Effin' Black Cloud

Swear to god I have an effin' black cloud hanging over me. Effin' being my chosen focus today, since that black cloud part (heavy with vehicular and computer cumulonimbus) mostly just makes me cry crazy.

Quick interjection of disclaimer:  He-Who-Put-Effin'-in-the-Dictionary (my beloved pops), says I should refrain from using the "eff" word on my blog so as not to turn off my readers. But really, if my effin' language isn't controversial enough to turn off some of my readers, I'm probably not trying hard enough, right?

So here is my Fragrant Liar take on this beloved of cuss words (usage here in deference to Daddy-O), including two valuable effin' rules that apply to all ages, but primarily those over 18 or who can run really fast from the 'rents brandishing bar soap (Good luck with that there deterrent, pappy):

Effin' is a word that, when used properly, makes me smile because I know the user is that passionate. But properly is the operative caveat, meaning (1) effin' must be used in its native form and (2) effin' must modify something of gravitas, like the aforementioned black cloud.

Effin', in its native form, foreshadows the really bad, messy, majorly serious shit to follow. It makes me get behind your cause/rant/hullaballoo and say, "YEAH! Oh hell to the yeah!"

Effin', in its prettified-minimized-bastardized form, just leaves the concept that it's modifying, well, limp. Flaccid. Impotent. Frankly, it gives me enough pause to say, "Yeah . . . no, you may as well not even drag that effin' thing out cuz it shows you don't really mean it, you're not committed, or you respect total strangers way too much to say what you really feel."

Therefore, the real Fragrant Liar wishes to rephrase the earlier premise of this post:  I have a fucking black cloud with my name on it—all for another post, another day.
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French Lick

I don't understand why it's important for a dog to kiss you (or more succinctly, lick you) right IN the mouth.

Yes, I do have a dog to keep me company. A 9-ish-year-old husky-shepherd mix named Max who gets quite amused at my commando romping. Or maybe he's just wagging that tail in anticipation of any ice cream that drops so he can slurp it up. He is definitely a fan of Rocky Road and Yanni, but frankly I think he prefers Pralines and Cream with a rockin' dose of Daughtry. So, just for Max, I switch off according to my mood. It's the difference between my affinity for flowing dark hair on a man versus completely bald and bad-boy sexy, both of which are integral to a man's do-ability quotient, and therefore infinitely important. There, I said it.

Max was my sister's dog. Since my sister passed 20 months ago, Max has been making the rounds with family. We all love him, though we all have very busy and sometimes chaotic lives that make living with a bigger dog more difficult. He is now my companion for awhile.

But Max likes me a little too much sometimes, as evidenced by his attempts to not only kiss me on the mouth French style, but also to climb his big ass onto the couch to sit on my lap, sniff at my heels from room to room, and, naturally, to shove his nose in my crotch.

Why? WHY do dogs do this? And do I want to know?

Sitting out by the pool this morning, Max came up beside me. As I turned and said hello, he stuck his tongue in my mouth.

Ick! Ew!

I have dumped guys—some I haven't even dated yet—for that very thing.

Max then let his tongue hang out, panted a few beats, and laid his head on my lap. Like, Ain't no thang, baby.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I may, in fact, have all the man I need—without those annoying fights over True Blood, jaunts with the boys to Hooters, and immature chuckling over farting in public. I admit, not many men like those traits in a girl. Max, he's just happy to be with me.

If only he could afford me.
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Alone and Naked with Yanni

I just got home after five days in Hotlanta where I visited my daughter and her husband, my beloved Miss America, Destructo, and Baby Shaboobka (See pic to the right. Note how helpful Miss America is at getting a cranky Destructo to smile). On walking through the door in Florida, I was slammed in the face with the realization that I don't like living alone. In fact, other than the delicious freedom to run around naked with ice cream and listening to Yanni full blast, it sucks, yo.

So thank you very much, children of mine, for growing up and turning out all independent and well-adjusted and smart and wonderful, and replicatin' yer bad selves with angels. Apparently my efforts to make you clingy and dependent and servile have failed miserably, and now you've gone and left me ALONE. You know how I hate doing my own laundry. I didn't raise you to be so cruel!

Oh, I hear what you're thinking people (because you know the code of support among bloggers). "Wow, Fragrant Liar should be happy. After all, she was an astonishingly mind-blowing single mother who singlehandedly raised FOUR DAUGHTERS."

I know! The horrormones! The horrormones! Pity me.

And this, in keeping with the code of support, no doubt: "That Fragrant Liar, she is the maternal model of sainthood. Her kids actually still like her! Praise Prozac."

I know! Even my parents adore me (after the dog)! I totally can't help it.

Oh but please, I'm much too modest to take ALL the credit. The girls did, after all, have a sperm donor. I think he donated elsewhere, too, so he does have a smidge of generosity. Yes, it's in his pants. But you have to give him credit. His strategy for never paying child support or calling or sending birthday cards or showing up worked brilliantly.

I know! The girls lucked out and got the "Oh yeah?" snotty gene from me. In spite of being fatherless, they RAWK!

Alas, I am still here on my own, lamenting how far away my kids are and how living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. But until I meet someone who thinks I'm as extraordinary as I do (Shhh! Don't forget the code!), I guess I will just have to make due with Yanni.

Aw, it's okay. It's Rocky Road day.
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Alive and Croaking

One of the coolest things about living in Florida, if you're a nature girl like me, are the frogs and toads. The croakers thrive in my 'hood, and I hear them, en masse, every evening and early morning. Because the sound can get so overwhelming--like millions of crickets quacking--I thought this cute "little" guy pictured to the left HAD to be one of many singing out in the woods behind my house. But he's not; this Goliath is in Cameroon or something, worrying about things that go grrrrr in the night, including the two-legged African plaidypuss. Heh. No, my house is situated among entire colonies of small-fries. They hop along beside me when I venture outside. It's kinda cool.

Recently, Mom and I went to brunch at the Speckled Butterbean, a really cute spot with all manner of rooster decor. The place offers home cooking and an all-you-can-eat buffet with the usual fare of potatoes, veggies, and frog legs.

Er, what?!

Yeah, frog legs. Lots of them. Just look at their little bodies, severed in half, muscular legs intact, dusted in cornmeal and deep fried and tossed into a vat with their little cracks staring up at you. Appetizing?

I could only imagine the ones in my back yard, calling to each other in their nightly revelry, ignorant of the dangers and just happy to be alive and croaking. Kind of like teenagers, warts and all.

I told myself, Be adventurous. Be brave. For god's sake, you eat chicken legs, don't you? You've eaten rattler and buffalo balls before. Just try it! So, I picked up the tongs and helped myself to amphibious dark meat.

As I set it on my plate, I recalled the frog legs Dad served up when I was a very young, impressionable kid. Back then, I only took a nibble, because after watching Dad swing the little froggy by its webbed feet and smacking its head on a boulder, my big girl panties dissolved into diapers. Yeah, thanks Dad. I'm only traumatized for the rest of my life, but, er, yum.

So here's the little guy on my plate with the brisket and peas and sweet potatoes, surrounded by gingham. His little legs look like they're in mid-jump, don't they? And his itty bitty hiney is staring up at me. Like the lower half of a Ken doll I once knew.

Perhaps I'm a closet vegetarian.

Anyway, I felt bad for the little guy's demise and that his sacrifice had been in vain. But I could not eat him, could not be the indiscriminate carnivore I was raised to be. People, my flesh-eating proclivities had been swamped by a small-fry that croaked.
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Spilling It

And now for something more serious . . .

I felt sickened all over again after reading Liberality's post about the Gulf oil spill and watching the video. The feeling of helplessness in the face of this disaster permeates my psyche, because no matter how aware we are of the realities of drilling's impact, my bet is that nothing much will change the way we do business with oil companies nor the partnerships we tacitly endorse between the biggest domestic and foreign corporations and our government. Our collective voices aren't loud enough, our wills for change aren't angry enough, and our national resolve is therefore just plain impotent.

The video is powerful, but you don't have to watch it to tell me what you think. What has to happen before new, clean technologies that can't harm our planet and the life it gives us will be the only legal technologies we allow? When will we say enough is enough with oil?

This disaster has already affected all living things for generations to come, and it's possible we will not see the entire impact of it in our lifetimes. This weekend as we celebrate our Independence Day, it feels right and patriotic to express how much I don't want my country to be polluted and devastated by oil slicks or slick corporations trying to cover their collective asses before Congress. Somebody, please put a boom up around Capitol Hill.

So thanks for indulging my rant. It's not a political statement; it's just commentary from a concerned American. And an Earthling. Otherwise, Happy Fourth of July, peeps.
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