Copyright

© 2004-2008

Linda Escaip

 

"I may be grumpy,

but I like you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.

 

 

     Welcome to my journal, lamb-babe.     

 

Sexy Women Doing Yard Work

28-April-2005

12:09 a.m.

 

 

It's been a tragically long time since I last updated. I started hooking again to make ends meet, and it makes me tired. So many busy evenings—I'm just not used to it anymore. I also took up pathological lying during this time away, because everyone needs a hobby. And I need a vacation.

 

And speaking of vacation, I am going to experience that for the first time in 14 years, unless you count those three days in Vegas back in '97, which were nice because I didn't have an ounce of pain for some reason. And I drove there with someone I adore, and cried when I saw how beautiful the moon looked over the mountains in the desert that night. Holy mother of pumpkin pie, I love the desert. Anyway, we're going to Canada this fall and I can't write too much about it because all the joy might make my heart explode. And then where would I put all my love? I will just say that my (imaginary) walking to Canada has paid off, because that's where we're going. And now I feel like I need to go have a run or something because I'm so excited that my heart hurts. (In a good way.)

 

I have been writing songs and feeling very excited about beginning the recording process. Demos are first, so we can get a good idea of how we want the songs to sound. It will be nice to be able to upload them to my iPod, listen, and get ideas while I walk (to Alberta). Oh, my God, Alberta. 

 

I just now got up the nerve to look up Gordon Lightfoot to see if he's still alive. And he is! And that made my heart ache (again, in a good way). I have thought about looking him up for a long while, but always feared I would find out he's no longer here. When I was a kid, I would sneak into my brother's room and abscond with his Gordon record, the one that had on it "The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald." I love his voice. I love his music. I only have one of his albums, which is nothing short of shameful.

 

Somebody just wrote to me and said "you are rare—remember that." My God, I think that's beautiful. I will try to remember.

 

Somebody else keeps saying, "Let me rub you," which sounds kind of sexy if you think about it. But they mean my neck and shoulders, which have been relentlessly cruel these last few weeks. But still, the emphatic "I'm rubbing you before I leave the house" promises are kind of turning me on. Ever since I learned about sex all those years ago, my mind tends to interpret things in a sexy way. But it's not offensive; I'd charm the pants right off you.

 

I learned about sex from a girl named April. She had this stepsister (well, her mom's boyfriend's daughter) who was a few years older than we were, and who was just the sweetest, prettiest thing. I think her name was Molly. She had these beautiful little breasts. I remember seeing them for the first time at April's sleepover birthday party, when we all changed into our pajamas. Later, I asked if I could see them again, because when you're eight, it's OK to ask such a question. She happily obliged, maybe because she knew how beautiful they were and didn't mind showing them off. I couldn't wait to have my own little boobs. I wondered if she knew how lovely and mysterious she was. She liked me. I got to sleep next to her that night on the floor, and felt special because of it.

 

So, my sister and I were down at April's one day. 

 

"Did you know your dad fucked your mom?"

 

Then she said, "I'll prove it," and sauntered into the other room, returning with a book written for children, explaining sex. She showed us some illustrations. Good Lord. 

 

"Yeah, your dad put his thing in your mom's thing."

 

My sister and I were mortified. I can still recall the burning pain I felt in my abdomen.

 

"I saw my mom and her boyfriend doing it in their bed one night when I went in to use their bathroom," she said.

 

"What did it look like?"

 

"They were stuck together."

 

"Just lying there, stuck together?"

 

"Yeah. They were asleep."

 

What I pictured was a couple of naked people, sleeping, stuck together like sticky snails. Well, I was perfectly sickened by the idea of my parents being naked with each other, let alone stuck together like snails. My sister and I decided it was time to march home and demand answers.

 

Our folks were out, so we consulted our teenage brother. 

 

"Did Dad fuck Mom?" 

 

His smile nearly broke his face into a bunch of little pieces. 

 

"You're gonna have to ask Mom and Dad that question."

 

We pleaded. He repeated his statement, smile intact. 

 

When Mom and Dad arrived back home, my sister and I greeted them. They could tell at once we were upset. We needed to talk with them about something very important. It took us a few minutes to get the ball rolling. 

 

Finally, "Dad, did you fuck Mom?" my sister blurted out in an accusatory tone. That's about the time my mom started dishing out the chocolate ice cream. I have to admit, she explained the whole sex process a great deal more lovingly than old April had, but I still didn't want my bowl of ice cream, which is crazy since chocolate is my favourite flavour. Something about the words penis, vagina, and intercourse in the same room with your mom and dad doesn't make for fine ice cream dining. I moved it around with my spoon until it was a soupy mess. I kept my eyes mostly in the bowl.

 

A few days later the questions had piled up. I asked my mom this and that, here and there. One day she was hanging new curtains in the living room. I was watching Christine Lund report some news on the television, but couldn't make out what she was saying. Mom had the radio on; Olivia Newton-John was singing. Mom remarked how much she loved Olivia's voice. I followed her into the bathroom.

 

"What if someone my age were to have sex with someone else my age?"

 

My mom looked at me, horrified.

 

"Well," she said slowly, and after careful consideration added, "they would die. Or else they would get very, very sick." (She doesn't remember saying this, mostly because parents have selective memories.) I felt her fear and knew she was just saying that to prevent me from becoming the town hooker at an early age. Not that I had any interest in having some boy's thing in my thing. Ew. I just wanted to know.

 

The first time a boy kissed me, I was eleven. His name wasn't James but let's call him that anyway since he's in prison now. He and I, along with my sister, Danny (James' brother), and some neighbourhood kids were outside their house one evening playing hide-and-seek. I had a bit of a crush on him; I liked the way he would become soft-spoken and shy whenever we paired up to hide together. The whole evening was just leading up to this kiss—I could sense it. And then we kissed. It was the quickest smooch ever, just an ever-so-curt meeting of our lips. And somehow I had the feeling my life was never going to be the same. 

 

I felt ashamed of myself that evening, the mortification seeping into every pore as I slept. The following morning I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. I put on baggy pants and one shirt after another, and topped this ensemble off with a large, bulky sweater. The idea was to get myself to look as frumpy as possible. I walked sort of hunched over with my hands folded across my chest. If I couldn't erase my floozy-like behaviour from the night before, at least I could make sure no one ever wanted to kiss me again. I went out to the backyard and felt the wind on my face (I probably couldn't feel it through the mounds of torso coverings), hoping it would blow away some of my sinful lust. I pictured myself an old woman who had gone through her life completely virtuous after that one night of passion.

 

The next time a boy kissed me, I was thirteen. He swallowed my head, I am pretty sure of this. It was just awful. We were boyfriend and girlfriend, you know, 'cause he asked me to go with him and I said yes. I don't think people ask each other that question anymore. What do they say now? I have no idea. Anyway, after three sessions of face-swallowing, I decided my next boyfriend wouldn't have a tongue. I found one creative way after another to avoid him after school, which was always when he was ready for some action. Eventually he stopped talking to me and always looked sulky and a little bitter whenever our eyes met. I don't think I ever broke up with him officially. 

 

During that 8th grade year, I kissed many boys. Our drama class cast parties just set the stage for that activity. We'd be drunk from our couple of beers (half a beer in my case) and lips would be locking everywhere. I had kissed a good portion of the guys at school, having to hold tightly to a nearby tree or heavy patio furniture so as not to be sucked up into oblivion. I did not receive a beautiful kiss until the summer before 10th grade at Margo's party. Standing on the sidewalk outside Margo's house, Kevin Miller kissed me, and for the first time I knew why people liked kissing. It was sensitive and warm and sweet and tender. It was like a whisper compared to shouting. And I will always remember it.

 

And now for some of the fascinating things that people looked for on the internet that brought people to this website.

 

eating comet cleanser  You know, I can't recommend that. I snorted it once, at the evil hand of my big brother, and that was no party.

 

enjoy limburger  Clearly, this query was typed into the search box by someone who was in a cheese-liking panic. This guy was at work that day and casually mentioned his fondness for Limburger cheese, an admission at which his co-workers booed and hissed, a few of them making the sign of the cross in the air. They told him he was a foul, dirty beast for enjoying such a pungent, personal cheese. He felt like a loser all day, got home, and typed those words into Google's search page in hopes of finding someone—anyone—who shared his cheese preference, so that he could go to work the next day armed with some website URLs to prove that he isn't the only one.

 

"chris cornell" bisexual  He's not going to sleep with you either way, toots.

 

sexy women doing yard work  Sometimes I just want to weed the yard without having to turn you on at the same time.

 

girl tit  Because guy tit was taken.

 

I'm too sexy  Yeah, you and me both.

 

grumpiest person ever  Oh, don't be such a drama queen. On this site you'll have to settle for the grumpiest girl in the room.

 

tits roasted  Whether they're referring to birds or boobs, I don't want to eat at this person's house.

 

perverts are us  Then you haven't met my Uncle Tulip and my Aunt Sassy. Redefining perversion everywhere. You'll join your local convent after an afternoon with these two.

 

naked midget popping out of cake  I don't do parties anymore.

 

i am your sexy neighbour  Hi. Do you do your own yard work?

 

"twat parade"  I prefer it to the Macy's Parade, I really do. But generally I am not a fan of parades.

 

being happy for others  is nice. And possible. Even though some people would have you believe otherwise.

 

"things you didn't know about me"  I have no tattoos. I like Limburger, especially on Ritz crackers, the way I used to enjoy it at my grandparents' house with a tall glass of my grandma's iced tea. Miles Davis Kind of Blue is one of my favourite albums.

 

"I was a virgin until"  that bizarre accident in the cucumber aisle.

 

what does it mean when your boob itches  It means you will soon acquire a new bra. Enjoy.

 

 


Quote From My World

 

"My beans are none of your business."

 


 

 

Well, I'm off to Goooooooogle myself. And no, you can't watch. Thanks for reading.

 

Linda

 

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