The Wet Stink of a Powerless Brandon

Shit! It's been a while since I posted. Sorry, things got a little hairy out here with Katrina in the 'hood. But, all things considered in the hot light of sobriety, I ain't got too damn much to complain about.

Well, you should all be proud of me. After the storm the ole Brontosaurus got out her candy-striper outfit and went to duty (and you can bet I looked good doing it). It was weird, while there is so much to do, there's so little to do at the same time. I made phone calls, delivered some shit some places, drove some folks around. But I can't administer in IV. I can't rebuild a garage. And fuck if I'm touching a chainsaw! Them shits is scary! I've seen the movies. I know.

But now I'm back at work for the same tired cocksuckers. But the young lawyer and I have gone out again. Well, he came over after the storm, you know, to make sure I was all right. We got drunk in the wet stink of a powerless Brandon. He brought over a bucket of chicken and 2 bottles of Barefoot Pinot Noir. The wine was kind of weak, but the sentiment was outstanding! He gets double-plus points for assuming I like it spicy, extra-crispy – and being right. I'm warming up to that youngun. He called earlier to see if I wanted to meet him to watch the Saints game, but I'm not sure if we're to that level yet. I mean, fried chicken and wine is fantastic in desperate situations, but I don't know if I'm ready to let him see me eat fried cheese while the sun's still out.

I might be crazy

I saw a dashing young man at the bar last night - found out he had a blog, a very funny, well recieved blog, linked to my idol jaysus. anyhow. we talked, but he wasn't interested in me. It's funny - sometimes I think I am at least an eight and then other times, I know I am a solid two who is also dumb.

You see - sometimes I feel like I might be a tad schizophrenic. There are times where I know I am every man's wet dream - ballsy, beautiful, wearing my bras high and tight - then there are other times where I know I am just a simple-minded Brandon girl, a girl's girl, not this tart who goes to porn sites and posts pictures of my platonic ass - see, even there, that wasn't me. I don't understand what platonic means - except I forget - I do know what it means.

I just don't know what I think anymore. I met this guy who wouldn't look at me and I don't know if it is because I am beautiful, ugly, or dumb. Maybe it is because I am crazy - as crazy as the day is long - oscillating back and forth between so many perspectives; people want me to be so many different things, wear so many different hats, keep so many different irons in the fire. It's hard for a working girl to deal with.

My Main Man

Ohhhhhhh Noooooooooo

Are the words I would say if I were to be attacked by a big man with a bowie knife. I can see him now: big pot-bellied man in a black hoody and tight blue jeans; he’s got a little facial scruff and powerful BO; he’s been up all night (I’m sure that I’ll be attacked in the morning on the way to work) smoking the meth and beating his woman because he was smoking the meth and that kept him flaccid, and if he hated anything at all in this world, he hated being flaccid when he wanted with all his black heart to get his swerve on; a cute little scar above his right eyebrow that he got in a knife fight when he was twelve years-old; he’s close with his mother and holds that relationship against every woman he meets; he drives a car that was nice when it was new but has since become a little ratty – it’s an ’86 chevy monte carlo ss; he limps a little bit due to a fall that he had outside of the coachlight on tuesday night; he pretends to have been to Europe, and hates people that actually have been to Europe, including Europeans.

That’s the man that’s going to attack me, when I’m on my way to work, standing in the driveway of my little vinyl-sided yellow house in Brandon, Mississippi.

He lives across the street. I fucking hate him.

Irish Rules Baseball

The Brontosaurus is angry. Without naming names, I won’t do that, not here at least, I want to tell you that my feelings have been hurt.

I went out on a limb, crawled way out to the tender end of the tiniest branch, and started chatting up a stranger whose blog I enjoy. The blog expresses the most sensitive and strange sense of humor. It is funny and sweet. It tugs my heartstrings and makes me smile. And the curator lives in my hometown slash tri-county area. Whooo-wheeeee, I thought. A new friend.

So, anyway, I’m on Jaysus’s (see link to your right) weekly little about-town-happenings email list. I saw that there were half-priced drinks one night at this divey little bar in town, and I thought, hmmmm, I’ll invite the funny stranger. So I sent Jaysus an email asking if the stranger was psycho, and I heard that no, he’s a good guy.

So I sent the funny stranger an email inviting him out for a drink and I didn’t hear back. So I stayed in that night.

The next day I get an email from the stranger telling me that he didn’t get my invite until too late and that he’s busy. We exchange a few emails, and, not taking the hint, I invite him out again.

That night I went out and he never showed up. I even had a little present for him.

I’m left scorned and stood-up two freaking nights in a row! (well, almost, allow me my histrionics, please, in this my time of sadness).

Oh well, sorry buddy, Irish rules baseball: two strikes and you’re out.

Notes on Dates: 1

Well, I know all of you are on the edge of the seat of your pants wondering how my date was. The answer: a solid B.

Lawyer picked me up around 8. I was looking good, not too good, but good. He was looking good, though a bit too clean-cut and prepified for my taste. As promised we went to Bravo. Nice table by a window. Not too many people sitting around us. I had a lovely grape martini while we studied the menu. He had a bud lite. Yeah, I know, what the fuck? Man-up lawyer and drink yourself a whiskey-drink if you want to charm the girl. I mean, a bud lite as a before dinner drink? What am I supposed to say? Do you know how that makes me feel?

But the conversation was natural, not too forced, a little small-talky, but it was our first date. He talked about going to law school in nashville and how he misses those friends, and how he likes working at the firm and doesn't mind the long hours. I had another grape martini.

The food was mostly all good. I did that set-price thing they're doing now with the fried polenta (which I shared with him. I had a bite of his Caesar (that sounds so dirty, but really, it was quite innocent)), the grilled grouper, and we split my banana crème brulee for dessert. He had the paneed redfish. We split a bottle of something white and dry and French. A lot of splitting going on for a first date, I know. I thought so too. Not so much the wine, but a girl values her dessert. And I thought that his after-dinner sambuca made up for his pre-dinner bud lite.

It was a completely fine time, not many sparks in the air, but far from a dud. We finished up dinner around 10:30 and went to hal and mal's to see some band he likes called Lucero. Turns out he's not the only one in this fair city that likes Lucero. But, to his dismay, I am not among their ranks, and hung back near the bar. I mean, Lucero's not bad or anything, just didn't grab and shake me.

Around 1 he took me back home (to Brandon - he lives in Ridgeland) and was the consummate gentleman. walk to the door. I had fun tonight. Let's do this again sometime. lingering hug with a quick close-mouthed kiss with a smile and a wink and then back to the car.

I mean, I can tell you right now we're not soul-mated, but maybe I can loosen him up a bit in the future. we'll see what happens.

Robot Food

I have often found myself wondering - if a robot was to have dinner, what would he eat? Lasagna? Spaghetti and meatballs? Nigiri? Paht Thai? The burrito asado at La Cazuela? Tonight, if I had to guess, the robot would eat at Bravo!, where he would have a pasta dish and a chocolate martini.

I have a date tonight! A promising young attorney from the office has asked me to go and eat with him at Bravo!, and then accompany him to Hal & Mal's to see Lucero. I have never heard of them, but he says they are good.

The only con to this situation is that he is two years younger than me - alas, I guess I will deal with that. I always said I wanted to marry well - it is the main reason I decided to become a paralegal - and this guy is definitely going to do well.

Wish me luck. Maybe I will see you out tonight, around and about - and I don't think I am going to church tomorrow - I am choosing chocolate martinis over Jesus and hoping for the best.

Note on Work: 1

Working for lawyers is so much fun! Their braggadocious self-confidence is so ingratiating! Their patronizing criticisms prove so rewarding! And the work they do is so ennobling that it inspires me to want to be just like them! Every single one of them in their pretty jackets and outlandish ties. "Have you seen Charlie today? No? Well, let me tell you, he's wearing a bow-tie." "Oh Charlie, he's a wild one, that's for sure." chuckle chuckle chuckle. curdle curdle curdle. "Back at the frat house I remember one time when Charlie raped a girl." Wait a minute. That's not funny. Let's change it to, "Back at the frat house I remember one time when Charlie made a pledge rape a goat." There. That's better.

And that pledge grew up to be Mississippi 3rd district Congressman Chip Pickering. I shit you not. I know it's the truth because we used to fool around some. Here's a picture of us after a church picnic in Madison:

La Notre Dame du Brontosaurus

I am here - oh, yes...I am here.

I ain't never going anywhere.

So here it is, the inaugural post of la notre dame du Brontosaurus, so let me tell you a little bit about myself. First of all, you should all know that I don't necessarily speak for all bustlucious women cursed with a flat ass, but I speak for this one! You can guess by now that the above link is not a picture of my ass, but of my Platonic ass, and I'm talking Platonic as in Plato's forms here, fellas, not platonic as in no-sexing-this-here-ass, fellas.

Well, I'm off to a good start. This just feels right, you know? I think the best way to make lots of new friends in this strange and lonely arc of cyberspace is to start off slutty to generate interest, throw in a little Plato to cultivate the interest, and then to knock 'em out with the tit-shot. Ha ha, just kidding. But here's a picture of my smile.

So, I'm a paralegal in the great state of Mississippi. I live in Brandon, in a little yellow-colored vinyl-sided 2-bedroom at the end of a cul de sac. Some people call cul de sacs blind alleys. Some people feel that way about their lives, like they've gone down a blind alley and have reached the end and are powerless to turn around and to get the fuck out. Not so the Brontosaurus. Why back out when you can charge through?

I'm single right now and looking in all the wrong places. The other night I actually went to my childhood church's singles' meet-n-greet. Oh GAWD the horror! Yeah, you're who I'm looking for, Mr. Honduran-witnessing-
overweight-self-righteous-CPA-ostentaciously-
showing-off-your-blackberry-and-your-repressed-though-
obvious-homosexulaity-in-the-process-GAYWAD. Gee, thanks for the digits, chump.

Well, I called in drunk to work today – a bit too much Bailey's with the coffee this morning. And then a bit too much Jack with the coffee this morning. Hell, I'm only a paralegal, which means next to legal; I wish I was a metalegal, like, beyond the law, but that's for another blog, I guess. So, anyhoo, now I'm off to the Cherokee for a bacon poboy.