Vi Sees Snart!*

I’m leaving for Norway this weekend to visit Lars, my favorite Viking queen. I’ve never been to Norway before, so I have no idea what to expect. I do know that the Human Development Index has ranked Norway the best country to live in for the last six or so years in a row. I do expect a bit of culture shock going from Bloodymore, Murderland to Oslo, Norway. What am I going to do if I go an entire week without seeing junkies and public urination and/or defecation? What if the streets are clean? What if there are no murders in Oslo while I’m there? What if I don’t get solicited for prostitution? Of course I don’t think Norway is going to be some kind of Utopia. The cost of alcohol over there is proof that there’s no such thing as Utopia. I’m just excited for the dramatic change of scenery, even if it’s only for a week. Lars and I will make the most of being a couple of crazy homoseksuell kids frolicking around Norge. Hopefully, I’ll remember my camera.

I have been practicing some basic Norwegian words and phrases. I’ve narrowed down my list to the eleven most important:

1. Jeg heter Ånger Hångøver. Jeg er homoseksuell.
I am Anger Hangover. I am a homo.

2. et vinkart
wine list

3. en flaske rødvin
bottle of red wine

4. en flaske hvitvin
bottle of white wine

5. et glass øl
glass of beer

6. Hvor er toalettet?
Where is the toilet?

7. Vær så snill.
Please.

8. Tusen takk.
Thank you.

9. Jeg vil gjerne rakefisk.
I would like half-fermented trout.

10. Jeg vil gjerne rømmegrøt.
I will like sour-cream porridge.

11. Beklager, jeg snakker ikke norsk.
I’m sorry, I don’t speak Norwegian.

* See you later!

Urban Terrarium

I had all but forgotten about my urban terrarium experience until I read about Summer’s. Way back when I live in Butchers Hill, some dirty hippie parked a Subaru Outback in front of my house and left it there almost two weeks. Every time I walked out the front door, I had to see the Vermont tags, along with the bumper sticker politics and “Love Your Mother” environmental stickers staring at me. Whatever. Ride a fucking bike instead, you hypocrite. The really ironic thing is that this enviro-wagon was filled with all kinds of Taco Bell, Burger King, and Royal Farms trash. There were wrappers and cups and food remnants all over the inside of this car. I wonder what Al “I commute via private jet to promote my environmental books and documentary but my jet fuel consumption doesn’t count because I am a Democrat” Gore would have to say about the inconvenient truth inside of this Subaru, whose contents closely resembled the mountains of Staten Island.

Anyway.

Living in Sin

Lady Friend and I are officially shacking up this week, which means we’ll we living in sin and celebrating our unnatural love on a full-time basis. We’ve been doing a decidedly un-lesbionic thing by living separately and alone the entire time we’ve been dating. It’s been just over 2.5 years that we’ve been making each other miserable, so we thought we’d take it to the next level and spice up our relationship with some resentment by actually living together. She’s gladly giving up her Highlandtown Hacienda and bringing her shit to the Pigtown Palace.

I know a lot of lesbionic couples get all excited about blending their Indigo Girls cds and Birkenstock collections, but I’m actually really excited about blending our firearms collection. It looks like our first “living together” purchase will be a new gun safe. If you are familiar with the movie Tremors, LF and are going to be the Pigtown version of Burt and Heather Gummer.

But seriously folks…

There are several keys to successful cohabitation: communication, separate bathrooms, and finding the right Sleep Number. (Mine is 35).

Speaking of Movies

I get a special tingle in my No-No places watching these tinglelicious women in the following trailers. If I wasn’t already a big ol’ lez, I’d give serious consideration to switching teams for both of them. I think this means I’m actually leaving the house and going to the movies twice this year - a new record for me:

Jodie Foster as Anger Hangover in The Brave One.

Cate Blanchett as Elizabeth I in Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

The Oscars might actually be worth watching just for the Best Actress category.

(I still want Cate to win)

Other Movies You Might Enjoy

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How is it that I’ve never seen the movie Switchblade Sisters until last night? It’s a movie Netflix recommended about a girl gang called the Dagger Debs and it’s perhaps the most perfect movie I’ve ever seen. It’s so perfect that I bumrushed Amazon and bought it as soon as the movie was over. In just ninety minutes, the movie touches on all of the following:

Girl gangs
Gang warfare
Teen pregnancy
Angela Davis
Biblical references
Blue eye shadow
Armed robbery
Erectile dysfunction
Roller skating
Drive by shootings
Male pattern baldness
Molotov cocktails
Good old-fashioned slaps across faces
Amphetamine abuse
Low self-esteem
Welfare
Rape
Alcoholism
Homo erotic tension
Ice cream truck dope dealers
Betrayal
Stunt men in wigs
Subversive politics
Race relations
Prostitution
Food fights
Body cavity searches
Gay slurs
Female nudity
Marijuana
High school expulsion
Girl fights
Murder
Kidnapping
Juvenile justice system
Eye patches
& so much more!

Family Secrets Revealed

Whenever I have a few drinks with my mom, like last night, I sometimes find myself cringing when she starts talking about my childhood and her approach to raising me. Sometime during 1973 my mom started reading The Exorcist. I was a year old and still an only child in 1973, so the kid thing was all very new for my mom and she didn’t really know what to expect. My father worked nights, which meant my mom and I were home alone in a not-so-great part of town. So while my mom was reading The Exorcist, she decided that I was scary and had potential for evil. You think she would have been more afraid living three houses down from the local methadone clinic, especially since our house had been broken into twice. Ah but no. Being home alone with a toddler while reading The Exorcist was much scarier.

My mom admitted that she was afraid to check on me at night because she was worried that I’d be speaking in tongues and projectile vomiting. She told me she would stick me in my crib with a bottle and close the door and hope I didn’t make any sounds. Apparently I had a habit of tossing my bottle across the room when I finished it, which is interesting because this is something I still do today. Anyway, my mom said that each night she would brace herself waiting to hear the *whack* of my bottle hitting the wall and that it always scared her even though she knew it was coming.

“And fuhgedaboutit. If we had had those freakin’ baby monnitduhs back then, there’s no freakin’ way I would have left yours on because I wouldn’t wanna know who you were tawlking to in there or what you were sayin’.”

I asked my mom if she ever checked on me after putting me to bed.

“Well, my sistahs were still in high school and used to come ova to the house all drunk and stoned and say ‘Let’s wake up the baby. We wanna play with the baby.’ They’d go in and wake you up and play with you until they sobered up enough to go home. So it’s not like you were totally unsupavised.”

And my mother and my aunts still wonder why I was such a cranky baby.

Local Lesbian Gone Wild?

You decide.

Not For Hire

So much drama in the 21230.

In the last six months I’ve been having all kinds of problems with my next door neighbor. I haven’t really been able to write about it until now because every time I started to write about it, I felt like I was turning the drama into the extended dance remix version. I should clarify that I never had a problem with my neighbor, but I have had big problems with some of his decisions. The very short of it - he started letting prostitutes stay at his house for $10 a night. He didn’t do this because he’s sketchy and involved in nefarious activities; he did it out of loneliness. I guess some company is better than no company at all.

So can you guess what happened?

I’ve Gotta Ask You Somethin’ Real Personal

Inspired by the recent weather and dedicated to ACW for his special day today:

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I think I need to call my mom now.

Almost in the 8th Grade

Spotted this real age calculator at Sarah’s.

My “real age” is 13, which is also happens to be my emotional maturity level. I should be getting my period any day now. Maybe Sarah can babysit me and talk to me about girl problems.

Apparently I am going to live to 95, which means I’ve got 60 years of mediocre blogging ahead of me. Aren’t you lucky?

How old are you?