TastyTrixie.com

Archive for August, 2009

My sister came over this weekend with our nephews to spend a couple of nights. I figured we’d still be able to get work done when they went out on Saturday for a community event, which of course I would NOT go to. Because work is SO much more important, sitting here in front of the computer, working while I can literally feel the muscles and skin and hold-it-together-stuff in my thighs and ass breaking down into gobs of useless jello while I workworkwork.

But when my three year old nephew looked at me and asked in that hopeful and slightly anxiety-riddled voice if I was coming WITH them to the fair, I COULD NOT SAY NO. Even though I got about four hours less sleep than I usually do, waking up at 6:30ish which is unheard of for me (yeah, I know, you’re like, “cry me a river” but I also often stay up working until midnight, one, two am . . . anyway).

So I put some clothes on and we went and immediately I was glad I came with them when I heard the band warming up. A very filled-out community marching-type of band! We got there just in time and everything turned to magic for me, because it’s all about the kids and the music and being able to walk around the people playing their instruments and look at them from all angles and point to all of it, naming the instruments and using my Excited Kindergarten Teacher Voice! I have one of those, believe it or not, that comes very naturally to me.

We got behind the band, next to the lady drummers, and I picked him up so he could see the conductor, and I marched and danced and swayed with him in my arms to Sousa marches and Blue Moon. They were old people and little kids and a bagpiper a block away and I remembered how much I love being around regular people making music, how vital it is to dance and make noise.

I love doing new or not-done-lately things that make my body make sense. There are lots of those things: running really fast when you’re in decent shape and feeling yourself turn into an almost-flying machine, fucking, getting massages . . . and holding a baby or a child. Everything that’s soft and loose and floppy about me makes perfect SENSE. I felt so grounded and connected, and so sad when Mr. Squishypants was too shy to try to hula hoop on the street in front of everyone, but because I was an auntie on an excursion with them I didn’t exist the way I would have if we’d gone there alone, so *I* hooped and finally got to feel exactly how awesome those weighted hula hoops I’ve been coveting are.

Because I’m not used to picking up and holding anything heavier than the stupid ideas in my head, I went to bed last night with sore, cramping arms and a feeling in my torso like the rocking sensation when you get off a boat after a day of sailing; I could still feel baby Skywalker snuffling against and squirming and pawing at my chest, the embodiment of the word “dimples”, like a round gelatinous ghost-bubble encasing the IDEA of grinning-baby-kicking-in-shallow-bath and cute-baby-kittens-at-play was against me.

*****

On the same day as all the fun, we also had some crazy stuff happen. Our dog got all tangled up and stuck on her rope down the hill IN THE MIDDLE OF A YELLOW JACKET’S NEST. It was crazy-scary and I’m so glad it wasn’t worse AND that my sister was here to help. Poor Mr. Squish was semi-traumatized by all the hubbub with us telling him to STAY INSIDE AND NOT MOVE while we ran around like crazy with the bees swarming in in clouds. It was horrifying seeing our dog trying to get away from them, not able to let her into the house while they stung and stung and stung her around the muzzle. I’m really surprised that Delia, who rescued the dog, didn’t get it worse (amazingly, no stings on her face or neck, but her arm is swollen up and we won’t be shooting pics of her ass until the stings she got there are gone).

Later, while we waited for a parade, a guy came down the street trying to get signatures for a petition (which I doubt will do any good) for the public insurance option. An asshole next to us got up in the guy’s face about it, and my sister (who is a nurse) in turn got up in HIS face. So we spent about twenty minutes doing our civic duty, fighting with this stranger. While we ganged up on him, tears welled up in poor Mr. Squishypants’ eyes just from watching the angry exchange.

It probably was all for nothing, but I hope we gave that guy something to think about.

For the record, even though I voted for him I never thought Obama would do anything to fix health care. I still don’t, and suspect whatever half-assed efforts are made will only be counterproductive to eventually getting real universal health care in this country. And no, I don’t want to have a big argument about it in the comments, thank you very much. But here’s a news flash: EVERYONE NEEDS HEALTH CARE, and “insurance” isn’t an effective way of taking care of people’s basic health care needs. And personally? I believe EVERYBODY deserves quality health care and that it’s inexcusable for a wealthy country like ours not to make sure EVERYBODY has it. A non-profit public insurance plan isn’t my idea of the perfect solution, but I do think it’s better than nothing. I don’t think the way they’re trying to go about it is equitable, but whatever.

*****

As happy as I am to see my sister and the kids, I’m always relieved (though sad) to see them go.

We’re now going back to normal, logging all our spycams back in (we pretty much only have our office cams up when they’re here), turning the audio back on, and, as usual, wishing we all lived closer so I could get smaller doses of that on a more regular basis. I need to do some push-ups so I’m stronger next time, because our nephews are only going to get bigger and I want to be able to dance with them in my arms and pick them up and cuddle them as long as possible.

Just checking in to say I’m alive with lots of fun, exciting things, and challenging stuff going on. Well, fun, exciting, and challenging TO ME. Most of it wouldn’t translate into great blog reading, some of it I can’t post in the kind of detail that makes it worth your time, and mostly I’m just trying to get some other stuff done.

I was going to post some pictures along with this to make it more interesting, but blogger doesn’t want to let me. And I don’t have extra time to do workarounds, so . . . later.

I know the blog still looks like crap and has a bunch of unfinished stuff. I have a new plan for attacking that, though, and am working on it now, along with 497 other things.

Note to people who’ve emailed me recently or in the past and haven’t heard back yet: it’s not you, it’s me. FOR REAL. And you’re not alone. It’s just extremely rare for me to have the spare computer time and enough brain power to communicate coherently, even when it’s something that seems (and maybe IS) really simple. Better people with bigger brains (and asses that don’t fall asleep after sitting at the computer as many hours as I do) might be able to do it, but I’m not one of them. I have been known, however, to respond to email even when it’s many years old, so I hope you don’t plan on changing your email address.

I went on a google adventure and discovered a guy who loves enormous clits and uses the word “hermaphrodite” to describe women endowed with them. That’s his definition of hermaphrodite: women with prominent clits. It was all worth being exposed to his weird-ass opinion, though, because I got to see a photo of Linda Might, “The Queen of Clits”, who I’d never heard of before.

Jesus, I’d love to have myself a three-inch clitoris.

Anyway, I can’t stop thinking about all of this hermaphrodite bullshit and wishing I could grasp EXACTLY what is so fucked up about these rumours (and people’s responses to them) and articulate that fucked-upedness accurately.

I can’t stop thinking about being in our local candle store and hearing three people engaged in a discussion about Ann Coulter in which one person “informed” the other two that Coulter was “born a man”. Yeah, she’s a tranny! The two women gasped, one declared she’d always SUSPECTED as much, the other asked if he was SURE . . . and he WAS. He was SO FUCKING SURE. He insisted it was true. He backed it up with things he’d heard on Air America.

I wanted to interrupt and tell them they were wrong, but went home to check JUST IN CASE. Because there also seems to be something wrong with just ASSUMING those tales are false. Is it a growing acceptance/awareness (or heightened fear/paranoia/continued ignorance) of transgender that fuels these bullshit stories? Is it just a contemporary expression of misogyny / new way to express or justify hatred and disgust of genetic women people find contemptible or disturbingly sexy (ex. Jamie Lee Curtis)? Maybe, but there’s a weird ambiguity about the way a lot of people talk about these urban legends, like teenagers who WANT to believe in ghosts. One part wishful thinking, one part pure bullshit, and another part pure fear.

Standing in the store I mostly just listened even though they said some stupid shit that made me want to say, “HEY — my girlfriend is transsexual; maybe you should watch what kind of moronic crap you let stream out of your mouth in front of strangers.” Instead I called the store after I got home and verified that the Ann Coulter as Tranny story IS INDEED a myth, told them WRONG. But that seemed to miss the point, too. Even if she HAD been born with a dick, that doesn’t explain her away or make sense of her. That knowledge, if it were true and we could attain it, wouldn’t somehow put her in her place the way people seem to want it to.

Oh well. I’m sure more brilliant minds than mine have got this sorted out and published somewhere with a lot of fancy words and complicated double-talk that will never do anything to help make the average American get it. Someday maybe it will all get straightened out, but in the meantime women-who-confuse-us are the new Richard Geres and Rod Stewarts, with bellies full of cow semen and hamsters up the ass. The tabloids have proof that Obama’s birth certificate is a fake, and we think if only someone would publish that photo of an infant Ann Coulter sporting a pre-op malignant penis, we could win this argument!.

Last night one of our long-time voyeurs emailed me about how hot Lady Gaga is and how he can’t stop watching her Poker Face video and oh yeah, did you know “she has a pussy and a cock”?

No, actually I didn’t know that Lady Gaga has a pussy and a cock. And I assumed the guy who told me that had just taking those hideous YouTube comments too seriously (the ones that say “she’s a man”, “she’s a nigger”, “she’s ugly”, “she has no talent” and/or “she’s an ugly talentless nigger man”). Note: I don’t understand why these record companies WON’T allow you to embed their videos but they’ll let any jackass post whatever horrifying, distorted, insulting, ignorant shit they want in comments.

So our fan emailed me back with a recent post on Gawker with a video showing what looks like a flaccid unit between her legs. And apparently she’s confirmed the rumors herself. It seems pretty unlikely, but who really knows how many intersex people there are out there? Why would I assume she ISN’T? And on a related note, just because someone looks all-white, doesn’t mean they ARE “all” white. Not that I’m defending people hurling racial slurs at someone because that’s the worst they can come up with in their unimaginative racist minds to disparage a successful young woman (along with being ugly, being man-like, trannyish, or whatever) — I’m not defending that, just pointing out that coming back at those slurs with, “nuh-uh! Like, obviously she’s TOTALLY WHITE!!” might not be the best response to that stupidity.

Whatever the case may be, I have more interest in her than ever before after watching this video. I assumed it was just a fake weiner/publicity stunt, but she sounds totally serious in this quotation (which I can’t help suspecting is fake, too – everyone’s quoting it, but no one is citing an original media source):

“It’s not something that I’m ashamed of, just isn’t something that I go around telling everyone,” she said. “Yes. I have both male and female genitalia, but I consider myself a female. It’s just a little bit of a penis and really doesn’t interfere much with my life.

“The reason I haven’t talked about it is that it’s not a big deal to me. Like come on. It’s not like we all go around talking about our vags. I think this is a great opportunity to make other multiple gendered people feel more comfortable with their bodies. I’m sexy, I’m hot. I have both a poon and a peener. Big fucking deal.”

Of course, Delia has known all about this forever now, I guess, because she’s always surfing the “tranny” boards but it was news to me. Still can’t say I love her music, but after this and her most recent performance on American Idol which indicated she DOES actually have musical talent in addition to being a showman, I guess I have a mini-crush . . . and I hope that she is, in fact, a black hermaphrodite so I can celebrate her breaking boundaries for all the other discofried black hermaphrodites waiting in the wings.

The good news: yesterday we got out into the woods to shoot a set of pictures (eventually I took this dress off):

Today I have a set of pictures to post for members of me wearing cowboy boots, which I’m looking forward to sharing.

We also have webcam shows scheduled tonight and tomorrow, as well as a members-only chat.

Now for some of the annoying news:

*One of the webcam networks disconnected our access, but don’t worry, you can still get in a couple of different ways to see Delia’s show tonight. I will alter the page to tell members how. There are, however, a number of good reasons why my approach to dealing with that problem further are complicated. Not for you to worry about, even though blogging about it would make an interesting read — I’ll have to continue to bite my tongue for a few months or years longer.

*Ever since Twitter got attacked early yesterday, I haven’t been able to tweet as TastyTrixie or SpyOnUs. Not via text/my phone, not on our main cable connection, and not on our DSL connection. For some reason, Delia’s twitter account is working just fine, though. I *am* able to post tweets through blip.fm, though. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it’s driving me insane. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve to try to get it working, but honestly – there’s a limit to how much time I can spend dealing with one fucking tribulation at a time.

*When I added more spycams, it broke some of them. The microphone on the NightVision cam (formerly known as “ballroom”) is no longer reliably working, and my alternate method of connection to that cam using a different microphone also mysteriously died even after I tried reinstalling the software and other things. I guess the only solution at this point is to buy another microphone. In the meantime, you can still hear bedroom audio (though probably not as well) on the “MoreBed” and “BedroomDesk” cam. When they’re not crapped out. Which they tend to be at inopportune times.

*****

Anyway, little problems like that drive me batshit. I hate to admit how easily frustrated I get with those little unanticipated pinches of obstacality(?), but I do, especially when I’m in the middle of feeling bogged down and incompetent with larger projects (namely redesigning, like, all of our sites and most importantly helping get DeliaTS.com off the ground; I feel like it should be easy but all these design projects are just sucking out my life force). But of course as soon as I get through them, maybe we’ll be a few steps closer to being able to HIRE people to do the parts of design we can’t/don’t want to do. At least, I pray to motherfucking god that will be the case.

I plan on enjoying a lovely and orgasmic show tonight, though, and I hope to make a new sexy show music mix to inspire me. See you there?

I went on a little field trip by myself today, and happened across this fucktastic hillbilly head shop:

You can get almost anything there: firewood, dildos, giant bongs, blow-up sex dolls, gay wanker mags (I bought one as a thanks for letting me take these pics . . . and because I really enjoy gay wanker mags), swords, patriotic novelties, and old issues of Playboy that should be in protective sleeves, but instead are gathering dust in layers of MEASURABLE thickness (I *so* wanted to rescue the one with Dolly Parton on the cover).

Even though the place stank of mildew and old carpeting stained with Sheltie poop and pee, I seriously fucking loved it there especially when I heard, then spotted, the fucking police scanner:

I just have a thing for police scanners. Don’t know why I don’t have one. Anyway, there’s also a stuffed parrot of porn watching out for things along with a dude who worked there (he was kind of cute but I thought it would be asking a bit much to take his picture and post it here):

There was also a thin, grizzled hang-around guy there who got a little boisterous when I popped in. A couple good-looking, fresh-smelling locals also popped in to get some porn so the place is obviously doing business since I wasn’t there very long. After I left, the hang-around guy wearing the straw cowboy hat followed me back out to my car to say, “boy! You SURE are cute!” then captioned himself by mumbling with concentration, “little hat trick for ya . . .” as he tossed it into the air and juggled it around with a flourish as a special little show for me. Much appreciated, hang-around dude.

Here I am on the security camera, standing basically two inches from the counter. Obviously surveillance is a fetish at this place, which I *totally* understand (and is only one of 100 reasons why I didn’t visit the restroom there):

All the way home I scripted a movie in my head to shoot there and wished we had money to pay to shoot it (including paying not only to rent the place, but to have it professionally cleaned inside without losing ALL of the personality/flavor). Actually, whenever we make the trip to this particular loggerific town I always wind up using the time on the road to script porno movies. The last one was so funny I kept laughing out loud and confirming for Delia that her girlfriend is a crazy person. She didn’t go with me today, though, so I got to be crazy all by myself and go places she would rather avoid like the hillbilly head/sex shop and this geeky place.

Here are a couple more shots of the joint to give you a better idea of the scope of their patriotism and firewood-selling enterprise:

Instead of having the wood bundles stacked in one area, they’ve created a car maze & parking-lot border out of individual bundles arranged in lines, with each bundle labeled with a price and the name of the tree it came from (not name like “Tom” or “Cindy”, but Red Cedar, Douglas Fir, etc.):

I just enjoy seeing people making a modest and dirty living combining everything they love. Like, FUCK you! I’m going to let my dog come to work with me and rub it’s dirty ass all over the carpet while I get high in the back room and show off my ninja sword to my buddies!! Are you sure you don’t need a cord of wood to go with that? LET’S SPRAY PAINT THE SINGLE-WIDE RED, WHITE AND BLUE!!! GodDAMN I love this country!!