An Immodest Proposal

"She had both suns. She asked him for the moon." - Big Joe Turner

"Let me tell you honey, when we move away from here, I don't want no iceman; I'm gonna buy a Frigidaire....Cause I don't want nobody always hangin' 'round." - Andy Razaf and William Weldon

Okay, so maybe this is a sign of the times, but since when is it okay to ask a heterosexual woman to be in a threesome over text messaging?

I'm just sayin'.

Anyway. I am in a big phat phunk at the moment, and that little scene above was merely the capper to a perfect day [insert sarcasm here]. Once in a while I get into a State. I know exactly what the State is about in this particular case, but that don't make it any less of a State.

When I get into a state (I got sick of the flashy initial cap), several things may happen, in no particular order. I may try and ignore it and end by eating and/or drinking too much and then feeling sick and worse than I did before (that was yesterday). I may burst into tears at the drop of a hat and have to sleep with my teddy bear and have a series of bad dreams about hordes of people breaking into my apartment and me running for the pistol and the shotgun and then firing the latter into the sky as a warning shot and accidentally winging someone anyway.

Or I may spend the first hour thrashing the shit out of my furniture, first with my belt, then, after I've broken (and repaired) my belt, with the riding crop I forgot I had. That one makes a very nice THWACK! sound, by the way. Volunteers?

And then the second hour bursting into tears and so on, teddy bear, bad dreams, yada yada, being woken up at 7 am by some amazingly loud thump from upstairs, rushing out to see if there is in fact a horde breaking down my door, deciding that there doesn't appear to be one, going back to bed and dreaming about trying to drive a tiny, unresponsive black-and-yellow Mini from Paris to my father's house, and being unable to leave Paris.

The good news is, I have some serious stunt-driving chops, if my dreams are to be believed.

PHUNK. Luckily, Boywich is gonna send me some P-funk, which should help, in some strange, circular, language-based fashion.

In other news (as you all breathe a sigh of relief that that little stream-of-consciousness is over), that's the yarn for Snow White up there. Photos don't capture its softness, or its smoothness, or the subtle glow of that dark, dark grey. I think it's going to be just the thing. And thank you to Shannon for pushing me into it. Also, to me for deciding that the grey would be better than the navy. It is just what I had in mind.

Perhaps I need to cultivate a look of magnificent disdain like this one. A friend of mine recently told me that all cats have eight names. Mine has about twice that many. I won't share her primary one with y'all, because she has her right to privacy (say that like a Brit, if you please), but one of her nicknames is Potato, which is a bastardization of Petite (I speak French to her) but is also growing to suit her as she moves into stately midlife. Of course, she also runs around the house like an insane furry streak and looks at me with a kitten face, so the conversion to couchlump is not quite complete.

But really, faced with an expression like that, do you think anyone would dare suggest a menage a trois?*

*Come to think of it, had he used the French expression, I might've been more amenable.