He's one of those guys who owns a winery and acts as though you're the biggest piece of crap ever if you aren't currently investing all of your time and money into growing your own vintage in your backyard. The show is basically him making fussy, yuppie food for endless dinner parties. I'm sorry, but I've never been to someone's house for a 'dinner party' before. I'm not going to force a friend of mine to cook for a group of picky-ass eaters and then get stuck with a pile of dishes and crappy leftovers that no one wants. No, we go out to eat at a crappy chain restaurant like Applebee's, damn it! We willingly pay $12 for pasta that is one step up from Top Ramen because we're Americans and that's how we roll! He also did a show where he cooked for a bunch of kids and he made some crazy-ass lasagna and grilled chicken things. The kids all looked like they were about to cry. I don't have kids but I know enough that no kid wants to try any new food ever. Just make hot dogs and fries, man! Michael Chiarello, you can take your Fennel Spice Chips and your heirloom tomatoes and cram them your up your Pilates-sculpted butt.

I have issues

My name is Sea Hag, and I have an addiction.

It's hard for me to talk about this, you know, but understanding I have a problem is the first step towards recovery, and I am so ready to get on the road to independence from this crippling disease.

My addiction has robbed me of time with my family and loved ones. My addiction has caused me to ignore my household duties. My addiction is the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think of when I go to sleep at night.

My name is Sea Hag, and I am addicted to Food Network.

I love Food Network. LOVE it. When I wake up in the morning on my days off, I turn on the TV and, oh look, there's Paula Deen making pork chops! It's like she's saying "Good morning! Let's start the day off right with some grease and butter!" And yes, it is a glorious morning when I can wake up to some soft-core food porn on 'Everyday Italian' or roll my eyes at the lameness of 'Iron Chef America'. And when I go to bed at night, I leave the TV on so that Alton Brown can nerd me off to sleep.

Because I spend so much of my conscious day watching Food Network, I tend to think about it non-stop, and I have taken an unhealthy interest in who is hot on Food Network. So after thousands of hours viewing, I have come up with the list of...

Food Network People I'd Bang:

Honorable Mention: Jamie Oliver

He'd rank higher if I'd seen him around lately and if he didn't spit when he talked. But that dry English charm is delectable. I had a friend who had a Jamie Oliver crotch-shot poster and it was so rad.

5. Rachael Ray

You either love her or you hate her. Honestly, she's about right where Emeril Lagasse was five years ago as far as Celebrity Exposure Overload goes (Emeril had a sitcom once, for God's sake!) and she's perky to the point of nausea sometimes, but she's just so damn cute I can't help but like her... and that ass! Her ass is so bodacious, sweet Jesus. I get all moisty every time I see her in the Dunkin Donuts commercials, because I imagine her eating strawberry-frosted pastry and getting even more curvy and juicy.

4. Jamie and Bobby Deen

Oh, to be the warm, pink meat in a Deen Brothers sandwich. By the way, I've actually met Jamie Deen in person and he was so, so hot. He's got beautiful blue eyes. And in my one shining moment to be able to impress him and become Paula Deen's daughter-in-law, I said "Hi. Heh. Um....hehmmmhuh." Next time, I'll just take off my shirt and let my boobs do the talking.

3. Nigella Lawson

She's beautiful and decadent and naughty and has that kick-ass, sultry accent. She has a recipe for boiled eggs on foodnetwork.com where she mentions prostitutes. If you've ever seen her eat a roast chicken with her fingers you'd think that you were watching free porn. It would be a considered a crime against humanity if I didn't include her on a list that had to do with sex. I'd sit on her face any time.

2. Tyler Florence

He's Food Network's pretty boy, and even though he's put on like 15 pounds in the last few years, he's still totally fuckable. I really liked him in 'Food 911' and in 'Tyler's Ultimate' and I've made a few of his recipes that have been really good. But what kept him out of the top spot that he's a shameless corporate shill for Applebee's. I'm not saying that it's bad to be a whore for a restaurant or product, but Applebee's? Blah! They are to wacky-farm-implements-on-the-wall chains what Arby's is to fast-food restaurants. Chili's is much better. Hell, Outback Steakhouse is better! Major points were lost for lack of taste.

1. George Duran

In an unprecedented upset over favorite Tyler Florence, George Duran comes in first as Food Network Person I'd Most Love To Bang. He used to have a show called 'Ham on the Street' that was pretty damn funny, and he's got the little chubby-cheek Latino thing going that I just love. The first time I saw him I said "he will be mine - oh yes, he will be mine." I just want to put a little saddle on him and ride him all around. Mmmm mmm.

Sea Hag PSA

For your information, the tan M&Ms were replaced by blue M&Ms in 1995. In other news, my brain apparently went missing for nearly 12 years.

Here is what I would look like if I were an M&M:

Random thoughts for today

The smell of mothballs might be the worst smell in the world. One of the best smells is the smell of rain falling on hot pavement.

I wonder how many times I've had sex in my life. Why doesn't someone make a sex odometer? If you had a foot fetish, would it be a sex pedometer instead?

Sandwiches always taste better when someone else makes them.

I don't think about my toes that much. I feel kinda bad about that.

I like making ptoo! ptoo! laser noises. It makes me crazy happy.

When did tan stop being a color in a bag of plain M&Ms?

Yes I am still here

And so it was that The Flying Spaghetti Monster looked upon my computer, and saw that the motherboard was bad, and touched it with His Noodly Appendage. And lo, it did melt and cause me to curse and cry and not be able to post to my blog.

Well, I thought it was a good excuse.

While it's true that the magical unicorn or whatever mystical creature that makes the damn thing died, I have been pretty non-existent in the Sea Hag Universe lately. Call it boredom. Call it sheer laziness. Call it exhaustion and mild depression. Any way you slice it (mmm, slice) I have been neglecting my blog and all writing in general lately. When I started this blog I didn't want to post on here for the sake of posting. God knows teh intertetz is full of wastes of space as it is and I didn't want to add my trash onto the pile. But I realized that I hadn't made a single post in over a month and that I really did have things to say and people to curse and hate, so I needed to drag my sorry ass out of hibernation and get back to it again, broken computer be damned.

Chattanoooooga! Part 2

So on our second day in Chatty, Noochie, Franklin and I had more adventures:


It was crappy and rainy, so we went to the aquarium.


Franklin was attacked by giant sea horses!


Noochie was attacked by a tiny, shifty squid!


Then a shark bit off his arm! (I beat the shark off of him after I was done laughing and taking pictures).


Even though it was totally cold, we went to the Lookouts vs. Biscuits game. We had excellent seats behind home plate...


Until these drunk asshats sat in front of us. And as further proof that God loves a drunk, the girl on the right caught a foul ball about 5 minutes later.

Chattanoooooga! Part 1

I went to Chattanooga a few weeks ago with Noochie. It was fun! I took pictures and everything. Here are some from the 'art' district of Chatty.


This was some outdoor art. Actually, it was kind of a corral for metal outdoor sculptures.



This one escaped from the pen, and appears to be contemplating jumping into the Tennessee River. Don't do it ! You have so much to live for!



Scrap metal + soldering gun = art, apparently.



I call this one 'Gleaming the Azaleas'.



In Soviet Russia, art draws you!



Here is Noochie admiring what appears to be a giant bronzed paper airplane. Actually, Nooch looks frightened and confused by this sculpture.



Noochie later took out his pent-up aggression and rage against all things bronzed and art-like by punching a little sculpture girl in the head.

Sea Hag does Frolicon

Ever heard of Frolicon? Neither had I, but the Atlanta Psytrance folks were invited to play this year, and I managed to snag a free ticket because they are nice and include me in their reindeer games. Seriously, they're kick-ass people. Send them cookies.

Here's Franklin and Michael mixing up some funky beats. Rave on, Franklin! (By the way, Michael's rad braids are courtesy of Sea Hag).

Anyway, on the Frolicon web site it lists this event as an adult sci-fi convention. Hey, I'm all about geeking it out, so that sounded like fun. Plus, you know, free ticket and no little brats running around. How could I refuse?

So, we checked in with the badge people and I got my badge with no incident in the hotel lobby. Coolness. Then we approached the curtained-off entrance to the con.

Oh my.

I don't know where the 'sci-fi' part of the convention came into play (and next time I'll be sure to actually read the information on the web site and not just give it a quick peek), but it sure as hell had the 'adult' part down. Here's a partial list of things that I experienced whilst there:

1. I got my ass grabbed like 3 times.

2. I ate part of some girl's candy bra.

3. Some dude carrying a 4-foot wooden paddle around invited me up to his room for 'some of his homemade mead' (which was by far the worst pick-up line I'd ever heard).

4. I saw my cousin's mom there (she was married to my mom's brother, so that makes her my aunt by marriage, or something like that. They're divorced now, but still, she's my Aunt Yvonne).

5. Yvonne gave me some kinda crazy-strong liquor and I was pretty plastered.

6. Which was good because it desensitized me to the various people wandering around naked. I'd never seen so many nipples before in my life.

7. Also to the people who were walking around naked with whip marks and bleeding cuts on their backs.

8. Also to the room we wandered into where people were like tied up and getting beaten and whipped and shit. There were many bare red asses to be seen (and possibly grabbed).

9. Also to the story someone told me about walking into someone's room and watching someone get fisted.

10. Also the the dude dressed up like Jesus next to the dude dressed up like the Easter Bunny. Actually...that was pretty damn funny.

Here's Candy Bra Girl and her guy friend with Frankin The Traveling Gnome. Franklin had a really good time at Frolicon, as you can plainly see. Actually, Candy Bra Girl was cool and she was pretty cute. I'm glad I partook of her sugary lingerie.

Above all else, stumbling upon the whipping room was a totally weird and surreal experience. I mean, I understand the excitement behind role-playing and dressing up. I can appreciate the appeal of bondage and yielding control over to someone else (though there can be an element of humiliation I totally don't get, but that's just me). But these were people who not only got into S&M stuff and role-playing, but they liked to do it in front of other people. But then you have to figure that there are people who like to watch people being exhibitionist butt-slappers! And that by standing there watching (in other words, gawking like an idiot), I was part of the whole process! Then I thought, I wonder if there are people who are getting off on watching people watch people? My mind, she was blown.

Final verdict: I would totally go again next year, but would more than likely have to be fortified by copious amounts of alcohol. And possibly a naughty school girl outfit and a saddle.

No, I'm not dead

Things have been a little hectic for your friendly neighborhood Sea Hag lately, but now she's back with a fistful of Xanax and a heart full of dreams and unicorns and jelly beans. At the insistence of Hyperion, I am posting an older story I did a few months ago for one of his sites. Hope you like it.

Always Yes

It happens almost exactly how I imagined it.

The knock on the door late at night, I'm not expecting anyone. I am wearing my pajamas. I am making myself a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it will help me sleep but knowing full well that nothing can touch my insomnia. I open the door, and he would be there. He would tell me he loved me. Had always loved me. Everything would be all right. It was about time.

He comes to my apartment after midnight, and when I see him I feel a little light-headed, like the sheer force of my desire and imagination has somehow finally managed to call him forth as an apparition. I reach out, touch his arm. I look at his face and see not the declaration of love I had hoped to find, but the unasked question that always lies between us.

Yes, yes. Always, yes.

A desperate woman will belly-crawl through any stretch of wasteland for the smallest hint of succor, will pray for even the slightest hint of elixir on the tongue to save her from the scorching sky, the rocky earth, the hole in her existence that she has stumbled into. He came to me that night looking for sanctuary in my body, for love that he knew was always his for the taking, and he would wrap himself in both and sleep soundly.

This would be enough to sustain me for a while. Always, yes.

He’s thinner than the last time I saw him. His cheekbones are sharp, predatory, an unsettling contrast to his soft brown eyes, eyes that belong to a small, earnest child who longs to be everyone's favorite. His pants are too big for him, I tell him he looks like a hobo. He smiles, teeth still charmingly crooked. He bit me once on my left hip and I was glad I when it became a scar.

Into my bedroom now, he slips out of his clothes and sits on the edge of my bed, tracing the flowers and vines on my quilt with a finger. He waits for me to get a glass of water, to make sure the doors are locked. He knows my rituals, and there is comfort in that, for both of us.

He is gentle with me, sliding his hands underneath my hips because he knows I like it. I can't relax, this is all too surreal, his sudden appearance, the way his skin feels coarse and dry underneath my palms. I cling to him, press my face into his chest, smelling the familiar mix of Irish Spring soap, tea tree oil shampoo, deodorant and spearmint gum. I wrap my lips around him, and his come is sharp and bitter in my throat. He must be on his medication again. Milk and honey on my tongue, nothing could ever taste finer.

He is asleep now, and in the morning he will leave me. I will watch him dress; I will offer him coffee although I know he doesn't drink it. There will be an awkward kiss goodbye. But for now, he his mine and mine alone, and I watch him, admiring his muscular legs, the curve of his fuzzy ass. A penny falls out of his pocket; it's on the carpet near the dresser. When he leaves, I will tuck it inside my wallet.

Luck.

The streetlights are off now, the neighbor's alarm clock buzzes. Stops. Buzzes again. I am still awake, still watching and oh, how I will crawl through the desert every time for just a taste, a souvenir, a chance for yet another scar.

Always, yes.

March Wordsmiths Challenge: House and Home

Well, there was a challenge up on Wordsmiths Unlimited for March, but as of this morning the web site was still melted or something, so this is more than likely the last one I do, which is a shame. Anyway, here it is, based on the lovely Picasso painting below:

House and Home

I couldn't help it. I had to drive by the house one last time before we moved.

Here is the yard, overgrown and shaggy with dandelions; here is the driveway and the crumbling brick path that twists to the stairs of the front porch. Here's the front porch with its railings wound in a poisonous, spiky vine. Here is the house itself; sentient cave, sadly gray and sagging after your wife moved out, and there was me, two months after she left, waiting for you to answer the doorbell, dizzy with love.

The inside of the house was just as impressively miserable as the outside, with the barest suggestion of furniture, spider webs flung in corners, laundry sitting in tidy land mines on the rug. You pointed out the progress you had made since your wife had left: the new faucet in the kitchen, a raw length of pine fence in the backyard.

I wrapped my arms around you and saw in my mind a house bright with paint and stuffed with soft couches, the lawn thick and green. I wished you would let me give you this home I had always dreamed of, had craved since my own divorce three years ago. I wanted to be happy. I wanted you to be happy.

I started with small things. I threw out piles of junk mail and containers of expired yogurt. I wiped off counters when you were in the bathroom. Later I would come over when you were at work and do laundry, scrub grout, replace light bulbs. You said you fell in love. I moved in.

I hired a landscaper so the two puppies we bought could chase squirrels unhindered. I painted. I bought a red couch on credit and sat with my coffee in the early morning sunlight that filtered through the new curtains, thinking of what I had to do next.

You fired the landscapers one day and the grass grew wild over the brick path and the front porch. You continued to collect spoiled food and credit card applications. The puppies dug a hole under the fence and ran under the wheels of the neighbor's Chevrolet.

Here is the spot in the backyard where I buried our puppies, and here was the place next to that pitiful mound that I cried for them and for my sorry, fallible wish for happiness. Here is the driveway again, where I loaded up my car and did the one thing that finally made my soft little dream come true.

And now here I am in front of the house a year later, sitting in my car, watching as your TV throws blue shadows in the street. My husband is calling me on my cell phone wondering where I am; the movers would come for us early tomorrow to take our furniture to the home where we would raise our family. But for now I ignore it, giving myself another minute to say goodbye, then another.

200-word movie summary: A History of Violence

Two guys kill a bunch of people who work at a nasty motel. One of the guys kills a whimpering little girl because we're all to understand that yes, these two gentlemen are actually quite, quite bad. Then we see Viggo Mortensen (unfortunately not Aragorn in this movie) playing Tom Stall in about 30 minutes of exposition all of which are to make us see that he's a regular guy with a cute family who runs a diner! What a fabulous life full of unicorns and moonbeams, la la la! There is one scene where his wife (Maria Bello) puts on a naughty cheerleader outfit and he totally chows down on her poodle. Hee! Then the two Bad Guys from the beginning come and try to rob the diner and Viggo calmly smites them even though one of them stabs him in the foot. Gah! Viggo becomes a hometown hero and I stopped watching it there because it was so damn boring, and anyway we all have figured out by now that he's really some sort of retired Bad Guy and some other Bad Guys are out to get him and I'm sure at the end Viggo kills 'em all.

Wordsmiths Challenge for January: Crystal Ball

Wordsmiths Unlimited is at it again, and this month we had this challenge: We are going to write in a comedic style: goofy, stupid, and completely un-serious. Think Saturday morning cartoons. Your protagonist is a superhero of your making... The twist is that his or her superpowers are as useless as a sack of wet leaves. They are completely ineffectual, but he or she doesn't know it.

I'll be the first to admit that I had a hard time with this one, and I probably skirted the rules a bit because it's really difficult to be funny on purpose, especially when you're writing. But here it is:


Crystal Ball

Honey sat under a sign that declared "Madame Zannza SEES all!!!!! and KNOWS all!!!!" in flaking gold sparkles and waited for her shift to end.

The turban that she had fashioned out of the sleeve of a bathrobe and a handful of her grandmother's clip-on pearl earrings was itchy, and the harem pants she secretly thought looked cute actually made her look like the illegitimate child of MC Hammer and Barbara Eden. She scratched at her head and wondered for the fourteenth time that day why whoever painted her sign had such a hard-on for exclamation points and poor grammar when a couple approached her booth.

The man stepped up and slid a ten-dollar bill next to her crystal ball, which up until a week ago had been a snow globe with its guts removed. "So, tell me, do you really see and know all?" he said, turning to wink at the woman he was with.

Honey made eye contact with the man, then focused on a point between his bushy eyebrows and let her mind float away:

His name was Harold, he was 39, a security guard at the local piñata factory, and subscribed to National Geographic every year because the pictures of the naked natives got him off like no amount of hard-core girl-on-girl porn ever could.

The woman Harold was with was named Geraldine. She was married and poor Harold didn't know it. While shoplifting fruit-flavored Chiclets and a bag of Funyuns at the local gas station two weeks ago, she had heard him talk to the cashier about his job, and she mistakenly thought that a 'security guard' was one of those guys who sat in armored trucks full of money. Suddenly Geraldine saw in Harold the bright, shining pathway to her life's biggest ambitions: to dump her one-eyed husband, get the biggest, fakest breast implants her spine could support and to live in a grass hut on a beach in Paraguay. Convincing Harold to be her boyfriend had been easy; she figured making him participate in a heist and run off to South America with her couldn't be much harder.

"Well, Madame Zannza?" Harold asked Honey, unaware that his future held for him a short stint in jail after robbing vending machines and a girlfriend who would use the change he stole to go to Tijuana, get a lop-sided boob job, convert to Zoroastrianism after seeing the face of God in the infected incision under her left breast, and write a best-selling book about her experience.

"One eighty-seven."

"Nope, the scale says 221 pounds. I win!" said Harold, and laughed but Honey had already turned to get the stuffed purple tiger that she knew Geraldine wanted.

Getting to know your Sea Hag

In one word...answer

1. Where is your cell phone? pocket
2. Your spouse? non-existent
3. Your hair? static-y
4. Your mother? away
5. Your father? travelin'
6. Your favorite thing? creating
7. Your dream last night? forgettable
8. Your favorite drink? caffeine
9. Your dream car? Pt Cruiser
10. The room you are in? office
11. Your ex? smote
12. Your fear? loneliness
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? orbiting

14. Who did you hang out with last night? Michael
15. What you're not? greasy
16. Muffins? carrot-zucchini
17. One of your wish list items? house
18. Your dinner tonight? spaghetti
19. The last thing you ate? spaghetti
20. What are you wearing? uniform

21. Your tv? off
22. Your pet? imaginary
23. Your computer? sleeping
24. Your life? fluffy

25. Your mood? tired
26. Your holidays? drugged
27. What are you thinking about right now? beer
28. Your car? parked
29. Your work? sucks!!!!!
30. Summer? please
31. Your relationship status? juicy
32. Your dream vacation? Moon

33. When is the last time you laughed? Yesterday
34. Last time you cried? October

35. School? barf

This blog's for you

I'd like to dedicate this blog entry to rabid Sea Hag fan Jonathan.

First, let me tell all you ladies (and a few gentlemen) that he is a total, total stud. Seriously. He once dumped a glass of water in my lap and I didn't try to gut him simply because he was just so incredibly rad.

He accompanied me to Dragon*Con and kept me safe from the great unwashed masses of nerds, geeks, dweebs, dorks and psychos. Also, he knew the dude who did Space Ghost's voice and that was pretty impressive. And best of all, he introduced me to the tasty wonder that is Ruby Red vodka. Truly my life (and my liver) is enriched by knowing him.

And so, I present him this haiku:

A haiku for you

Because 'See you next Tuesday'

Is now in my act.

(snap snap snap)

200-word movie summary: Purple Rain

Beautiful-in-a-trashy-80's-way Apollonia runs away from New Orleans to um...Minneapolis. She has a head full of dreams and a suitcase full of leather and shoulder pads. And lo, a porn star was born. But this is a movie, so instead she is a 'singer' and runs into Prince and Morris Day and one of them lets her sing in lingerie. I don't remember which one. It isn't important. Prince and The Revolution sing at a club and we are all reminded that he did some awesome stuff in the 80s. Wow, is that what it sounds like when doves cry? Prince still lives at home with his abusive Lawrence Fishburne-esqe father and mother. I guess those purple crushed velvet jackets are too expensive for him to afford rent in Minneapolis. All this apparently makes Prince angry and moody and there are close-ups of him being pensive and brooding, twofold. This isn't important either. Prince is a terrible actor. Apollonia and Prince fall in love and swap earrings with each other. Awww. A few members of The Revolution and the dude who owns the club get pissy about some crap no one cares about. The movie ends with his magical jizzing guitar.

I Hate Everyone: The Return of Man Boobs

There are ex-boyfriends, and there are ex-boyfriends.

There are those relationships that, for whatever reason, just didn't work out, but all those involved were wearing their I'm An Adult hats and the break-up held a minimum amount of tears and gnashing of teeth. Sure, it robbed you of a good, gory story to tell your friends over some microbrew in Decatur, but it saved you hundreds of dollars in therapy bills and the hassle of having to change all the locks at your house. So because of this, you can still have an occasional non-awkward phone conversation with this ex-boyfriend, hang out sometimes or booty-call him and it's all good. Hell, there's some guys I've dated who I've wound up have a better relationship with after we'd broken up.

And then, there are those relationships that, when they ended, the resulting break-up caused a huge, terrible fireball that demolished everyone and everything in a three-mile radius. These are the ex-boyfriends of such epic douchebag proportions that they become legendary and your friends tell you that should go on Jerry Springer with your tale of woe.

So when you unexpectedly get a phone call from one of your exes who falls in the latter category, you know that nothing good can come from it.

A few days ago my ex, who is commonly referred to as 'Man Boobs' (seriously, he had some great big titties), called me up, and when his name appeared on my caller ID I think it scared about four years off my life. See, we didn't have any children, friends, pets, property, anything in common together anymore, and also the last time I spoke to him I told him what an oxygen thief and general waste of skin he was, so I was totally expecting something along the lines of either I tested positive for TB so you might want to go to the doctor or I am still in love with you and I made a terrible mistake.

Like I said, nothing good could come of this, but I didn't want to be a pussy so I answered the call, and he asked if I had any of his tax stuff from last year because he was working on his financial aid paperwork for school.

"I'll look for it when I get home," I told him, and we hung up.

It took me a good 20 minutes for my pulse to come back down from the triple digits, but when it did I realized what had just happened: He'd asked me for a favor.

After being broken up for almost a year and not even speaking for five months, he wanted a favor. After mooching off of me for months after he got fired from his job a week after my stepmother died he wanted a favor. After moving out of our apartment his family came over and helped him trash the place, destroy my family pictures and stole lightbulbs he wanted a favor. After calling me up a day before my birthday when he knew I was having emotional problems to brag about banging his new girlfriend he wanted a favor.

Now, I admit I wasn't a perfect girlfriend or anything but... he stole lightbulbs!!! Lightbulbs I bought! And not even the nice ones, just the cheap-o 60-watt ones!

Anyway, I thought I was going to give myself a stroke after realizing what had just occurred, but then it came to me: by asking for a favor, he's put me in a position of power.

Dumbass.

So, Man Boobs, I cordially invite you to go fuck yourself. Or your skag of a girlfriend, unless you accidentally smothered her to death in your cleveage. I am pretty sure I don't have your tax stuff anyway, but if I do come across it rest assured that it will be meeting with an industrial paper shredder soon. I don't recall there being a section of law stating that I have to give a damn about douchebag ex-boyfriends or their financial aid for school. To be honest, I wish all of my exes well on their future endeavors and harbor no ill will, but if I found out you were living in a gutter eating peanut shells and wet cigarette butts I'd be pretty damn delighted.

December Wordsmiths Challenge 2: The Gift

The sexy beasts over at Wordsmiths Unlimited have unleashed a second writing challenge this year because we've all been good (or is that naughty?) little boys and girls. This time, we have the picture below and a default beginning, and we are tasked to write an additional 500 words. I put the default in red italics.




The Gift

A loud rapping at the door awoke me from a deep dreamy sleep.

It was early, too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be out in the streets pounding on doors. I thought that there must be some emergency in town and ran to the door to find out whatever news there was from whoever was there. Much to my surprise, there was no-one at the door ready to identify themselves and their message, and yet a package with my name on it had been left at the door.

It was a most curious circumstance, and yet I saw no real harm in it, because secret gift giving was the hallmark of the holiday season. I myself had delivered many a gift in that manner over the years. The package was heavier than it should have been from its size, and once I had it indoors I eagerly opened it to find out what it was and who had sent it.

Alas, there was no identification of the giver, and more's the pity because what was inside was a most remarkable carved wood box, worked with figures of animals and dragons all over, in a magnificent shade of red. Whoever sent it to me must have been a prankster, though, because I could see no way into the box, no clasp or lock announced itself, no hinge or platen presented itself as a means to the inside. I was locked out, and most frustrated by this unfortunate turn of events.

"So, what do you think so far?"

I had read my husband's story while I waited for the curling iron to heat up. He was in the doorway of the bathroom, perched on the edge of his wheelchair, awaiting my judgment.

I shrugged. "It reminds me of 'The Raven' a little."

"Poe? Yeah, I can kinda see that. That's good, right?"

"I guess," I dropped my copy of the story in the sink, and the corner of it started to absorb the tepid water pooled at the bottom. I wrapped strands of my hair around the barrel of the curling iron, heard the faint hiss of it being gently scorched.

"Do you want some lunch before you go?"

"No."

"I can make you a sandwich, Rachel brought some roast beef over- "

"I'm eating at the Christmas party."

"Oh. Oh yeah. Do you think you'll be home early tonight?"

Ten months ago a drunk driver neatly divided our lives into two categories: before the accident and since the accident. We bought this house before the accident, but since the accident it's become a maze of ramps and gauze and bedpans and metal railings bolted to every vertical surface; our tables and kitchen counters had been lowered. I stumbled through the house, banging against modified furniture and my husband showing me his latest project: model airplanes, crossword puzzles, watercolors of me camped out in the guest bathroom, the one place that we hadn't changed. Before the accident I might have used a smear of lip gloss and called it a day, now I have an hour-long beauty ritual.

The red box that he based his story on sat in his lap and every so often he'd rub the pad of his thumb against its carved enameled surface. He'd seen it on the clearance table at Pier One a few weeks ago and bought it, saying that it reminded him of me, and I had cringed inwardly at the pitiful, awkward metaphor: beautiful to hold and fused closed for good.

"I don't blame you if you don't want to come back."

I looked down at him, saw that his hairline was receding, his jawline was softer now, and for the first time since the accident I didn't feel pity.

Somewhere in the city there was a young couple wrapping presents for their newborn child, there were cups of thick egg nog enjoyed by handsome men who were able to place the angel on the top of the Christmas tree, there was a man in a dark car waiting down the block for me. In this house, since the accident, there was a small Frasier Fur that was decorated only along the bottom half and a man who couldn't fit his wheelchair through the bathroom door so he could touch his wife. I put my lipstick down and sat in his lap, though he couldn't feel it.

"So this story you're writing..."

"Yes?"

"Who left the mystery box? And what's in it?"

Christmas for the Nooch

This story is my Christmas present to Noochie, who not only introduced me to 'September' by Ryan Adams but also the idea for making it into a story. I've included the lyrics below in purple italics. Everyone have a kick-ass religious observance of your choosing!

Laura lays on the foot of the bed
Mimics a noose with the telephone cord
Doctor's on the phone
And she hangs up and says
"I ain't never gonna see the winter again"
Then, I don't know how, but she smiles

September, September
September, September

They carved your name into a stone

and then they put it in the ground,
I run my fingers through the grooves
When no one's around
Drink till I am sick and I talk to myself

in the dog days of the summer
And I feel you coming but I don't know how

September, September
September, September

Daniel waited for the coffee to brew while Laura planned her funeral.

He rinsed out Laura's only coffee mug, which was shaped like a snowman's head and chipped along the rim so he had to be careful where he put his lips. She was out of milk, and for a brief second Daniel considered whether sour cream would be an acceptable substitute. He dumped an inch of sugar in the bottom of the cup, topped off the rest with fresh coffee and gulped it down quickly, scorching his tongue and throat. He washed the mug again, refilled it and brought it into Laura's room.

She had been up all night scratching ideas for her funeral across slick, blank sheets of paper, and when the sun came up she started to frantically make phone calls to funeral homes, cemeteries, crematoriums, her finger blazing a trail through the Yellow Pages in her lap. She tucked the receiver under her chin and took the cup of coffee from Daniel with one hand, then set it on the night side table amidst the avalanche of empty Diet Coke cans.

In his brief absence to the kitchen Laura had sprawled with her notebooks and pens across the blankets. Daniel stood by the side of the bed for a minute, waiting for her to move over so he could lay back down, watching the pale steam from the untouched cup of coffee curl into the air. After a minute he realized that she wasn't going to let him back into bed, so he slipped into his jeans and t-shirt and sat on the floor.

While he waited for her, he rested his head against the IKEA bookshelf they had bought earlier that year. Laura had refused his help putting it together, and it tilted to the left very slightly. The slanted shelves were stuffed with books from aborted projects: knitting, drawing, ballroom dancing. Textbooks from the accounting class Laura took for a few weeks at Gwinnett Tech. Dozens of literary classics she'd meant to read: A Farewell To Arms, Catcher In The Rye. The Grapes of Wrath, which he'd never read, but it made him think of singing 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic' in third grade chorus.

Laura had been in the hospital the previous week while her doctor tested out theories for her sudden weight loss, her overall brittleness. She had thrived on the attention from her coworkers who came by with flowers and balloons, the doctors and nurses who would pat her knee while they took her temperature and drew blood, and Daniel, who camped out by her bed in a stiff armchair and gamely watched 'The Price Is Right' with her every day.

"Bet a dollar! A dollar, stupid!" she'd yell at the mounted TV, and then slip into a coughing spasm when a nurse would poke her head in the room.

She'd talked them into letting her stay an extra two days, and then they released her from the hospital yesterday. Daniel had relished signing her out; he liked the official sense of responsibility it gave him over her care and comfort. The nurse had told him to put fiancé as his relationship to patient on the formal paperwork. "We can't discharge her to anyone but family," she'd said with a wink.

As he drove her home, she fiddled with the radio and started rummaging through his glove compartment. "What if I had died in the hospital?" she asked, Jiffy Lube receipts in her fist.

Daniel's eyes darted over to the passenger's seat, saw Laura pull out a map of Georgia like an accordion. The thought of her death had sent him on impromptu runs to the gift shop or the bathroom while she was in the hospital; he hadn't wanted her to see him crying, making frantic, breathless, incoherent prayers to whichever deity would answer him.

"I'd be sad and depressed. I'd cry. I'd miss you every day. Are you looking for something in there?"

"No, I'm just being nosy. You need to clean this out. Is that all you would have done?" she asked, and they shared a sudden, simultaneous vision of Daniel sleeping on the dirt of her fresh grave, drunk on Wild Turkey, tracing her name on the cold granite marker with blind fingertips, and they both felt comforted.

The September morning was unseasonably chilly and the bare floorboards had made Daniel's ass numb. The early fall light shone golden through the grubby blinds, making the dust motes sparkle around Laura while she talked on the phone, picked at the chipped dark polish on her toenails, sketched a crane in flight in the lower corner of the phone book. She fidgeted and looked everywhere around the room except at Daniel.

"So, is there a discount if I'm not embalmed? Oh. Yes, yes I guess so."

Daniel had met Laura three years ago when he had been married to a sweet girl; a pharmacist who kept the fridge full of milk for his coffee and the cabinets full of coffee cups. Laura had been in front of him at the checkout line in Kroger, frantically searching through a weathered knapsack for the eight dollars she owed for her groceries. "I know it's here somewhere," she repeated, taking out her wallet again and painstakingly pawing through the tiny pockets which held pictures, ATM receipts, expired coupons, two library cards- everything but money. After five minutes Daniel stepped up and offered to pay for the stack of Ramen noodles, squeeze bottle of ketchup and box of tampons she was trying to buy.

"Thank you so much," she'd whispered as he helped carry her bags to her car. "I was going to shoplift all that but a security guard followed me and I had to pretend like I was going to buy it."

"Ah...Oh. I see." His palms began to sweat.

"Well, I would have bought it but this month has been hard, I lost my job and then a few months ago..." she reached up and ran her fingers along the curve of her jaw, and Daniel saw a blue-green vein pulsing elixir under her pale skin, her earlobe with its trio of silver hoops, her bitten, bloody cuticles.

"Well, you don't want to hear about it. It's just...hard sometimes, you know?" she'd sighed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. It was the first of a hundred thousand times she'd hint at some dark monster that always haunted her. Daniel developed his own theories over time, but kept them to himself because he feared that he might be right.

"Can you hold on a second? I have a call on the other line. Wait...Hello? Oh, hello Dr. Thomas." Laura looked at Daniel, including him for the first time this morning.

"It isn't? Oh, I see. That's good. Yes, yes it is. Thursday at noon. OK. Thank you...Hello? Damn, he hung up."

"Well? What did he say?"

Laura curled the phone cord around her neck, her tongue hanging out. "I'm done for. Never going to see another winter." She smiled and waited.

December Ear-gasms

What would Christmas be without music, and what would this blog be without Sea Hag acting like she has authority over all creation? With that in mind, here are a few songs that Sea Hag suggests your download to your iPod pronto:

'A Long December'
Counting Crows
A long December,
and there's reason to believe
maybe this year will be
better than the last
An ideal New Year's song, Adam Duritz gently hints at a year full of loss and grief, playing his earnest vocals over some beautiful piano. This song is at the same time painfully sad and sweetfully hopeful, as in what I went through this year was so bad there's no where else to go from here but up.

'Pretty Good Year'
Tori Amos
Lucy was pretty,
your best friend agreed
well, still, a pretty good year
Another great New Year's song in the same vein as 'A Long December' where the past year was obviously crappy but the singer is trying to embrace any positive aspect she can. A big part of celebrating New Year's is reflecting on the past year, and I think both of these songs capture that melancholy mood.

"Our Winter"
Jason Anderson
My mom says I need snow tires bad,
but I'd just as soon spend that money on records
and sit with friends in living rooms
and sing the songs we know by heart
Cool little song about some slacker hanging out at home for the holidays.

"Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas"
Judy Garland
Traditional
It's imperative that you get the Judy Garland version of this song, because of the emotion she puts into it; she sounds so incredibly sad, like she's coming out of a weeklong bender and woke up in some hotel room out of pills and far from home.

"Silent Night"
Manheim Steamroller
Instrumental
This song always reminds me of my dad. I get goosebumps every time I hear the child's piano at the end.

"Winter"
Tori Amos
I get a little warm in my heart
when I think of winter,
I put my hand in my father's glove
Another nugget of joy from Tori, this one about growing up secure in her father's love. A must for all daddy's girls.

'Santa Baby'
Eartha Kitt
Traditional (kind of)
I love this song because it's vaguely naughty. And I would love a Christmas tree decorated with the best from Tiffany's.

"Song For A Winter's Night"
Sarah McLachlan
I read again between the lines upon each page
the words of love you send me
Sad, sweet song about someone curled up on a cold winter's night, contemplating the absence of their lover.

"Christmas Day"
Dido
And the last words I heard him say
were I shall return for you my love
on Christmas Day
Yet another sad, sweet, melancholy song. What's up with that? It seems like the holidays seem to lend themselves to a certain kind of dark moodiness. Maybe it's the crappy, cold weather. Maybe it's because you aren't able to be with the people you love this year because you had to work or you couldn't afford to travel or they passed away. Or maybe it's because as an adult, Christmas just doesn't seem to have the magic it did when you were a child.

"A Charlie Brown Christmas"
Vince Guaraldi
Yes, I do mean the entire album here, and if you can find the edition they just released with 4 more songs on it, that's all the better. By far my favorite holiday album, it's jazzy but not that pretentious, crappy kind of jazz. It has a lot of traditional Christmas songs but also has a few other pieces so you don't get burned out on yuletide joy.

Update!

My recent absence is mostly due to the fact that this happened:



Ha ha, fooled you! That's my brother up there and my new sister-in-law. Sisters don't shake hands, sisters hug!