Tag Archives: memories

Questions… and a bawdy response… and more musings

Ösze visza mint pinàn a ször 

How am I doing? (I was asked early this morning, with barely half a mug of coffee consumed.) I don’t know… up and down…


My dad had a saying (in response to “how’s it going?”, which was rather crude… who am I kidding… it was immensely crude… but it translates (from Hungarian) to the effect of : “all over the place, like hair on a pussy.” Yes… rather uncouth, but it certainly paints the right picture, as it were. And, alas, now you know where (at least in part) I get my class-less-ness from… LOL… 


My friend also told me that I’m sweet… I’m not sweet… sometimes I think I’m completely reckless and demented… I give when I don’t really have because I have this insatiable need to please… myself and others… but whether I do it in the right way is questionable. I have to ask myself why I operate in the way that I do.


At times I feel I am no better than my friend Robert, who I’ve accused of “buying” people’s affections by overwhelming them with gifts.  I think I do some of that too. Probably even for the same reasons… although I’d like to think it’s because I’m more altruistic and do it for the betterment of all… but mostly it’s to make me feel good, because I’ve pleased someone. Pleasing someone else pleases me… it’s selfish, really. But at least I make everyone happy in the process, if only momentarily. Happy little earthquakes of pleasure.


As to what is going on right now? I’m playing a waiting game now, really… waiting until time is up on my lease… and on my current life with Steve. It’s weird, really. And then things will change… either by actions I take or of their own accord if I take no action. I’m at a stalemate on whether I should let the river carve its own course or whether I should take part in directing it… seems I’m not a very good director, or I overestimate my ability to direct wisely, so maybe I should just see where it all goes and then work with what transpires. I don’t know. I’m ready to try tea leaves or sniff some ether for some great revelations.


I have issues… but at least I can identify them. Some people (many, in fact) have them and don’t even know they have them… and if they do know about them, they tacitly ignore them, pretending they’re not there, or perhaps hope that by not acknowledging them they’ll go away of their own accord. I’d say I’m a few steps ahead of the lot. I am human… how can I not have any issues? I’m perfect in my imperfection.


And garsh… I really wish I had a boyfriend… or plaything… when they tell you that women peak in midlife, they’re not kidding. *sigh*


So… maybe I should have some more coffee and shut up now while I’m ahead… LOL

Damned blueberries…

Left to right: my dad, as Tarzan, my mom (not the Jane type), my cousin Zoli’s first wife, my cousin Zoli and my sister in the foreground
Circa 1960, four years before I came ’round
Where? Maybe up in the Laurentians somewhere… Rawdon?

I peer down at my nightdress and see a couple indigo spots. I’ve had this “nightie” for ages… in fact, it’s one of the ones my mom had bought for me during one of her few visits to California—after the third time out, she quit travelling… she was, after all, 76 years old, and the long travel time just took the wind out of her sails.

It’s been a strange weekend… I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since Thursday. Gabriel went over to his friend Justin’s for a sleepover on Friday night, but was banging at the door at 1AM to be let back in, since he said the other boys were yakking and not letting him get to sleep. The truth finally spilled (another half hour later, when he reappeared like a spectre next to my bed, after I’d finally dozed off once again) when he admitted that he had now developed a fear of the dark since they had watched Saw 2 earlier in the evening. Hmmm… can’t help but wonder how the mom (fucking bimbo) let a couple of ten year old kids watch this sort of an “R” rated movie. Come to find out that the mom had insisted they watch the movie because they’d already paid for it on PayPerView. As Steve pointed out, porn is “R” rated too, but would you let your kids watch that if they ordered it on PayPerView? But I digress…

So we went to state beach at Huntington Beach yesterday afternoon to hang by the water and soak up some rays. It’s been a while since we’ve done that, and I love going to the beach… I just hate exposing my pasty white and what I can’t even call “bodacious” bod anymore… I feel like a beached shamu… but I’m working on changing that, before I get old and decrepit and have to stay this way (remember when your mom told you if you pulled that expression too many times, your face would freeze like that? …same idea).

After grilling some steaks and throwing together a salad for dinner and making motions to head to bed (including getting Gabriel showered again, since he had sand in places I don’t want to describe), he’s about ready for bed when there’s a knock at the door… it’s 10:30PM and our little neighbour, Justin, is knocking on our door, freaked out about his brother taking out his anger on him. His brother, Jacob, is a bit older, skinnier and scruffier looking, and mad at the world. His parents split some time ago, and they get shuttled from home to home, and the “step mom to be” is of the evil variety, while their mom is obsessed with nailing another man… or getting nailed, I can’t tell which. Jacob looks like he could double as a young Joey Ramone, slack lip and vacant look—he’s got it down.

Grandma was babysitting last night and she comes over about ten minutes after Justin stops in, wondering where Justin had disappeared to (this is comforting, ain’t it?). He wants to sleep over at our place, because he’s afraid of his brother. Hmmm… well, I relent and he stays over, but this alters my whole sleep experience, see? I get up at least once during the night for a pit stop, and so my usual lack of sleepwear is an issue at this point—I know… this is either TMI and/or you are free to gasp in horror at the visual—so I pull out my old nightie that I wear around the house only when I have to. I’m hot and uncomfortable, with the door to my room closed, because the cross-breeze that usually cools the place off is stunted.

I got up this morning at 7:30 and put on a pot of coffee to brew. Thank the lord for coffee. It’s about the only thing that gets me going in the morning. It’s nice and quiet and I’m surfing the ‘web… I love it when it’s quiet and no one is up yet. Gabriel and Justin were up and about at around 9-ish and are clamoring for breakfast… eggs and toast, they demand. So I start making breakfast and decide I’ll have myself a bowl of oatmeal… with frozen blueberries and maple syrup and almond slivers… and somehow, I manage to get two splashes of indigo on my nightie—damn! Hope the stain remover gets it out… otherwise it’ll be another relic that makes its way to the trashbin. Still can’t seem to rid myself of my dad’s “Tarzan” shorts though… the bikini underwear that would masquerade as his swimsuit. Ahhhh… such a funny man he was. It’s father’s day, and I still miss him, though it’s been almost 15 years since lung cancer took him to some other time-place continuum. I think I’ll pull out the bottle of Hungarian plum brandy (don’t let the fruit flavor fool you… the stuff’s 94 proof) and toast his memory with a shot of slivovic…