Freida Bee

On the Fly

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 15:58:00 +0000

I'm pretty sure I'm too busy to write this, but it has really been too long and some of it just needs to land somewhere outside of my head. If this were pre-bloggerdom, this would be one of those once every six months journal entries, which is where my journaling for many years landed. The updates. I used to write daily in my paper journals, but pretty much every time I returned to my journal to re-read its soulful contents, I would find that it was the same stuff with only slight variations on the 5 W's. Not that the 5 W's aren't what a certain writing is all about, but for me it's about emotion. Mostly, everything I've written about outside of obligation is about the emotion it evokes in me when reading it or writing it or the emotional effect the writing process has on me. It's my anchor, a way for me to "ground" my emotions. Of course, it's not always so purely intentioned and noble as all that may sound. I'm pretty sure blowing off steam or putting what feels devastating to me into an absurd context to have a different relationship with it is what about half this blog is about. The other two-thirds being pure and simple attention-seeking whoredom (not to knock whoredome, of course). And, though I'm olde-fashionedly attached to my two spaces between sentences habit, I wouldn't dare make up words and write little tiny one-word sentences in writing. Shameful. Shameful.

As tempted as I am to go off on a tangent about the shameful effects of shame (written from a firsthand view), I really am here for the update, the processing of this summers events. (Here ends the masturbatory meta-writing foreplay.) This summer began with what felt like an abrupt ending to the 5 months of house sitting I'd done from Dec. 30- May 31. Originally, the end date was to be June 30, and then sometime in April was changed to June 15. Of course. It wasn't my house. Folks wanna be home. Folks miss dogs. Yada yada. I missed having my own home, also. But, I wasn't mentally prepared to make that return step into the utter tedium I was seeing it to be to be barely making it between the two 1/3 of what I need to survive paychecks I was bringing in, especially when my move-out day became THE DAY AFTER THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. Packing and cleaning and maintaining meals, etc. on top of working the hardest 7 days a week of the school year was not fun. Not fun at all.

I was promised a raise in August, two weeks at Chez ex-ex Mr. Bee surfaced when he was to be away for work for two weeks beginning the exact day my house sitting was to end, and my boys would be out if town three (yet unknown) weeks of the summer, at least, with grandparents. I started to think that maybe we should camp our days away and postpone getting a place of our own until mid-July, perhaps.

Fresh off my school's spring camp-out at Krause Springs, the Genius and I fantasized that we could summer in "The Wild" in some manner that would require him to use the survival knife he purchased with his most recent Christmas booty. Well, that was his desire. Mine was for us to feel to excited to be "living" outside. For tv and the boredom of summer to be replaced instead with novelty and simplicity. The "Grande Adventure" didn't exactly pan out as I'd expected, perhaps thankfully, and though I wouldn't exactly say that "adventurous" categorizes the summer for me, things they have been ashaken. Fortunately, in all that, aside from being indoor-bound in the DFW area these past couple weeks to avoid ye ol' deadly West Nile Virus (so I can do teacher-training stuffs), the boys were able to spread their adventures out betwixt me, their dad, and their grandparents in a manner suitable for 10 and 13 year-old Baby Bees.

After hellishly moving out of the house sitting house THE DAY AFTER THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, it took another three weeks for me to wrap up the school-related details: writing end-of-year assessments; assembling two (STUNNING) class quilts to deliver to their prospective raffle winners, finishing the beautiful hell on wheels some people call the (first annual) "School Yearbook." By the time we were finally able to make our first camping expedition, we were so ready. The only hindrance to my grand idealizations was my pesky weekend job (from which I write this, to whom, if under employer surveillance, I am eminently grateful). The "flow" of the outdoors is hard to cram into 5-day spurts, but they are what we had. Plus, the turn of events may well have been different if I hadn't had the weekend obligation keeping me near Austin.

Colorado Bend State Park is stunning. It is as close to pristine wilderness as I've been to my three personal references in years: backpack camping at Oauchita National Park (and drinking directly from the spring-fed creeks, in 1985), 5 weeks for seven years at a summer camp in East Texas, and our temporarily-had family tradition of staying in cabins in the winter at Devil's Den State Park . I am most "myself" when I am outside as I was able to spend so much of my childhood, especially summers, in Arkansas.

I invited the ex-Mr. Bee to join the boys and me in our camping romp and did not at all regret that. In fact, since Snaggletooth only began his truly independent swimming last summer, it was more like essential that he came, in hind site, as we swam in the Colorado River where it is hearty and clean where Gorman Falls feeds it. We trekked long and hard in a manner that made us think we might die in the wild. Good thing the Genius had that survival knife in case our bottled water supply dwindled to the point we would have to drink the blood of cacti. Our cell phones didn't even work. I think you can die from that.

The day we got back from that trip, Friday, I got a call from a great public school to come interview on Monday. I pulled together the sample lesson/ unit they requested. Not my best, but including some of my best, but the main challenge was that I was broke until my Monday paycheck and had only a handful of camping-appropriate clothing that wasn't hidden who -knows-where in storage. My interview wasn't my most fashion-forward moment, which only seemed emphasized by the fact that my interviewers (the core of the math department) were all in tank tops and flip flops (I had to wear a light three-quarter length sweatery thing to cover my tattoo). Of course, they didn't care what I was wearing, but wearing the Lip Model's ballet flats that I had to "polish" with a sharpie marker didn't have me feeling too dapper/ confident. I was sunburned and could have had dirt under my fingernails for all I know now.

They were nice, and it went well, and, as might be expected for such a "prestigious" school, I was kindly told that I seemed fun to work with and creative, but they really needed some one with more experience. "Please, come back and apply with us in the future." I was disappointed, but not surprised, and grateful for feedback that made me more determined than ever to make the personal improvements I needed to be more organized in my third year of teaching. Pretty much, I've had complete and utter freedom to try out whatever I've wanted and do things however I've wanted. While that is something many teachers envy, and it has helped to me grow in a very real "hands-on" way, there are ways I am now realizing I really needed to do more to continue "learning to teach."

I think I might be getting lazy, since I have a buttload of prep for school to do right now, so I might cut to some chases to say that there was a second, very fun, camping trip with the ex- Mr. Bee to the beach (is that what my last post was about? Probably, but it's been so long since I read my blog) and that was all of our summer camping in the end. Or, for now. A second house sitting opportunity had been presented to me, though I wasn't very interested in it until I was right up on it and the first week of it was a week of uncharacteristically torrential rain in Austin in July. The house was uber-lovely. I was welcome to stay on when another mom and her daughters came there in their process of moving to the US from Israel (where my hosts were from). Ends up, we hit it off really well. My boys came to stay there with me until their Montana trip and things were chill until I started to try and find a place for August 1. I don't recommend competing with the university crowd for housing. Seriously. I don't. Finally finally, I found a place that was reasonably priced withing walking distance of my school, but it wasn't available until August 28. THE SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL. Yea.

I volunteered (to get paid) to work as an election judge at an election here (which deserves its own post) and was tutoring a young woman I(that I tutored in two previous math courses) in her Macroeconomics class (which I've never taken, but learned with her~~. Thankfully, she passed the class, which was an improvement on her performance before our tutoring).

I was very busy it seemed. Then, on a Monday, I got a call to come in and meet the principal at the school that told me it wasn't interested in June. In a whirlwind, I was one of two, and then needing to tell my current job that they would be getting a reference call (even while I'm shopping for textbooks, etc., preparing for the job I had been planning on), until on Friday I'm made an offer and resigning the next Monday. Arghhh.

Ever since has been craaazay and there are more things, I'm sure. I left out being overly personal, I realize, but stuff happened in between when I started writing this and now that is shinier and I do feel better, thank you very much. I am back to planning out my year and all of the majillion things to get my (really big and awesome, especially now that the ac is working) classroom ready.

I miss you, you know.
~Queasy.

Ps. Though my prospective public teacher pay promises to be a big increase (or less a conglomeration of odds and ends, at least), I am pretty sure I'll be ready to start complaining about it before I next post. I have a fabulous skill set like that.

Filler

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 22:51:00 +0000

Well crap. I waited to do this and now am in little mood do it thoughtfully. There is thunder a rumbling and the things (not work related) I was supposed to get done at work are undone still. Wait.... There was one thing I could go do quickly. I'll have to finish that little part of that last thing later. I am pretty sure this first paragraph couldn't get any vaguer unless I took that back and inserted gobbledy goop <= there. There.

Week 6 of "intentional" homelessness is going the swimmingestly of all now that we have begun to stay in a luxury locale while my friend is out of the country. Another lady will be staying there as well, and since she is moving to Austin from out of the country. I will be her first intimate contact with Amurca, unless she's been here before, and I don't know the answer to that non-question, so pretend. I will be speaking Spanglish with her children as I do not speak Hebrew and, well, you can imagine how much something this is going to be. It's rather like being on a vacation, aside from this here work thing I am still doing on the weekends, which, incidentally, has me stewing. Not because I don't appreciate or want my weekend job (spies), but because I don't want to have to work it (in addition to the full time school-year position). I really could bitch, but then you might peg me as a bitch, and fearing you are correct, let's just cut to the chase where I admit I am pretty much a bitch. Yep. A bitch who shall be getting her own place by August 1 and appreciating a 2 bedroom place with an adapted third bedroom dining room quite a bit. We're moving on up, however, since I am committed to the 2nd bathroom option this time.

Three things: Portlandia (on Netflix), Garfunkle and Oates, and there is a list I submitted to McSweeney's today that I would share were it not that they might not publish it then. In other words, when they send me the formal rejection, I'll post it. We've played that game a number of times, McSweeney and me. He's a prompt rejecter; I like that about him. What he doesn't know is that I am collecting his rejections. Maybe I could make a list out of them. Shazam, but damn. Some of my previous rejections were in my olde school email account that has since been deleted. I'm sure you care about that.

There have been times I've lusted for the most recent former Mr. Bee's newishly sober ass of late, like when we're famming it up in a tent, sweating it out on a hiking trail, or lounging around the cheap beach as we have done in recent weeks. No need to make me feel ashamed for that or to tell me to go back and read into the misery this blog details at length. I've got it covered, though surely the saga will continue. I'm not too keen on new people anymore, it seems. I consider this maturity, but what I should be considering is a certain single for 40 years aunt of mine (the one I look like). I wonder how valuable emotional safety is, and where the intersection of it and companionship merge. Seeing as I've been tutoring macroeconomics this summer, I'll be sure to make a little graph for that. Seriously, I will.

It's time to stop making donuts and go invent some wheels. Before you know it, I'll be doing more than grunting and continue on witht he other writing I deem more valid. But you, you're the one I really love, diary.

Understatements

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 14:23:00 +0000

After The Silver Camaro, here is another chapter in the overly-personal wishing they could be fictional shorts...

Throughout high school I babysat primarily for one family, recent transplants from Colorado. In Arkansas, they were way cooler than anyone else around and made a financial killing in the freezer space storage industry, basically, by creating it. With a name that screamed old money (more than this one I have made up), they had a horse at their house on a mountain that was both urban and rural, my ideal ever since. After seven years of camp, moving from the babyest riding pace to placing third in the all-camp horse show my final year with a second half of a summer riding my neighbor's horse bareback unbeknownst to anyone slipped in there, it was the Murphy's horse that I first fell off, never to ride again.

I have always thought that my father's approach to allowance was the cleverest I've ever seen, perhaps because it was ample, but beginning in my junior year my father began to give me money at the beginning of each month that was to last me throughout the month. The money was for my school lunches, gas for the sky blue Buick Skylark that had been my great uncle's that my parents gave me when I turned 16, clothes (I was already a thrift store shopper in 1987) and anything else I might want in between.

So, with the babysitting, the allowance scrimping, and the jobs I got the summers before my junior and senior years, I managed to save $1000, which was to be my spending money my first year of college. Perhaps that monthly allowance was what was used to pace what I might need that first year, but it didn't really pan out as well as all that when it came down to it. I blew through my money and that combined with the fact that I made appalling grades in 8AM Latin (D), Calculus II (D), Biology (D), and Psychology (C) motivated my father to personally drive down to get me and my things from my dorm to declare that my out-of-Arkansas dreams of college were over.

The first independent decision I had made after my father had dropped me off four months prior was to not attend the sorority rush party I had come up a week early to attend. My roommate in Dobie dorm was an older student who looked like Barbie. I may or may not have lied about being a smoker on my roommate profile, but I maintained once I got there that I had claimed (in front of my parents) that I was a smoker. That first roommate was so excited to be at UT. She studied hard, socialized well and got the cutest (seemingly older too) guy in the dorm. We weren't terribly compatible.

We were both moved from our super tiny bunk bed rooms to being the 4th in suites. My roommate wanted nothing to do with me. I watched soaps instead of going to class, never cracked a book, and though I knew some of the ways I was lacking socially, there was no way I could know what these girls from Dallas who felt their wealth knew. My incessant study of Seventeen Magazine and The Preppy Handbook just hadn't prepared me adequately, apparently, because my roommate, with whom I don't recall ever having a real conversation, hated me with a passion.

One weekend found my roommate and two suite mates out of town, so, of course, I had a party. After Flaming Dr. Peppers and shameful partial-blackout sex with a virgin, I awoke on the floor near the bathroom in a pool of blood. My chin was numb, but when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I could see the bone beneath where I had cut it open. My hungover detective work told me I'd gotten up to go to the bathroom, fallen and hit my chin on the open bathroom cabinet door and lain there for some time. After walking over to the student health center on the other side of campus, alone, I was the proud wearer of a huge bandage over my chin for the next few weeks. During those weeks my roommate complained that I wasn't Kosher and managed to get me moved back to a bunk bed room with Jennifer.

I hadn't made many friends there in that dorm, mainly just Albert, with whom I played racquetball and Super Mario Brothers often. John, who was the only other person from my high school, would tolerate my hanging out with his crowd occasionally despite the fact that his former-virgin friend wanted nothing to do with me after our undoubtedly stellar sexual exploits.

But, I was a social butterfly compared to Jennifer. She had taken to eating only fast food though we were privy to a meal plan with a salad bar I to this day envy myself for having had. She had no friends and was downright phobic after having been raped the summer before. It's hard for me to imagine what her isolating Freshman experience had been, but we clicked instantly; it was her who turned me onto The Cure and incorporating black into my wardrobe.

I began to hang out with a beautiful Indian fellow some floors up in the dorm and when, the week before finals, I showed up at my room accompanied by two fellows who stood there asking for my textbooks, how could she know I didn't know them and that I was in some sort of alcohol-less black out when I was handing them my textbooks one after another, seemingly willingly? My friend and I had gone, in the pursuit of pot, to their room where the last thing I remember was watching REM's Stand video. When I awoke on my top bunk the next morning, I saw an ATM (they were brand new) receipt in my hand with a note saying my card was being held inside the bank after too many failed withdrawal attempts.

Jennifer boldly stepped into the Dobie cafeteria to help me ID the textbook bandits, but the onus of responsibility was mine, I assumed. "I was getting pot from these guys, officer...." My shame was at lifetime highs those days, and honestly, I really couldn't blame having no textbooks for my poor showing at finals. I didn't think I would see Jennifer again after my dad came down and had me pack my meager belongings to move out of the dorm room.

Over the winter break I was invited to go skiing with the Murphys in New Mexico, on the condition I would watch their children in the evenings while they went out. I was a pretty good skier after a couple church trips in high school and very much enjoyed an unfettered ability to ski to my hearts' content. They had all the ski equipment I needed there in the family-owned cabin. It really was a dream come true... until I spent the night I had off to myself drinking with a bunch of folks I didn't know at a lodge and brought a hot guy with an accent back to the cabin where the kids discovered us in the morning, together, naked, on the couch. Though my mom and Mrs. Murphy are still friends and they never mentioned this to my parents, I haven't seen the Murphy's since. Last I heard, the daughter works for Seventeen magazine.

Only because my dad couldn't get my dorm fees back was I allowed to begrudgingly return to Austin in January. Because I'd spent all the spending money I'd saved, I had to get a job. After helping my mother address envelopes for the Sebastian County Republican Committee and sell drink tickets to a fundraiser featuring Bob and Elizabeth Dole a few years before, an ad to work for The Republican Party of Texas seemed to make sense. I was a terribly good phone solicitor it turned out, surprisingly not hinting at a future career in the phone sex industry. My grades, however, were only barely improved.

That semester I made my first A in a Poetry class, attended an Astronomy class the whole semester only to later find out I was never registered for the darn thing, and met my birth father.

One of the days I was skipping class, Jennifer, who always skipped herself, was listening to the radio, something I really never did. I heard a man announce he was "JM on B93." This was surreal, I told her, because my birth father's name was JM and he was a disc jockey. My head was reeling a bit, and before I'd even noticed, she had dialed the radio station, told this man she had someone who wanted to talk to him, and handed me the phone.

"Is this JM?" I asked. "Yes, it is," the swaggering voice commanded. "I was born JMM." "Well, this is Freida Bee and I was born Freida Discretion Bee." "Is this some kind of joke?" "No." The only affection I ever really got from my father was in that moment, the way he said, "Oh, Freida."

Being sufficiently surprised at my lack of a southern accent (I tried), we met in person, after not having seen each other for ten years, later that afternoon. Within a week, I had done whip-its with him, he was dating my friend Maria, and I was on the radio, kinda. One of the times when we hung out, he said he had to stop by the station really quickly to get something done before we proceded to do whatever it is we were going to do, invariably involving alcohol. He had to record a little ad promo thing for some poolside coverage the station was going to be doing. He recorded the line, "C'mon Austin, turn. Don't burn." I supplied the moan at the end.

Based on the moan (he said) the station would offer me an internship if I switched my major to RTF (radio/ television/ film). Despite the unlikelihood I had such choices to make considering my then academic status, I thought the idea absurd. This morning, however, twenty-five years later, I awoke with yet another "great" idea, wishing I could take screenwriting classes, knowing RTF is exactly what I would love to pursue.

(... to be continued.)

A Little Pep Talk is All You Need

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 19:31:00 +0000

Is there anything more pathetic than being nostalgic for shitty times?

Not Prone

I feel less flexible
Not bending over backwards,
Less myself than a person I do not know
In this inability to not see
The ways I begged you to take me for granted.

I thought this was my history,
This malingering,
What I abandoned with the blame,
Yet again you sit at the center,
In the spot meant for me, oblivious.

Where is the resolution
In touching myself for you,
In seeing myself as the surrogate
I thought you might have been,
While waiting for a change?

Instead, there is a swelling,
A need growing so large in me
That it and I are inseparable
And repulsive,
Ruined and unlovable.

I was certain I fared better,
Even pitying you
In what was not a competition,
But now a sad comparison
That leaves me feeling wronged.

It is there in the victimhood
That my former and current selves agree
That as shitty a person as I am,
You are worse to not see that I am not
Exactly the way I see myself.

(See, a little pep talk is all you needed.)

Pic from here.

Lacking Ambition with a Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 22:57:00 +0000

Momentarily we're fucking the lame ass book start. Seriously, I'm not feeling it. It's that vector, a semi-biographical shorts one, or the strange sci-fi idea I had in a tent on a beach two mornings ago, which sounds like it might entail an awfully lot of work. Plus, it totally steals the place where Narnia and Bridge Across Forever intersect, and there's something seriously wrong with that, so I guess I'm back to square -3, which today I am good with.

I am lacking ambition with a passion today, in fact. This was week two of "intentional" homelessness State Park camping. Last week it was Colorado Bend State Park. One of the most gorgeous places I've been in a long time, which is saying a lot, since I'm from Arkansas. This past week it was Mustang Island State Park, which is adjacent to Padre Island (somehow I didn't know that, though I'd been there before).

It doesn't help (with the ambition thing) that someone just called me ma'am and I can't remember if I've been working at this weekend supplementary job for 7 or 8 years. Plus, there were donuts. Seriously, this job may and or may not be killing me. These fluorescent lights and industrial ac really do a number on one's mojo. Anyway, I have 20 minutes here, before I'm not here. I looked up numbers for apartments near my school, even though apartments might be soul crushing too. But, you can live in them more cheaply and seemingly easily from this vantage point. Gulp/

18 minutes and counting. I'm not a person who needs to pretend I'm ambitious and productive all the time. Maybe. I can be uncomfortable not working, but I can be very comfortable working too. Seriously though, I'm lazy is the not built to be very funny part of this, at least on the inside. But, more than that, I'm not feeling terribly fulfilled right this sec, or as every post on my blog might could be traced back to, I'm simply not getting laid enough, and "intentional" homelessness isn't helping the matter.

Of course (15 minutes), I am so much more mature than when I was last posing here last week. I have feelings and they are churning butter a mile a minute and did I mention Mr. Bee went on the last couple camp outs, and did I mention he's a few months sober now, though, of course, he's focusing on that (as he should) and the realities are painfully clear, and though I was the one who walked away, it was after years and years of not feeling wanted in the mix. Oh, and maybe I'm gay, except, I've coined the new definition of bi which is "being both gay and straight." And, it works quite well. So, the Q in LGBTQ is obsolete in my life, even if the "now whats?" loom large and futilely.

With 10 minutes let before this phone booth explodes, and Kiefer Sutherland gives me the creeps again, or better yet, the crepes, lets get to the morsel. The friends with benefits thing posed as me using Mr. Bee on a bi-yearly (in the two and a half years since we parted) did not come to fruition in the course of the family camping which involved one big tent, lots of bathing suits and alone time on the beach after the boys tuckered out. I could have pushed for things to go there, but I did not feel as though there was an insistence in him to ravish me, even with my 10% more leathery skin... and that hurt. It made me wonder if it has always been exactly that way, and I'm thinking yes.

There is another situation that is feeling complex, and worthy of processing via cryptic blogging transmission, but now we're at 4 minutes and really this guy squirming around in my mouth is too good not to swallow. Sigh.

A Timebomb

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 13:00:00 +0000

I'm setting this thing to go off on Monday.

4) “Hi Mary,” says Glen, walking into the kitchen. “How was your day?” she responds with a kiss. The kiss was the suggestion of a therapist they saw a few years ago, the solution to the awkward and often resentful reunions they were having. “The kiss” was a Band-Aid on their bruises that reminded them to be gentle with each other. It worked in those moments, but they also could have used a pitcher of margaritas for whomever broke down and did the dishes first, expensive gifts for Glen who always took out the trash, and oral sex for Mary who cleaned toilets she never herself dirtied.

“I was just about to fix dinner. Have you eaten?” Mary asks staring into the fridge. “No. I haven’t,” Glen replies, taking the plastic ware out of his lunch bag and placing it in the sink. “We’ve got that pasta and salad meal, I know. That’s easy.” “That doesn’t sound very exciting, but I don’t really care too much,” Mary quips. Glen puts on the water and sets the whole wheat spirals and colander on the counter. “I’ll go get us some cherry tomatoes.” Mary puts some pre-made salad mix on a couple plates and set out the olives, feta, and olive oil before going into their room to change.

Micah isn’t home, so they break their “No Eating in Front of the TV” rule before Mary knits and Glen reads, both with the TV on. Sunday is the only night with “TV worth watching,” as that fellow on NPR puts it, but neither of them welcomes what would fill the silence turning the TV off would create. There is still another hour of sunlight, and Glen knows he should go weed his garden, but that thought doesn’t sound very appealing. Still, he goes outside.

Mary isn’t sure her plan to knit all the hats and scarves, maybe even an actual sweater, that she bought yarn for before last Christmas is really as good a way to spend her summer vacation as she thought even last week, but she isn’t anywhere near ready to be thinking about next year’s syllabus and she needs something to distract her from thinking of Christina.

Getting Squishy

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 10 Jun 2012 18:06:00 +0000

Picking up from yesterday. It's morphed to book form rather than the switching back and forth between the book and screenplay. as it did for an annoying 20 seconds. At least the screenplay idea is giving this a more full-bodied main character than I usually envision, and I'm pleased Glen got out of a chair and went to work. That's more action than most of my writing has ever seen (aside from Flo Jo, of course), whatever the result. (Is that a disclaimer for claiming to have anything important to write about?) Of course, Glen is mostly me morphed with people I have known. Hopefully, his poor self-esteem mixed with superiority-based distancing will shine through. (Edits are occurring within the google doc rather in these posts.)

3) "Can you help me pick out some plants that will serve as a ground cover in a shady spot in my yard?" a customer asks. Caroline and Glen hesitate a moment. Once the day gets rolling, they'll both be busy and a natural alternation of duties will to kick in, but it’s a little early for that yet. Only because Glen likes to get unpleasant tasks out of the way so he can sit back and enjoy himself later, he volunteers to help the woman.

She seems older than Glen by a few years, but it may just be that she seems richer than him, hence more mature. At some point in his life wealth was a generally accurate indicator of age, but not reliably so anymore he knows as he leads her to the shade perennials. His guard is up. He doesn’t like it when people feel entitled to free landscape design services. Examining his feelings, he asks himself, “Is it for fun and for free?” Sometimes he can get into a generous mood by acknowledging that he has a choice, but it isn’t his default setting.

Glen doesn’t think he’s seen this woman here before, which seems a little unusual. The “regulars” tend to come in this early, and they generally help themselves. Just as he’s about to mentally defend his right to wake up to such demanding social interactions a little more gently on a Monday, she spots what she’s looking for, “Ajuga.” “Fine choice,” he lies. It actually isn’t a bad choice. In fact, many people are perfectly happy with ajuga. He himself is fond of its compact, purple-green leaves. He just doesn’t have a high regard for it as a ground cover. He imagines squishing it juicily with his feet, and winces a bit.

As he rings up her order, he informs her that buying the entire flat allows him to give her a fifteen percent discount. He recommends some seaweed and is relieved that she doesn’t ask him how to plant plants. Some people do. This woman isn’t too obnoxious. She doesn’t seem relatable (maybe it’s the ironed jeans), but she is not nearly as obnoxious as many of the women who come in here.

When Glen is in an outgoing mood, the rich, middle-aged women find him quite charming. When he’s not, they at least find him helpful and polite, if invisible. This complements Glen’s strength as a salesman—he doesn’t try to sell anyone anything. He lets organic gardening sell itself; he just helps people find what they came in to get.

Because I can't stand the radio silence in writing (blog addiction tendencies), I am de-private-setting my blog. It is clear that Lisa is the only one that really ~~loves~~ reads me anymore anyway (I think my cuntery even scared off Randal). If this has been that writing for the sake of it and not for the other sticky hole-filling stuff, I hope this won't screw that up. For instance, I might then be wont to tell of all of the ways it thrilled me to rediscover the movie Fargo last night so many years after first seeing it. Distractions, distractions. (Of course, I want those.)

Balancing Act

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sat, 09 Jun 2012 22:51:00 +0000

Another installment...

2) Glen slips his notebook and pen into the side pocket of his Barcalounger. He must go to work. He pours himself a coffee refill (half and half, no sugar), grabs his lunch from the fridge, and gets into his Honda Accord station wagon, a '92. He's uncomfortable with the way it shakes, so he avoids letting it idle too long. New engine mounts will cost five hundred dollars or so, but the axle comes first. For now, kid gloves. Incidentally, this is exactly the way he views his dental issues, his intermittent aches and pains, and his likely, but imagined, credit state. "Just don't let it get worse right now," is his mantra of sorts.

Glen arrives at work five minutes late. He's used to it, which is not to say he feels good about it, but he figures if he hasn't been fired for being five minutes late these past seven years, he isn't likely to get fired for it now. There's something in the idea of arriving early that makes him very uncomfortable. He tries to arrive on the hour exactly, and hits his mark from time to time, but usually not.

Glen refills his coffee, puts on his smock and greets Caroline with a smile. "Mornin’, Caroline." "Hi Glen. How are you?" "Oh, you know. Same ol' same 'ol. How ‘bout you?" "Oh, I'm amaazing this morning. I'm doing this juice fast, and it just makes my body feel so good." Caroline's lankiness and exaggerated arm movements really drive the point home: Glen is fat.

"Can you help me pick out some plants that will serve as a ground cover in a shady spot in my yard?" a customer asks. Caroline and Glen hesitate a moment. Once the day gets rolling, they'll both be busy, and a natural alternation of duties will to kick in, but Glen likes to get unpleasant tasks out of the way, so he can sit back and enjoy himself later, so he volunteers to go first.

She seems older than Glen by a few years, but it might just be that she's richer than him, hence more mature. At some point in his life, this was a generally accurate indicator of age, but not reliably so anymore.

Here is a link to both parts put together. Oh, I am liking this character development thing. It's time for me to leave work for now. With assessments done, I still have a couple more school-related tasks that I just couldn't stomach doing at work today. Perhaps, tomorrow, or perhaps, I'll pick this back up. Live well and love bunnies.

Glen's Meta Memoir and The Silver Camaro

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 03 Jun 2012 21:06:00 +0000

Note: If you follow my blog, and it is in your reader, but you can't access my site, email me and I'll invite you on as a reader. I'm keeping it private for now.

Ok, faux productivity. That's what this blog needs. chop. chop. An entry for a contest someone linked to on facebook? Boring-- which tells me, "With an attitude like that, maybe I should procrastinate that one a bit...."

Another idea was the start, the first scene again, again, again. I keep going back and forth between a screenplay based on a dream I had, which I was thrilled to see I recorded in google docs, thank dog, and something more memoir-ish that yesterday's conversion might go with. I have an idea for a children's book and know an illustrator I would like to ask, but the words aren't flushed out there yet. Another project.

I feel a little ashamed to have written that dialogue yesterday, but not as shameful as I felt to cry while watching the trailer for chimpanzee™ after listening to the interview with its maker on Fresh Air. Oh, Terry Gross, where are you when I need to you?

After walking around in my security guard uniform for a little while (inspiring), I had another glimpse of an idea (which is sure to change) to merge the screenplay structure with the memoir. I think the main character, Glen, can have the childhood experience I keep imagining as the opening scene... instead of me. It can give a "scarred for life feel to the whole thing," which is, of course, what I'm going for. The dialogue yesterday is between Glen and Mary later, in their struggling marriage. Mary is the one with the sexual identity issues. And, the beauty of the dream is that there was a basic structure that made some sense, in addition to a feel for the characters.

This is how it starts...

1) Glen writes... "The first thing I remember is seeing my father's silver Camaro round the corner of Meador's Lane while I stood at the other end waiting in Momo's circular driveway."

"Momo had told me and Jeff to stay close, but I was in the neighbors' barn again when I heard her call. By the time I got there, Jeff was in the house and the front door was locked. So, I just stood there watching the car come my way. In me there was a mix of fear and relief at the familiar site of my father's car.

"My father pulled around with a purpose and stepped out of his car. 'Get in the car,' he insisted, as though that was his 10th time to say it and he didn't want to have to say it again. A mix of shame (for my apparent stupidity) and comfort (that he wanted me at all) implored me to obey.

"So, it was from the passenger side of my father's disproportionately nice car, through the closed car window, that I watched my father knock on Momo's front door. She answered, but refused him entrance. My father was there to retrieve my mother. He'd had enough of her taking-us-out-of-school-in-the-middle-of-the-day-while-he-was-out-of-town-to-drive-his-Camaro-10- hours-to-her-mom's-house nonsense. He got his car from the airport as they'd arranged, but ignored her "request" to be on his way after that.

"We were welcome to stay at Momo's after my grandfather died. My mom says she'd never seen me as happy and talkative as I'd been on that drive down from Omaha. I vaguely recall the drive. I think I wanted to help my mother stay awake, but, like so much of what we left behind, my memories of the drive are only visceral and fleeting now.

My cousins and I, in the years that followed, would tease Pola, Momo's dog. "Pola, there's a dog outside," spoken with the right inflection, prompted her to the big bay window, where she would look out expectantly. Each and every time. Sitting in the same seat I'd ridden in to help keep my mother awake, I watched my father bust through Momo's bay big window.

"Great Momo snapped me out of my trance. "What in the world are you doing in there?" she hissed as she opened the door, grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the lane to her house. Surely, we passed Junk, the oldest cat that ever lived, as we entered her house where she called the police. In what seemed no time, I watched two police cars round the same corner my father just had, drive down to Momo's, and then follow my dad back out of my life for the next eleven years."

Mashed potatoes willing, there will be more tomorrow. Having to complete assessments, a quilt and a yearbook sure are making me inspired do anything but those things, which are all that remain for me to wrap up the school year.

"Well, Well, Well."

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sat, 02 Jun 2012 22:46:00 +0000

The picture was incidental and easy, so it stays, despite its flippancy. Well, well, well. There have been a couple provisional blogs that lasted a post or two. In my name. Not in my name. That seems to be the question. Now that we are set to private here or perhaps it's that school is out, or any number of other things that boil down this burning itchiness to do this, I'll post here.

It seems that of all of the voices I have in writing, this is my favorite. And, according to my newest obsessee, Joyce Carol Oates, blogging is a great place to develop one's voice. Of course, if I say it you won't listen, but if she says it, you're all over it. "You've never respected me."

Since I was last here, I'm sure some stuff happened. (What up with that Big Bang Theory all the hep cats are recording in the DRV?) And, I'm sure many things stayed the same (over worked/ undersexed). Again... this. must. be. the. summer. I. write. a. book. (Right)

I am in a yet to be determined period of intentional homelessness. I house/ dog sat for the last 5 months. Baby Bees (who are more adolescent than not now) are with the second ex Mr. Bee formerly known as Mr. Bee for two weeks, while I stay with my daughters at the first ex Mr. Bee's while he is out of town for work. Then, the Newly Teen and Tween Bees and I will state park it up a while. I've even contemplated writing. In a notebook. Plus, there are always always always podcasts to listen to. I'm sorry Joyce Carol Oates. It's true. A new place in July, then.

So, voice here is good. According to someone tone, rhythm, ideas and grammar also matter. Really, this blog has got it going on for me in all departments, but idea. A story, the truth? Which one? What do I need to do (aside from having been the one to write Girls or write period)? Write conversations. Today's exercise: write a conversation. I don't know who my characters are yet, but here they can be borne of a conversation.

Torn between wishing he would would shut up and wishing he would talk more, Freida decided to take the plunge-- "I've been wanting to talk to you." "Really? About what?" She never seemed to have a problem talking to him before, so this piqued his interest. Maybe, for once, she meant talk "with" him rather than "at" him. (How's that for tone? Snide.) "I know I'm always complaining that my needs aren't being met, even as I am resistant to telling you what they are...." Good start. This was true. "I'm just wondering if we might try and problem solve on this together." "Problem solve on what?" "Why is it always my role to be the one who says this? You can't be happy, or you don't seem happy, at least." "I'm happy, except for the fact that you never seem happy."

"I'm not gay, but neither am I straight." "Fuck, not this again." "This won't just go away by acting like we don't have a problem" I've been thinking that maybe, it's not that. Maybe, it's that I am gay and I'm straight. I'm not trying to complain; it's just that I do want more, but I still want this." "We've talked about this. I know you want an open relationship or to have group sex or whatever it is that you want. I'm not like that. I'm just built the way I am." "I know, but if there's any sort of compromise we could could make around this, I would love for us to come up with the solution together." "I just don't see the problem. Either you want to be with me, or you don't. Or, maybe it's that you just want to do whatever the fuck you want, and I'm not down with that."

"You can't be satisfied with our sex life. You never want to have sex with me." "Lately, I've just been really exhausted from work. Then, I come home and there's all this stuff to do here, and then you go to work. We never see each other." "If I didn't think it would just be a set up for rejection, I'd ask if you wanted to schedule a date night." "You know I don't respond to being put on the spot to have sex." "It is so humiliating to have to beg you to have sex with me. I knew I should have just kept my mouth shut." (Talking to herself in that really disturbing, sneering way she does, "Just shut up and get back to work. Don't complain. The only reason you don't have what you want is that you can't be nice. I'm so fucking sick of being told to be nice.") Slamming the door, she was gone.

Well, damn. I don't really give a shit if it's good. It's not just me pontificating. It's dialog, and it spewed forth. Not sure what the next part will be, but I had a few ideas. It figures that with assessments, the yearbook and putting together class quilts that we raffled off, I'd be inspired. I shall be back sooner than later, mutherfucker.

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 13:20:00 +0000

Some other future blog is lurking, but it is as of yet a mystery.

Get Off Mah Lawn

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 03:52:00 +0000

Lovely, lovely folks, as the head hancho of this here establishment it is with remarkable decisiveness that I announce I am closing up shop round here.

Of course I will write, but it ain't been happenin' here and I feel I need a new start, a quieter space where I can reclaim my virginity, as it were.

I will start a new blog soon, under a new pseudonym for times when I need to journal in semi-public, as I seem to have need to do, hopefully get back to cheesy-ass poetry. I am going to be starting a blog for the school where I teach in the coming week that I am hoping will really engage students and parents and will document our coming year. No doubt this will be time consuming.

I will keep Freida on twitter and many of you are friends with the real me on facebook. No doubt, I wish to revive FluffPo, not only to counter balance this menace, but to express the utter angst Mimi will feel if she has to choose between Rick Perry and Sarah Palin. Of course, that doesn't mean it will happen.

Don't know what sort of mojo my writing needs, but I have been writing a ton of curriculum sorts of things, and really hope to submit more short stories to people who send out rejection letters. I haven't been rejected by The New Yorker yet, but from what I know of McSweeney's and the former Fresh Yarn (who threw me a bone that one time), I get off on the kinky rejections of locales which promise a reply, it seems.

Think I'll set this all to private, to which many of you had invites in the past that will remain, but seriously doubt I'll update. I'll send out a new url when I have one, or send me an email and I'll reply with one.

I think maybe this, the blog that chronicled the demise of my marriage and the insanity I endured to finish school, served it's purpose, and I'm ready for something new.

Much love and thanks to everyone who read and commented here these past few years. You and this blog have meant a great deal to me.

xo,
Freida of the Bees

Mixin' Up Them Amendments

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 22:30:00 +0000

Yeehaw, Church, State and Guns. I like to mix 'em up!

If I were a teacher or parent or taxpayer or ~~human,~~ Texan, I might be outraged by the way Perry's mixin' up all this Church and State bullshit, but at least it's not on the state dime this time. Right. Neither would a presidential bid be, not while education funding has been hacked to death. Right? I was reduced to pseudo-attending mock attempts at counterbalancing holier-than-thouness with debauchery on Facebook. I just hope Amurca's not so dumb as to fall for it all (again). Not likely? Dang. There is nothing holy about prioritizing war or corporate profits over providing food, healthcare, and education for the people (haha).

Up to now I may have mislead you that this was going to be a political post. Or, maybe you thought I had garnered an iota of discretion in my furtive absence. Or, mayhaps, you think I know what mayhaps means. Perhaps, you think I've been reinventing the education wheel by trying to write my upcoming science and math curriculums from scratch. Silly me. No, I haven't been writing for better reasons than all that. I've been very busy being a good example to teenage girls and flossing my teeth, you know. (None of it had anything to do with this article, though every bit of it should have.) You see, it seems my bangs are now once again long enough to be tucked behind my ear, and would it not be for naught were I not to blog it? I ought.

There's the usual nothing and everything going on, of course. Personal Angst Galore (my porn name) with a Lil' Dab of Reflection that Makes it All Seem Worthwhile, which all sounds very vague and mysterious, but rather this is a laziness, an unwillingness to back up and tell the story, or a story, whichever the case may be. What'll do ya? Back to School Tales? My Impressions of the 2012 IKEA catalogue? Fantasy Romps in the Wildes (those are British ones, with the e's) of London?

Or, maybe you'd rather I publicly contemplate my upcoming haircut (this one's gotta win.) or the state of my romantic affairs. Or, maybe, just maybe, you get off when I ponder my existential worth, which is, of course, inversely related to my reliance upon Arizona Green Teas with Ginseng. Or, or, or.... Make up your mind!

Actually, I'm at my weekend job again and this is getting depressing, proverbial people. There's only so much Bejeweled Blitz I want to play while getting paid, and believe me it's a lot, but we're way past that point. I could espouse the offerings of my 12-step program du jour, outline the most uncomfortable features of my bra or my skin, or fuck it all and just eat some garlic. Really, I could and you know it.

Apparently, this is a post about potential. The potential of a particular blog post sure would be a convenient way to spin it, wouldn't it? It had suspense. It had promise (albeit an empty one). It had poetry. Oh for God's sake Rick Perry, pray for some poetry, cause I got nothin' else.

Damn.

Good and Greasy

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 22:11:00 +0000

It would be all too easy to metablog over up in here, if you do or don't know what I mean. Readers or no, a point or no, here it is, the definite need to write. Whether it be to avoid a Bedazzled Blitz or merely procrastinate more major progress in syllabus writing for the coming schoolyear, I need something more personal... stat.

There was a staycation that involved rearranging closets out the wazoo, muchly needed thank you very not-sexily much. There has been a return to my beloved 12-stepness, with a vigor that can only be explained by desperation or a cute guy that makes me gushy, which I suspect is a trick my unconscious, far larger, hence "higher," within, of course, is playing upon me, to get me back to ways that help me feel grounded. Fuck this gay shit, fuck OkCupid and dating and my open relationship tendencies, I'm a Liz Phair song wobbling out of tune over here, and frankly there is some relief in that. Not, that any of the crushiness is reciprocated, but I feel a quiet certitude that needs nothing. It's not about anyone else, but me.

After 10 years in a pretty bad relationship that produced some pretty badass results, I am feeling as though my bi-ness is intact, and it is my skills that need to be honed more than my (sic) "target." After flirting with the idea of dating a "drinker" again, even if not alcoholic, I have realized the utter nonsense of that. Not because of any drinker's invaluability, but rather my own insufficiencies. The language of Bill spews forth here. Last week it would have been Deadwood. I want to fuck Deadwood, succubus that shit. It's so good. Last week any language less than proper would have found me wanting were it that cocksucker were not a part. Mumblemumble.

Of course, any and all of that paragraph prior might at well be complete and utter bullshit, seeing as, I feel now qualified to move out of an age of exploration into a willing matte of foible; I do not not intend to make mistake left and right of it all, but with both feet in, perhaps. Or not, that is the beauty.

There are 6,034 more items I was going to mention, but then something shiny, nay Bedazzling, came along and stole my resolve. Dirty cocksucker!

You'll have me when you do, and you won't when you don't, but I assure you, dirty talk does help. Hence, the mattress ( from here) to get you in the mood.

Many thanks and, as always, I appreciate your prompt reply.
-Fred

Home Makeover- Extreme Cleaning Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 13:54:00 +0000

As the summer really sinks in, I am finally thinking I'll be able to shift my focus to matters of true import such as eradicating my fridge of half-eaten bananas. An inkling of a screenplay and a rehashed-to-death-over-the-years book-thing are trying to get together in my mind. I am fully willing to enable this hot mess. Of course, I haven't really had a moment to breathe yet, but I do foresee that changing. This is probably the hectic-est (knocking on some wood, for reals) my summer will be.

As was the case in December with mid-year assessments, every time I've thought I was done, I wasn't; I'm in some sort of weird limbo. Deadline Friday. I need til Sat. noon. I get done at 5, and then the next day all of us are charged to write comments over there, and I, who was the only one who had done that already with half the kids, am struggling to finish those others, when the other three teachers (who were also asked) are moving on with their summers, apparently. No response from emails. Even my bosses have moved on with their summers, and I want to say fuck it, but I seem to be seeking permission to do so. Fuck it.

That was a boring paragraph. You should probably just skip it.

Also, I've had other work encroaching onto the scene. I bet I could work myself into working full-time in the week through the summer, as well, subbing at my weekend job, housecleaning. There's some prospective tutoring. I just want some time at home. I've had some, but the summer started off busy with my daughter's-with-me two weeks of the month starting the day the kids' school ended, aside from the Lip Model who is officially GED'd with a part time job these days.

It's taking all my strength not to snicker at her, "I hate work," comments, especially when I know she has one of the best jobs she could get in Austin, getting 9 an hour at a first job at a cool locally-owned boutique that sells costumes, lingerie and obscure oddities. Maybe, as she spends less of what she makes on their awesome wares, she'll feel it is worth it. Her independence is looming large, and while she has the possibility of community college available to her this fall, she's pursuing being a magician's assistant... and who the hell could blame her?

Those other lovable three are justifiably chillaxin' to the max, and I can't clean up faster than they're messing it, especially without all this pesky work. Also, today's seeming-to-become-a-habit behavior of waking up at the crack of dawn with the thoughts-a-flowin' seems to culminate in a nine o'clock tiredness that begs another hour and a half of sleep. (Recall, I sleep in hour-and-a-half OCD increments (if not in reality, in intent).)

So, as the kids wake up around 9, I'm snoozing off the let the Lord of the Flies (I originally accidentally put Lord of the Rings there, which is really funnier) ensue, so I can wake up to never-ending dishes and wet towels (since, the Future President has been having throngs of teenagers over for hopefully not too drunken swimming in the evenings). This is vacation.

Snaggletooth and I bought paint to paint the boys' room, and even though their room teeters on being just clean-enough for that, these kids keep needing to eat, damnit. We attempted one of our exercise-til-we-get-to-water outings yesterday, but am afraid the splash pad at our neighborhood park (which has an awesome real pool that is closed for the second year in a row, grrr) was a little less than a glorified sprinkler, mostly. Snaggletooth enjoyed it, as there was one boy his age there, but it was really for toddlers mostly. The Genius and I did have a nice time chillaxin' (over-used word of the day) in the shade under a tree, once i finally bribed him (to stop following his brother around asking if he was ready to go) with the usually denied foot massage. I had done some stretching for a while priorly and the whole scene we had ridden our bikes to was very mellow and nice.

That's what I'm talking about, people.

Well, I'd best get back in bed for a spell before the shenanigans get started back up.

The girls return to their dad tomorrow and the boys will be with the ex-in-laws for their yearly three-week trek to Montana here in a few weeks, so I foresee some marathon cleaning sessions motivated by the promise of potential sex-romps.

A mother's work is never done.

How about another single-sentence paragraph, just to be nostalgic.

Yes.

A Quickie

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 15:44:00 +0000

I just have a minute. I woke up regretful of all the metablogging lately. I guess right now the important thing isn't so much where I'm writing, or maybe even what I'm writing as much as that I am writing. Plus, where else am I going to complain that I will be at work tomorrow during the SlutWalk here in Austin?

Last night I attended another wonderful (albeit crowded) edition of Bedpost Confessions, and amongst some really high quality smut saw the wonderful organizers of SlutWalk read out 10 ways to avoid rape which were directed at perpetrators. Is there really anything a person should have to do to avoid being raped? No.

This has been a weird week to me. I've been menstrual and emotional and seemingly non-productive, unless gorging on episodes of How Stuff Works counts. I think it probably should.

This is my week in links, I suppose. I accidentally cleaned my van very quickly after forever and 6 bales of hay just so my fam and I could cash in on a groupon to go eat some chicken and waffles with a friend... only to find the place closed. Frankly, I was more excited to have a clean van than any amount waffles and fried chicken could have satisfied.

Tomorrow at noon is my extended assessment deadline. I'm gonna clean a house today, and then starting tomorrow, I'm gonna change. Really, I am, Baby. I'm gonna write. I'm gonna treat you right. Tomorrow.

Even Awful Awful Chemicals Aside... Monsanto is a Menace!

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 21:36:00 +0000

Repost if you're inclined. Snarkipedia and No Cure For That are projects I am very thrilled to be involved with. (Plus, that's a pretty darn good Sarah Palin impersonation.)

I Wear My Sunglasses On a Tree of Humans with Great Hair

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 18:37:00 +0000

What happens after you're chased (in a fur coat) holding crack, weed and a gun? If you're lucky, you wake up with a stand-up comedy bit (that has nothing to do with the dream) that won't stop running through your head until you finally write it down. (non-sequitor)

Dear Blog, I'm having some angst. I feel like our relationship has become stagnant and old. Predictable. I'm not sure you're meeting my needs anymore, and, I'm fairly certain, I'm not really meeting yours.

I've tried spicing stuff up. I mean, take a look at this font. It's kinky, or at least kicky, right? I know we have some history now, and this may be a little insensitive given we're a week from our four year blogiversary, but this all just has to be said.

I'm sure this relationship is giving me exactly what I'm putting into it, but I don't like the shame that underlies it all with us. I mean, we've had some good sex here, right? I know, but I go out into the world and pretend that's not me. I know we could eroticize it all, but I think you know how lazy I am. If anyone does, it's you.

I don't think I would be being true to myself in a sense to ignore these parts of myself, and I'm between a rock and a hard place here (sigh) and this closet is getting a little small for the both of us.

I don't want to pretend you never existed, neither could I, but I just can't take you out in public, and blah fucking blah. I'm not telling you anything. You just sit here like a lump. You're not even real. I made you; I can....

Fuck, am I talking to my blog again? We need some help, people. See, it's much more palatable for me to anthropomorphize my blog, to have a cohort in all this. I think I might like co-bloggin, yo. Anyhoo, I've played around with some new blog names, and some new user id things, to maybe uproot and all. I did start blogging first weekly on MySpace and I liked that. My friends and my mom read it and though it was definitely different, it served different needs. My mom even said my writing reminded her of Erma Bombeck's. Ugggh.

Maybe keeping both is the answer. I know I feel like there's not enough of me to go around as it is, but you know, doesn't that Slut book refer to all this? There is not a limited amount of creativity in me, and for a little this summer I might have a tad more (after I write 324902834-98 assessments) time on my hands.... Given the fact that Erotica Gone Awry is my favorite of the blog names I came up with, and Freida Bean was the best Blogger ID I found (so far), I'm not so sure I'm all that ready to change here, damnit.

There was more, but the Baby Bees have just been delivered for their first full week of Fun with Mommy 101 M-F. Today is actually a day home, and chore charts have been revealed. Oh, the excitement. They chose their chores last week, and I just typed them up and if they get it all signed, they'll get an allowance for a change. Snaggletooth is at a cute stage of wanting to do the hard hitting chores. The dishes daily, washing the laundry. And, he just took out a book voluntarily. How can we contain it all?? Honestly, this is great, but sunset will likely find me running them like dogs, to avoid the stir crazay.

Be well, and stay cool in Riviera™.

(Also, I just saw Run Lola Run for the first time last night. Why didn't you tell me?)

Oh, So Much More

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 29 May 2011 13:31:00 +0000

Hello Beautiful. Yesterday, I really wanted to be here, decompressing, taking off my bra and settling in to be holed up for days on end with plenty of coffee and half and half, incentive to write, and a new bullet vibrator. Interestingly or not, not the point, I have been pondering owning my blog(ging) in the meat world, inviting the folks I know to read my smut... elsewhere, most likely. I will be returning to my same school next year, which may be the one school on Earth I could get away with a slutty alter-ego. But, probably I really couldn't. I've literally asked, "Would I want my mother to read this?" Likely, she would be like a number of people I know in the meat world who know I "blog" and don't really give a shit or read, but I just can't give up my bulletesque statements up there, and neither can I imagine the parents of students I teach nor my mother loving me the same way in light of them. True or no, not the point. There was a conscious decision made to continue this on without paragraph breaks, just so you know.

So, what happened? To the plans to hole up for days on end in 12 hours, yesterday? There was a computer incident on my work computer, the cause of which is shameful, thankfully. I imagine that playing some inane fb game allowed some trash into my system, and things looked like a hard drive crash, but only on my account, and already this story is boring me. Push come to shove when you get right down to it when the finger's on the button down to the wire, it may and/ or may not have been caused by that, but really, it's better that I think that, so I quit wasting my time with such nonsense. And, it probably was the cause. So, yesterday, I didn't write this, but this wouldn't have been this, whatever is is, without those critical 12 hours in between, only 4.5 of which were devoted to sleep, but this is preferrable to 5 hours, even, since 4.5 is a multiple of 1.5, and if you don't understand that, consider yourself not told the importance (there is none).

I think I was riding on a high horse when I yesterday wrote something to somebody about not wanting to stoop to making the past wrong, but, I'm pretty sure, that's what I do near incessantly. I'm all about living in the present, in theory, and I think I do a pretty good job of it when I'm alone, but oh, maybe there's something to generalize there, but instead I was interrupted by a nice conversation with a fellow at my work, and the angstful moment slipped away. In order to save this post, to have the Southpark lesson, I'll have to recharge on the ennui, but for now, meh. Incidentally, I just watched an episode of South Park with my kids the other day (incriminating, but not so much as another thing*), and their "We're Gonna need a Montage" song has been stuck in my head below the surface ever since. It's quite good, and if I knew where a good copy of the video was, I'd link to it, but I don't. Not offhand.

*My son and I have been enjoying the soundtrack to the Broadway musical The Book of Mormon. (OMGLMAO) I'm pretty sure I'm gonna burn in hell for buying it almost for him, but for me, too. It seems I'm going to have to explain what, "Man up all over yourself," means. Or maybe not. He asked, but I really coudn't have answered him then, but maybe I shouldn't. Or, maybe, information is just what it is and it's a good segue to talking about masturbation in some parental responsibility capacity, but maybe it will be clear enough when it is, and eww, washing brain with soap. I could ask his dad, but I'm such a part-time control freak, I imagine I would be more sex positive, but who the hell are we kidding? We aren't even a we. It's just me over up in here. "Permission not to decide right now and not to feel bad for not deciding right now. Permission granted." There, in the spirit of The Book of Mormon the musical, I have shown how Star Trek as religion has entered my psyche. They're more Star Wars. I'm more Star Trek (Next Generation). We're accepting of those beliefs around here, though. That imaginary we I've slipped back into. We're gonna need a montage.

Have I mentioned how, now that my school is out, once I undo the pile of wrap-it-up stuff I have to do to really finish the year, I'm gonna make everything better! I'm gonna declutterfy and rent a carpet cleaner and paint and walk daily and catch up on sleep and blog and cook and go to AA meetings and clean out that closet and camp and swim without getting water on the brain and visit my dad and do yoga and meditate and make kombucha and make money and write a screenplay and ride bikes with the boys and get them together with their friends and read books and make a budget and write erotica and don't forget poetry or to start early to lesson plan for next year. Summer vacation. Somewhere in there I'll become suitable for consumption, ie. sex, again. Once, I'm worthy. I'm not like the lady in the picture (really). She's actually thin imagining she's not. I've definitely lost my groove/ gotten more realistic, and consequently less ambitious and almost depressed, but that's just the work work work of the end of the year talking (and the ice cream belly).

That was a good place to stop, but apparently, there's more. Oh, so much more.

On Perry for President

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Fri, 27 May 2011 22:03:00 +0000

Good lord, I hope I haven't been right since before the 2008 election when I asserted (as many have, I know) that Rick Perry would put his hat in the ring in the 2012 election cycle. What could be seen 3,000 miles away is ever closer, and for once I wish I were wrong. He is sooo slick and cruel. Just the polished sort of candidate the GOP needs.

Check out this video some of my fb friends have been sharing of Texas Representative Senfronia Thompson who is fed up with the sort of treatment women have received by the Texas legislature, under the leadership of Perry.

This is on the coattails of Perry's prized Sonogram Bill. While schools across Texas are closing due to budget cuts, Perry put this forth as emergency legislation (along with stricter voter id standards) which requires a woman to get a sonogram before being able to get an abortion in Texas. It's another financial obstacle for a woman already going through a hard time, which is the way of those in power.

I Really Want to Tell You About How My Van Was Raptured...

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sat, 21 May 2011 20:45:00 +0000

... but it seems I have one more week of tribulations before I catch a phat ass break.

I shall see you and be with you, in the biblicalest of senses, before you're finished with your looting.

-Freida of the Bees

The Things Mothers Do For The Ones They Love

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 08 May 2011 23:04:00 +0000

"Don't worry Oscar, Lenny, Brenda, and Travis. If Mama's goin' down (pun only partially intended, but not really because there are the offspring fish to consider and that's just sick, ya sicko), you're going down with her."

Happy Mother's Day. Of course, you had your slightly burned, but slathered with love, waffles long ago. You called your mother, and your grandmother, for good measure. If you're a real suck up, you called your mother-in-law and made her day. She still talked about you to her sister, like she does every Sunday, but this time she felt a little more guilt than usual, so kudos on that.

Of course, these are all of the things you might be experiencing if you fall for those stereotypical scenarios, willingly or otherwise. I'm sure I'm in the middle. "Of what?" you might ask to which I'd have to say a jelly roll, but you know I'm a liar. I'm actually sitting in the middle of a big fat turd flake, today.

Here I am at work on Mother's Day. Boo fucking hoo. Here I am sick. Did I cry today? Yes, but that was probably only because my body said no coffee and you know there's all that suppressed tiredness that got me jumpin' the shark on up over in here (whatever that means). Coffee is my last vestige of addiction (if you don't count food, sex, kombuchas, whining, my phone, tv, and the internets), so I am allowed to mourn the loss of her java ways. I have avoided moving into full-on anxiety attacks this coffee go around, but we all know it's only a matter of time before she turns my cruel alertness to matters best not thought about, like how fast my heart is beating while I'm dying.

I suspect I am mourning things other than coffee, as well, but my co-worker who replaces me just showed up, so I probably won't go into all that. Suffice it to say, another McSweeney's List was submitted and last night I laughed my cajones off watching Ladiez being funny. Right off. Catharsis, people. Catharsis. There is one three-day school week left and two four-day ones, a field trip to NASA with a bunch of hormone infused tweens (including The Genius) and probably no sex until school is out. (How clever to slip a complaint about no sex in there after all this time, though upon re-reading, quite ineptly, since it's adjoined to a sentence about chaperoning a field trip of 6th graders.)

But, seriously I'm in a hurry on up over in here. I'm just gonna flip this swi

SNL Covers the GOP 2012 Undeclared Candidates Debate... Perfectly

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 08 May 2011 21:06:00 +0000

Suck On Link To This, Matt Drudge

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Thu, 05 May 2011 16:15:00 +0000

Snarkipedia does Matt Drudge. He wishes.

Snarkipedia lives at ncft.

A Week in the Life of the Entitled

noreply@blogger.com (Freida Bee) — Sun, 01 May 2011 18:13:00 +0000

Oh hey oh. Just livin' it up over in here at my work, chillaxin' on a Sunday mornin' comin' down on the internets. I can't directly speak for the entitled, unless being under a financial hardship student loan deferment qualifies me, which I don't think is the case, but having been formerly entitled, and currently the parent of the entitled, I feel, er, entitled to speak for the entitled.

I couldn't rightly tell you what my entitled children are up to while I'm here at my work, because I have been working nearly every weekend for the past five years and don't see them on Saturdays and Sundays, but I assure you it involves decadent amounts of cereal that no doubt you, the tax payer, are paying for in some indirect manner (most likely through funding overseas wars that make the gas his dad used to drive to the grocery store to buy the cereal possible). The socialism of it! I know.

My two sons are spoiled by the fruits of this great country with their exorbitant CHIP coverage. I know I should be ashamed, but it's just such good health care coverage that I am hardly sorry. There, I said it! It's not too often we use their healthcare coverage, twice a year, but I did go fill that prescription so Snaggletooth could have Epi-Pens at school, his dad's, and my house in the event he gets stung by a bee and has a life-threatening reaction. I'm a greedy fuck, I know. Also, there was that time I went and got him diagnosed as colorblind from that theivin' socialist eye doctor. I know, and I'm sorry. Other than that, we've been meager entitled people. My children are dutifully healthy and save for one bout of pneumonia The Genius indulged, I've been a good mother. (That was several years ago, so I hope you won't hold it against us.)

You see, though I work 60+ hours a week, I am not able to provide my sons with health insurance. My daughters are covered by the state, but that is because the ex-Mr. Bee works for the state and they are covered though his employment. I'm not sure if that's socialism or not. That's a borderline scenario, but one might say the whole lot of 'em, the ex Mr. Bee and my daughters, are entitled, as well.

I, however, am blissfully not entitled at the moment. I may need dental work, but I patch together enough pay to survive between part-time teaching, security guardin', tutoring, housecleaning, and the occasional trick*, but believe you me I'm not doing it with an impeccable smile. You're welcome, taxpayer.

I was formerly entitled. I shamefully received Pell Grants and unsubsidized student loans I thought might even be forgiven since I went into that socialist racket called teaching, but lucky for you, taxpayer, so many public school cuts have occurred, a middle grades certified math teacher with a math degree from one of the premier teaching programs in the US cannot find a job these days. Lucky for you, teaching positions are being cut right and left. You Libertarians might be happy to know I got a job in a private school were it not for the fact that it's a non-profit with low-ish tuition that struggles to keep its doors open enough that it cannot afford to provide me with health insurance. What up, private sector?

I was once a shamefully entitled whore. I selfishly got myself dumped by the Mr. Bee before the ex-Mr. Bee and became a single mother at 23. Though I cleaned a midwife's house (for years!) to barter the home births
of my daughters, it was with Medicaid in hand that I selfishly transferred to the hospital during my labor of The Lip Model to have my 24 hour labor induced. I know, and I'm sorry.

While the Pope is washin' my feet over in here, I might as well say that I got my thyroid removed on the taxpayer's dime during a three month period when Mr. Bee was unemployed and we were doing bonafide welfare that one time 8 years ago, shortly after Snaggletooth was born. I'm sorry I'm not a crazy hyperthyroid (albeit skinny) loon any more, but I pulled my entitled self up from my bootstraps after that and went back to school for the next six years to get where I am, now a (whole lot in student loan debt) single mom (with fabulous equal custody baby-daddy support) with four children.

Let's not devote a paragraph to my relief that in some Tuesday in the next month I can skip my sliding scale women's group to go to a once a week clinic that will renew my thyroid medicine, and if I'm feeling really selfish, look into this bruised feeling that's been persisting the last few months between my left breast and shoulder blade. God,I hope it's not breast cancer or some shit. Ok, we won't.

This week my single-parent family unit departed from our usual entitled routine a bit when our mini-van broke down. Since mommy can't afford a new alternator until she gets paid (after she pays the cell phone bill so she can keep the cogs going, after she pays the rent, after she pays the electric, after she buys a new Cadillac), she went and spent money borrowed from her 11 year-old (clearly, entitled) to buy a bike lock, so they could ride their commie pinko bicycles to school for a change. (The third person references are no doubt side-effects.)

I did cash in on the sweat of a lass more fortunate (has a running (and cute) car) than me by accepting a ride to my weekend job from my lovely neighbor who pitied the prospect of long by bus rides making my 2 12-hour weekend workdays 16 hours long. She's such a socialist, and I'm thankful for that.

The funny thing is I don't really want a car. I don't, but I will begrudgingly be spending my precious hard-earned pay to fix the damn machine threatening my children's futures. (The Genius himself commented on how much cars make the air stink when we were riding our bikes to school Friday.) But, with our new bike lock, and de-flattened bike tires, we will be adopting riding our bikes to school two days a week. I'll see how it goes getting to my teaching job Monday- Wednesday via bus, because save for the self-inflicted cruelty of 16 hour days, I'm hoping to stick it to the man (with the equivalence of a feather tickle) by cutting back on my gas-mongering as much as I can.

That's what up in the world of the entitled, but don't take my word for it, check out Cassandra Bang's newest Snarkipedia entry about Entitlement Programs

And, check out her Snarkipedia Channel on YouTube-- All Snark All the Time.

*Support No Cure for That by spreading the Snarky word and the linky love, por favor.