September 19, 2010

-image-li’l mb redux

(I first posted this about 5 years ago. Five years ago?? Seriously??)

lilmb2.jpg

(Li’l MB, age 3, a broad-shouldered bruiser.)

A story.

Li’l MB was about 4 or 5. His mom, a nurse, was called into the hospital on an emergency and dad was at work, too, so Li’l MB and his brother were dashed off to the nearest babysitter: Cecilia Stone, reluctant wife of Rocky Stone.

Li’l MB and brother spent the afternoon playing nicely with each other; they were good little boys, well brought up, having a good little day. Cecilia Stone, however, was apparently not having a good little day. She was getting drunk.

Now, every good little boy, even in the midst of the most riveting afternoon of play, will need a potty break. Some little boys just go behind a bush, barely missing a beat. Other, better boys will stop, go in the house, and do their business. But the very best boys, finding themselves at, oh, say, someone else’s home, will ask permission to go in the house and relieve themselves.

MB, as I have established, was one of the very best boys. And when the need for a potty break became pressing, he respectfully approached the boozy Cecilia Stone, reluctant wife of Rocky Stone.

As the son of a nurse, MB had learned all the medically correct terms for the body’s vital excretory functions. In MB’s childhood home, there were no such words as “pee” or “poop” or “tinkle” or “wee wee.” And there were ABSOLUTELY no such words as “yellow potty” or “dirty potty,” the descriptive phrases used by Ritchie and Brian, Li’l MB’s troglodytic, melon-headed friends.

No. He and brother were taught to say “urinate” and “defecate.”

So L’il MB approached the sotted Cecilia Stone.

” ‘Scuse me. I have to defecate.”

“What!?” Cecilia Stone slurred.

“I have to defecate!”

“What?!? You’re suffocatin’!?”

“NOO-HO! I have to DEFECATE!” Li’l MB’s voice became urgent with need.

“SUFFOCATE!??”

“NOOOO-HO!! I HAVE TO DEFECATE!!!”

Poor Li’l MB. He rocked on his heels, desperate, but Cecilia Stone was soused, pie-eyed … sloshed. She could NOT understand him, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he should have said “dirty potty.”

Moments later, mom came to pick up her boys and found Li’l MB crying in frustration and in dire defecatin’ straits. A groggy Cecilia Stone blurted:

“What the HELL is wrong with this kid?? HE KEEPS SAYIN’ HE’S SUFFOCATIN’!!”

Mom narrowed her eyes at silly Cecilia Stone and looked down at her frantic, dancing boy.

“He is NOT suffocating,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “He has to defecate!”

“Defecate?!”

Cecilia Stone wheezed.

“What’s that?!?”

The question trailed in the air behind MB’s indignant mom as she marched her little pooper home to his long-awaited destiny.

January 25, 2010

-image-brothers

MB is out of town, up in the deep dark middle of nowhere, hanging out with his brother who’s over from Australia.

I’m here at home.

Because they needed man time. Brother time.

Uhm, clearly ……..

brothers.jpg

I need to stop looking at it, but I can’t. I’m sitting here crying with laughter because there is actual snow on MB’s hat and because I think that’s the stupid hat with the fishing lures on it that I always see lying around their house and because Brother’s eyes are just tiny slits of pain and because Mr. Dozen Black Belts could kill a person with one flick of his wrist, but, well, obviously, not NOW.

MB told me that the night before all of this …… he had to carry Brother home.

Hahahahahahahaha.

May 23, 2009

-image-heaven only knows

Well, My Beloved is visiting his parents this weekend up in the deep dark middle of nowhere. He’s having some much-needed mountain man time with his dad and The Devious Twins. So that’s why the girlie girl is here.

(Although, truthfully …. uhm ….. MB’s aunt, my mil’s older sister, is also visiting from the East Coast … and, well …… I can only take so much, okay? I am not Jesus.)

Now The Devious Twins are identical twin brothers whom MB has known since childhood. One of them — do not ask me which one — was also, along with MB, a member of that primary cause of swooning and naughty thoughts in the minds of high school girls all over town, the The Bitchen Rock Combo. He’s on the far left in the photo with the white blonde hair blending into the background, next to, oh, that superstar of hotness, My Beloved. Although, admittedly, at that time in my life MB was basically Total Stranger I’ve Neither Seen Nor Met Nor Even Know Exists. Funny how things work out, ain’t it?

So The Devious Twins were your basic clowns, your average pranksters, your neighborhood nightmares, and there were TWO OF THEM, exact replicas of one another, so whatever they did involved mayhem multiplied. They are hilarious — do not misunderstand me — but they are dangerous rubes and should not be trusted with human life in any way, shape, or form. Perhaps this weekend they will do something like drink a bunch of beers with MB and then lie down in the middle of Main Street to see if they get run over by any hapless drivers just trying to get the heck outta that loco town. Who knows? And yes, these are grown men, pippa. With wives and children and giant millstones of responsibilities around their necks.

I tell you true: whenever my phone rings this weekend and it’s MB, I will pick it up with at least a half measure of dread, wondering if this is the phone call where he’ll say, “Okay. So one of The Devious Twins was driving his truck on the shore so we could waterski in the canal which — yes, babe, it’s only five feet deep — and, well, he hit a tree — yes, it’s only five feet wide; you know, it’s the canal! — and I was on the skis being pulled but I slammed into the shore when he hit that tree and I can’t move my arms or legs so I think I might be a quadriplegic now, etc.”

And I will sigh with great wifely concern, “Okay. Well, what do you want me to do about it from here?”

To be fair, The Devious Twins did repeatedly ask MB, “Is Tracey coming with you? Are you bringing Tracey?” You know, which is nice. So they were at least willing to have a girlie girl interrupt their mountain man shenanigans. Plus, I get along well with the menfolk. I LIKE men. I even like men like The Devious Twins. No. I especially like men like The Devious Twins. Even when one of them — again, do not ask me which one — a little tipsy last Christmas, regaled me with a half-hour epic tale of his long-ago horrifying penis injury. It was told with great glee and graphic descriptions. What is it about me that causes this to happen?? I have no idea, truly. But it was hilarious. (I love being the only sober person at a party.) From the first word out of his mouth, I was howling with laughter. The next day, this same Devious Twin called MB, all remorseful and said, “Hey, dude. I’m sorry. I think I talked to Tracey about my penis last night.” Hahahaha. Yes, you did. And, God help me, I found it oddly charming. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable on my account, you know?

So heaven only knows what might happen this weekend with The Devious Twins in the deep dark middle of nowhere.

And heaven only knows what stupid thing I’ll end up doing out of sheer boredom around here.

Uhm, live-blog of “Frogs” anyone?

August 12, 2008

-image-we interrupt this olympic obsession to bring you ….

….. brothers. They’re on my mind, since MB’s brother is here in the States from the Land Down Under. Years ago, they looked like this:

brothers5.jpg

This one below is, well, a bit more recent than the first one. Younger Brother has better glasses than this now. And less hair. He shaves his head and looks awesome, frankly. Don’t let his slightly nebbish appearance here fool you. Oh, no. BIG mistake. The dude is a black belt about 10 times over. I think once he hit a certain number of black belts, he actually had to register his hands in Australia as lethal weapons. S’true. S’I think. It hurts my hands to touch his abs, so I generally try not to. He knows about 473 ways to kill you, but I’m sure he won’t. Most likely. If he hasn’t killed me yet, you’re probably safe.

Also, I am obsessed with MB’s hubbalicious calves. They look quite nice here, don’t you think:

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May 7, 2008

-image-bitchen rock combo redux

Remember MB’s Bitchen Rock Combo?

Well, here’s another photo of the band, doing what all early 80s Bitchen Rock Combos did: Posing on that devil’s playground, Aunt Fanny’s wicker loveseat. Sporting the vulgar Hawaiian shirt. Or the menacing skinny tie. Or the smutty tuxedo shirt. Or the dreaded p*rn ‘stache. Screaming obscenities at the camera. Throwing the baneful shaka sign. You know. Your basic out-of-control rock band behavior.

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April 22, 2008

-image-because this is a favorite

I need to look at this today. One of my favorite photo-booth photos ever, combining the beauty of catatonia and madness in one little frame.

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October 18, 2007

-image-blatant loving pressure

I’ve been thinking about this for a while now: My Beloved needs to start a blog. He really really does.

My Hunk of Mountain Hunkyness grew up in a tiny town near the ski resort of Mammoth Mountain, CA. When I first saw the town years ago, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think places like this actually existed anymore: Places with peaceful, tree-lined streets; quaint cottages in yellow and red and blue; picket fences. One main street called Main Street. One high school a couple blocks away. One grade school just down the street. One crazy-eyed red horse staring down from atop a gas station roof. I think it was the rabid horse that first won my city girl’s heart. But as time goes on, something else is happening whenever I’m there. The flow of life there, the close community, the way people are there for each other through thick and thin — these things are seeping into my blood and lodging deep in my heart and making me long for more of them in my life.

And MB grew up with all that, with this kind of Rockwellian childhood full of quirky adventures and mountain escapades all performed on a stage of sagebrush. From time to time he muses to me I might want to try to tell my stories and I always say I really think you should and he’ll say, “Okay … maybe … “ and then I start going on and on about it, most likely, until he’s stifled into silence.

But the stories! They simply must be told. I mean, please: The Joey Baybar Incident? The Amos Yang Hubbub? The Moon Goddess Interlude? The Kitty Lion Tamer Spectacle? Please. Please. They’re gold, Jerry, gold.

MB, I love you. And I love your stories.

Anytime, baby. ANYtime.

August 16, 2007

-image-my man, the poet

Sometime in the last week, somewhere on the drive from here to there:

MB (mumbling): Man, everything is gay! Nothing gold can stay.

Oh. The pain.

November 29, 2006

-image-the drawer of embarrassing photos

We proceed. With My Beloved’s permission, because this one’s about him, not me.

Here he is, the tall, dark, and, uhm, HOT one. Keyboard player for their bitchen high school rock combo. I am not allowed to post the name of said bitchen high school rock combo. There are limits, people, to his love. Whenever I look at this picture, I gaze upon MB with a swoony high school girl’s eyes and then shudder when I realize that, had we known each other back then, we would not have known each other back then. I was a drama geek; he was a super hero of hotness, apparently. I would have been the girl just praying he’d say hi to me in the hall, busily over-analyzing any time he even blinked his eyes in my direction. And he would have been the guy who came to my show, hiding in the back row, because he had to write a report about it for English. (I just read that part to MB and got The Eye Roll.)

Oh, and during rigorous cross-examination regarding the matchy white pants, MB steadfastly claimed there were no “dude, what are you gonna wear” phone calls prior to this seriously rockin’ photo session, no deliberate snub of backwards cap guy. All righty.

But may I say that words cannot express how much the dude in front disturbs me. Please PLEASE cut your taco salad hair bowl. I cannot deal with you. You mar the experience of this photo. And stop looking at us with that look that presumes that we are all enraptured by your taco salad hair bowl.

I have to say I am in love, though, with the TOTALLY EXTREME EARNESTNESS of this bitchen rock combo. Look at them!
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December 6, 2005

-image-li’l mb


(MB, age 3, a little bruiser)

In honor of My Beloved’s birthday week, a favorite story of mine from his childhood:

Li’l MB was about 4 or 5. His mom, a nurse, was called into the hospital on an emergency and dad was at work, too, so Li’l MB and his brother were dashed off to the nearest babysitter: Cecilia Sloan, reluctant wife of Rocky Sloan.

Li’l MB and brother spent the afternoon playing nicely with each other; they were good little boys, well brought up, having a good little day. Cecilia, however, was apparently NOT having a good day. She was getting drunk.

Now, every good little boy, even in the midst of the most riveting afternoon of play, will need a potty break. Some little boys just go behind a bush, barely missing a beat. Other, better boys will stop, go in the house, and do their business. But the very best boys, finding themselves at, oh, say, someone else’s home, will ask permission to go in the house and relieve themselves.

MB, as I have established, was one of the very best boys. And when the need for a potty break presented itself in pressing fashion, he respectfully approached the boozy Cecilia Sloan, reluctant wife of Rocky Sloan.

Now, as the son of a nurse, he had learned the medically correct terms for the body’s vital excretory functions. In MB’s childhood home, there were no such words as “pee” or “poop” or “tinkle” or “wee wee.” And there were ABSOLUTELY no such words as “yellow potty” or “dirty potty,” the descriptive phrases used by Ritchie and Brian, Li’l MB’s troglodytic, melon-headed friends.

No. He and brother were taught to say “urinate” and “defecate.”

So L’il MB approached the sotted Cecilia Sloan:

” ‘Scuse me. I have to defecate.”

“What!?” Cecilia Sloan slurred.

“I have to defecate!”

“What?!? You’re suffocatin’!?”

“NOO-HO! I have to DEFECATE!” Li’l MB’s voice became urgent with need.

“SUFFOCATE!??”

“NOOO-HO!! I HAVE TO DEFECATE!!!”

Poor Li’l MB. He rocked on his heels, desperate, but Cecilia Sloan was soused, pie-eyed … stoned. She could NOT understand him, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he should have said “dirty potty.”

Moments later, mom came to pick up her boys and a hysterical Li’l MB was in dire defecatin’ straits. A groggy Cecilia Sloan blurted:

“HE KEEPS SAYIN’ HE’S SUFFOCATIN’ !!”

Mom narrowed her eyes at silly Cecilia Sloan and looked down at her frantic, dancing boy.

“He’s NOT suffocating,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “He has to defecate!”

“Defecate?!”

Cecilia Sloan wheezed.

“What’s that?!?”

The question trailed in the air behind mom as she marched her poor little pooper home to meet his destiny.

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