Edgy Mama

The good news: my smart*ss post, The Jimmy Carter of Ex-Boyfriends, won me a free book from Blogging 4 Books (scroll down to read the post as I can’t seem to make my fricking internal links work–and that is NOT a metaphor).

The bad news: third place. Ouch. Good, but not great. Also, the book, Ex and the Single Girl, is chick litish, a genre I typically avoid, but since the author, Lani Diane Rich, is smart enough to both chose me and to send me a freebie, I’ll read her novel. And tell you all about it, of course.

So, here we are. Kurt Vonnegut, one of the coolest writers alive, gives my short story, Gravity Defiant, an honorable mention. Good, but not great. Didn’t I just say that? O yes.

So now, my pretties, I am in pursuit of both badness and greatness. And you, you, will get to see me either fail miserably or succeed beyond my wildest imaginings. Regardless, it should be fun.

Sit back. Fasten your seatbelts. And bring your own beer.

Yesterday was the day we set aside to remember MLK Jr.

He died at 39 years old. What he accomplished, what he said, what he did, in his short life is awe-inspiring.

There was an article in my local newspaper, the Asheville Citizen-Times, that examined why leaders like MLK Jr. are so few and far between.

From John Boyle’s article:

“The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. just had it.

Charisma. Magnetism. Intelligence. Empathy. And that mesmerizing voice that seemed to channel God.

And that begs some questions: Could such elements ever be bound into one leader again? Will another Martin Luther King Jr. emerge in the coming years? Have advancements in civil rights made the need for such a leader irrelevant?”

Excellent questions, indeed, John. And, as the rest of the article shows, very difficult ones to answer.

From a historical perspective, there’s evidence that great leaders (and writers, artists, inventors, thinkers, etc.) arise during times of intense conflict–war, social upheaval, displacement, oppression. Potentially, there are great leaders in every generation, but the right mix of nurture, nature, and external conflict must be there to force them to rise above life as, say, an accountant. Even then, few succeed. Those who do are both loved and reviled, and it takes a certain armor to survive such strong emotional responses.

So, will another MLK, Jr., emerge? Here? Soon? Probably not, is my answer. Not until things get really bad–until there is overt racial conflict; until environmental abuse truly affects our quality of life; until some idiots overthrow Roe v. Wade; until there is blood spilt unnecesarily and often on American soil.

This is the sad, but true, reality. Great conflict produces great leaders. And though we now live in a time of conflict, we are so lucky, at the moment, to live on the outer edge of it. For now.

My one year blogaversary is not until January 22nd, which incidentally, is also Squirrel Appreciation Day, but most significantly, the anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision. But since it’s a full moon and I’m feeling angsty, I’ve decided to go ahead and discuss the path we’ve traveled and where we’re going next with this weird new form of communication known as blogging.

I say “we” because Edgy Mama is all about interaction. We’re an experiential blog. Without you - my incisive, randy commenters - I imagine my stats would be half of what they are (300-400 unique visitors a day, if you can believe that). You, my friends, are as much a part of this blog as I am.

Just for laughs, let’s review the past year. Like most of you who blog, I started off slowly, not quite sure what I was doing or if anyone gave a damn. Which they didn’t, for a long time. Slowly, a few of you came, then a few more. In May, I moved from a blogger template to my current, custom-designed template (Thanks, dear Eddo). I held a contest to come up with a new persona and, with your help, Edgy Mama was born.

More of you appeared. Then the BlogAsheville folks discovered me and invited me to contribute. Very exciting. Even more exciting was actually meeting, face-to-face, other bloggers. I adored them (I still do). LBB said last week: “If you were to study bloggers as a demographic, you’d find the most creative, entertaining, dynamic and brightest group of people on the planet.” As usual, he’s sooooo right.

Over the past few months, buoyed by you, I’ve found my voice. I’m channeling Edgy Mama regularly, and/or, we really have become one. I’m stretching. I’m experimenting. I’m pushing the envelope. As Ash says, I’m learning to tell it like IT-EES.

But it’s not enough (is it ever?). Screwy told me on Thursday that EM is sweet, that even the sexual innuendo is sweet. Which I know is a compliment, but…the point, of course, is to be edgy. Do I want to be bad? I asked someone that question the other day. His reply: “No, but I like the question.” My answer to the question: “No, but maybe I want to FLIRT with bad.”

And I’m in deep now. In addition to Edgy Mama and BlogAsheville, I’ve hooked up with Ash to create a flash fiction blog, Flasheville (again, thanks Eddo, design master). In another inspired moment, Ash and I came up with Lie Like Frey last week (see what happens when sick, creative minds mesh?).

But other bloggies are really beside the point. What I want to know is, here, in our second year of blogging, what are we going to do? How are we going to flavor the sweet with spice? Preferably with cayenne pepper? How are we going to engage, entertain, enlighten, my friends, my family, my lurkers? How are we going to flirt with bad?

Ack! I think I feel a hairball coming on.

…this little quizzo makes a lot of sense. Next time someone asks me, “What’s your sign?,” I can say, “I’m an Aries, but I SHOULD have been a Scorpio.” Now that’s an answer.

You Should Be A Scorpio

What’s good about you: intense and energetic, you can easily transform the vibe of a room What’s bad about you: if someone rubs you the wrong way, you’ll sting them! In love: you experience very strong feelings - both passion and jealousy In friendship, you’re: likely to demand loyalty and dump friends who don’t provide it Your ideal job: circus performer, hypnotist, or hunter Your sense of fashion: revealing, daring outfits - you love taking fashion risks You like to pig out on: spicy Thai, Mexican, or Indian food

(My friend, Jim Jenkins, e-mailed me the following riff on my B4B entry: The Jimmy Carter of Ex-Boyfriends–which, BTW, has been chosen as a B4B Finalist. Thank you, Jim, for brightening this bleak Friday the 13th for me).

Aleisha yawned. She stretched out lazily on the powder blue sofa and watched as I finished folding her laundry.

“How long have we been dating?” she asked.

“A couple of weeks, I guess. Why?”

“I don’t want you take this the wrong way,” she began, “but you haven’t touched me once except for a peck on the cheek and I’m wondering what the deal is. I mean, you have been so nice to me, taking me out to dinner, painting and rearranging my apartment, Christ you’re even doing my frigging laundry, so come on, what gives? Aren’t you attracted to me, or are you a GG?”

I carefully placed the stack of neatly folded panties into the drawer and joined her on the sofa. “What the hell is a GG?” I asked.

“A GG. You know, a gay guy.”

Bile rose in my throat as I realized what she was inferring. “I’m all man baby! You want me to touch you?” I asked as I let me fingers slide gently down the inside of her perfect brown thigh. “Do I look like Jimmy Carter to you?”

“Kind of,” she said.

That was it. I lifted her roughly from the sofa and carried her to the bed I had made earlier with perfect hospital corners. My passion rose as I pulled the white tank top off of her, folding it hastily and laying it across the bedside table. Her full voluptuous breasts lay spread out before me as I carefully removed her denim cut-offs revealing purple satin panties.

“Screw the shorts,” she panted as I aligned them carefully on the table next to her shirt.

I reached to untie her running shoes, quickly tied the strings together and lined them up under the bed. As I slipped the sock from her left foot, I saw that her toenails were painted with what I immediately recognized as Zoya, Kali 274, my favorite shade. My arousal increased as I reached for her other foot. Then it happened. Pulling off the second sock revealed that Aleisha had painted the toenails of her right foot with Zoya, Kat 224. I looked first at the left foot, then the right, then at the purple panties. The horrific clash of color lodged in my brain, extinguishing the flame of my desire as surely as would a bucket of ice water. I knew that it was not meant to be.

Yesterday, Anonymous said: “All I can say about anonymous posting is that laziness made me do it. Initially. That simple button at the bottom of the posting screen, requiring of me not a whit of additional caloric output.

I’ll spend all day reworking a sentence with just the right words, but care not at all to waste time faking identities or (gawd forbid) filling out one more unnecessary registration form.

Then too, EM seemed to enjoy some of what I said anonymously, which effect might well have been lessened, I fancy, had she known my true identity — surely not very exciting, as you’ll see below — or even bought some half-cocked internet-only mask. EM seems to like a mystery, and I’m happy — for a while at least — to be an enabler.

It is worth noting, perhaps, that I have posted here before under both my actual name and under at least one non-anony pseudonym, and neither effort caused so much as one hair to waver.

The mystery is the thing, sez me. Chalk one vote in the ‘keep anonymous posting’ column.

-A”

1:59 PM

EM said: “Okay, Anony. You may stay anonymous.

You’re right. I do like a bit of mystery. Particularly well-written, thought-provoking intrigue.

And you do keep dropping me little hints, don’t you. Hmmmmmmm…”

Anonymous said: “EM–Yes, by now you have a veritable mountain of hints. You’ll figure it out eventually.

Meanwhile, thanks for letting me keep lurking in the shadows.

-A (not a tranny, for what it’s worth, but definitely a big Jimmy Carter fan).”

7:08 PM

EM said: “OMG, did I date you, Anony?”

11:56 PM

Anonymous said: “AFG: Let’s see. Married with children, scrubber of and squatter on domestic toilets, committed heterosexual although a serious fan of Jimmy “Lust In My Heart” Carter (and also Barak Obama while we’re on the subject), never read A Million Little Fibs, or whatever it’s called…that Oprah book that everyone was carrying around the airport two weeks and half a century ago.

…any old dating bells clanging so far?

-A”

1:54 AM

So, I’ve gone back in time (you can do that on blogs) on a further fact-finding mission about the intriguing Anonymous.

A began posting as A in late November. During our extended debate on night-time male pee practices, he said: “Neither of my wives ever handed down a sittum dictum, and I therefore can claim no emasculation on that score.

But both wives insisted that I be the family toilet scrubber. This activity apparently falls under other male-only danger-related duties like handling of fire, manipulation of sharp unwieldy things, retrieving of high-up items, toting of heavy objects (or objects perceived to be heavy), driving of cars through inclement weather, and opening of stubborn jars.”

Okay, he’s been married twice. Now I’m confused. And he scrubs toilets? Surely, I have never been so lucky as to date such a guy?

The next day, Anonymous tells me he once met Larry Brown, and that he saw HST stumbling down a sidewalk in Santa Fe, NM.

Then I don’t hear from him for a while, only to receive this tidbit: “I think that Edward Abbey’s Fool’s Progress is the Great American Novel, and I consider Henry Adams’ History of the United States During the Administrations of Thomas Jefferson a rollicking good read.

Really.”

Who the hell?

When I was having computer problems, he gives thoughtful advice and says: “writing from a well-behaved Dell, but longing to get back home to his wife’s brand new Powerbook G4.” So he’s a bit of a geek with some disposable income.

Here are a few other facts I’ve gathered about A: he’s a bit of an insomniac (see timestamps from yesterday); he reads Edgy Mama regularly, although he comments only when he has something intelligent and relevent to say (that’s not a dig at those of you who like to make stupid, irrelevant comments–you know I love you); he’s an excellent writer–articulate and engaging; possibly he writes for a living (see above). I have a few ex-boyfriends who fit into this category, although only two who write at this level come to mind. What’s stumped me is the two wives tidbit.

In order to refresh my dating memory, I dug a ragged piece of paper out of my files, dating back to my rehearsal dinner night: July 11, 1997. On it, my two closest friends wrote a ditty which they sang to the tune of Supercalifragilistic:

“Anne Fitten, you’ve been quite a rake
Who knows how many dates?
Although there may be some mistakes
We’ve added up some names
But in our tally who can tell
How many we’ve forgot?
Who cares we’re here to all have fun
And this is our best shot!

Ohhhh! Brett and Lee, Philip, Charlie
Paul and Porter too
Paul not White, Dean, Mark, Colin
Just to name a few
Anthony, that other Brit, whose name we can’t recall
You’d call with stories from all points
Baffling us all!”

Are you on this list, A?

I broke the one resolution that I was actually sticking to last night. I drank a beer at the Asheville Pizza and Brew Company. You just cannot drink wine at a place of business that has the word “brew” in its name. It should be illegal.

The good news is that I only drank one beer. It was lovely and bubbly, and the amber color of my cats, appropriately so, as the beer is called Houdini. I was hanging with some of the ‘hood moms–an amazing group of progressive, smart, wild women. We talked about Christmas decorations (hate taking them down), Brokeback Mountain (dying to see it), porn flicks (hate ‘em), passion parties (I agreed to have one, but only if I’m allowed to write about it), and, of couse, our families (love ‘em, and they drive us nuts).

In other resolution news, I have set a number of writing goals for myself, though I’m moving slowly off the mark (think slow motion, think large, blondish sloth). I will be taking an on-line fiction course in short and flash fiction beginning at the end of the month (you pay your $, you force yourself to write). The course starts just as the beer fast officially ends. Thank god.

(This is an entry for this month’s Blogging 4 Books).

So, here’s your story. You meet a gorgeous guy (GG, for short). Oh my god,is he incredible or what? He has perfect hair, great skin, and is built–not more than an ounce of pinchable body fat. He’s attentive, smart, and a great listener. He likes to talk about CLOTHES! And shopping! And movies! He is 2 good 2 be true.

Which you find out when, after weeks of an-tiss-i-pay-shun, you coax him into your boudoir. There you learn that he’s more passionate about your vintage velvet jacket than about your cute nekkid bod. You’re disappointed, but since he’s soooooo amazing, you chalk it up to performance anxiety. You decide to set the scene for the next rendezvous with scented candles, soothing massage oils, and a bottle of fruity red wine.

Uh-oh, you think, when the word “fruity” repeats itself in your mind. Quickly you banish the offending word. But you do call your best friend. She sighs when you mention that your sexual encounter with GG was not all you hoped for. She sighs again. Your heart pounds. Your palms start to sweat.

“But he’s perfect in every other way,” you whine. “Of course he is, dear,” replies your soon-not-to-be best friend.

Despite your concerns, you decide to try again for some happening bedroom boogie, employing the mantra that you can never have too many accessories. The wine is drunk, the candles lit, the massage oils applied, the sexy lingerie employed, but…

Tearfully, you confront GG. He acts offended, hurt, surprised. He talks about how he’s always wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. He’s old-fashioned. He wants commitment. Casual sex doesn’t work for him.

“But we’ve been dating for weeks,” you sputter. “I love you. You love me.”

“You don’t understand,” replies GG, flouncing out of your apartment. The flounce does it. You stare at the ceiling and weep.

Then you call your ex-boyfriend–the one with the beer belly who loves fart jokes. The one who has more sex appeal in his axel-grease-covered little finger than a host of GGs. You resign yourself to dirty clothes, masculine sweat, and subjective hearing loss. You have fabulous, mind-blowing, albeit smelly, sex. Ahhhhhhh….

As beer belly staggers back to his apartment, you call GG. You apologize. He apologizes. You agree to meet at the Mall for skim lattes. You buy beautiful clothes together. You gossip about celebrities. You have a fabulous time. GG is the Jimmy Carter of ex-boyfriends: the guy who is a better ex than a partner; a better friend than lover.

Occasionally, you pine for GG’s manicured nails, washboard abs, and minty-clean scent. But then you glance over at beer belly, which he takes as a “come hither.” He swigs his beer, turns down the sound on the football game, and gives you what you need. Then you send him away and call GG. He comes to your rescue with red wine, good chocolate, and fashion advice. Isn’t life great?

(This isn’t actually my story; it’s quilted together from the experiences of several girlfriends. See, James Frey, it’s okay to embellish your memoirs, as long as you admit to embellishment. As far as I know, I haven’t dated anyone who was all-the-way gay, although upon Googling a former lover recently, I discovered an interview that he did for TransAmerica Radio. He talked about how he isn’t really transexual but has some features of a tranny. I suppose we can place him in the bisexual camp. But that’s another story, for another day).

This is your chance to nominate your fav blogs. Does anyone know any African bloggers? I had to leave that category blank. Happy Monday, my pretties.

January is the bleakest month. Except for February. Luckily, Valentine’s Day livens up February. In January, we get, as my girl calls it, Martin Luther the King day, which, while a worthwhile and laudatory holiday, is not exactly fun. It’s not like we get to open presents or eat candy or dress up like dominatrix.

The primary reason that January is sooooo bleak is that, besides freezing our collective heinies off all month, we must stick to our newly forged New Year’s Resolutions. We know, of course, that by the end of the month, most of our resolve will fall by the wayside. But, particularly at first, before we remember how difficult it is, we try to change.

Eight days, girls and boys. Eight days without a lovely, bubbly, delicious beer. I’ve had approximately four glasses of red wine, which, although it may be better for my heart, does not quench my thirst the way that that hoppy nectar does.

So, what does Ash do? He stops by my home this morning with a growler of amber brew from the Heinzelmannchen Brewery in Sylva, NC. He took a little field trip to the brewery yesterday and, knowing my penchant for the liquid, brought me a growly gift. O temptation, you are an evil mistress. O Ash, PIH (Payback is Hell, for those of you who haven’t been reading closely). So far, I have resisted. For eight whole hours.

Tomorrow, however, E-spouse leaves for a business trip. That will be the ultimate test of my resolve. Can I be a single parent without beer. Can I resist the siren-call of the nectar in my fridge?

In an attempt to face down another of my resolutions, I cleaned out my and my kids’ sock drawers tonight. Let me just say: I hate socks. Not when they’re on my feet, but when I’m attempting to sort and pair them. Why are there always more socks than pairs? How long should I hold on to lonely socks in a desperate attempt to rematch them with their lost mates? How to the lonely socks manage to reproduce, but in different colors? Tonight I decided, with boldness and verve, to THROW AWAY all unmated socks.

But now I need a beer.