muffy bolding

Sometimes I post stuff to make a point or get a rise or a belly laugh. And then sometimes I post stuff just because it makes me extraordinarily happy.

This is that.

Mr. Charles Tumbridge rides his scooter through the streets of London, with his beloved dog, Susie, in the sidecar, 1962.

THAT’S A LITTLE BABY!

Once upon a time when my kids were still small and I still lived in Fresno and was still married to a beautiful, young boy who liked ice hockey, Nascar, Coors Light, and shooting large hunting rifles at small woodland creatures, our little family had dinner one Friday evening at Denny’s. I know it was a Friday because if we wanted to eat out, we had to wait until Friday when he got his paycheck from his job as a welder so that we could pay for it. I was a stay-at-home mommy who liked typing things, reading books about Anne Sexton, eating marinated artichoke hearts with my fingers, and dreaming of a life far, far away from the orchards and fields that quite literally surrounded our tiny, little farmhouse with The Too-Yellow Kitchen.

As per our usual, my husband was eating a cheeseburger and fries, the girls were eating grilled cheese sammies and vegetable soup, and because Hunter was still a baby, I ate my own dinner — spaghetti and meatballs — with my right hand, while nursing him on my left. Young, working-class, Fresno family HEAVEN.

A few minutes into our meal, a trio of strapping, handsome, young men — like late 20’s — came in and sat down in the booth right behind me. All three were wearing brown UPS uniforms and seemed really happy that it was Friday. They ordered a couple of platters of nachos from the waitress, and cold beers to wash them down. As we ate and laughed and talked about our week, they ate and laughed and talked about theirs. They were in great spirits, looking forward to a weekend of lying on the couch, watching Fresno State football, and fucking their girlfriends.

As the beers multiplied and the jovial, celebratory conversation progressed, the language turned saltier and saltier, with “fucking this” and “motherfucking that” being liberally peppered throughout with pretty much no concern for volume nor present company. They were having a GREAT TIME…without a care in the world. As it should be when you are young and everything is still new and exciting and filled with endless possibilities — especially a goddamned weekend for which you have been package-delivering, dog-dodging, and straight-gunning for five days straight in 100+ degree heat.

As I eavesdropped on the big boy banter behind me, my wicked brain kicked into gear. I unpopped my infant son’s pink mouth from my pink nipple, stared a 1000 yard stare through the refrigerated pie case…and smirked the timeless smirk of A Jackal.

And so, we finished our chow, gathered our babies, grabbed our check off the table…and as myself, my husband, and our three gorgeous larvae passed their table, I paused, took a deep breath, mustered up all the moral outrage that I was able, and turned to confront the boys in brown. I stood there staring at them, my baby son perched on my left hip, and said in a soft, Southern accent dripping with righteous indignation, like I was channeling the awesome Piper Laurie in “Carrie” — a voice that I had not even planned on using and which came from out of nowhere:

“Yes, I just wanted to stop and meet the three gentlemen who ruined our lovely dinner with their loud, vulgar language. My husband works hard all week to support our little family, a family that I stay home with so that they might be raised by the mother who brought them into this world, instead of some step-stranger with bootcut sideburns, roadhouse whiskey on his breath, and roamin’ fingers, like I was. So, consequently, we can only afford one dinner out a month here at Denny’s, our favorite family restaurant by the freeway…and I just want to let you boys know that you completely ruined it. My children have have never, ever heard such vile verbiage in their entire young Christian lives. What you have done here this evening is both a moral and ethical outrage. And furthermore, not only have you disrupted our one family meal out with your profanity, drunkenness, and just general carryin’ on, but you have done so whilst wearing the proud uniform of your noble employer. I am sure that you will all be glad to know that I have taken the liberty of copying down the license plate numbers from your trio of brown trucks parked outside — and I shall be contacting UPS first thing Monday morning to report your unconscionable, disgraceful, godless behavior whilst publicly representing their fine corporation. Your asses are mine, boys. Good evening…and may god have mercy on your souls.”

The looks on all three of their faces simply cannot be described. The absolute TERROR that I saw in their eyes was seriously indescribable. They were so shocked and horrified that they just sat there, beers in mid-pull, mouths agape. I sensed buttholes puckering all around.

I moved from face to face, glaring the best Almira Gulch grimace I could muster. And, then, suddenly, I flashed them a dazzling smile, tossed my head to one side, waved one flaming hand in the air like Charles Nelson-Reilly on Match Game, snapped my fingers, worked my neck, and said, “Naaah. I was just fuckin’ witcha.”

It took a moment for it to register, but when it did, the whooping and hollering and belly laughter of relief was EPIC.

“HOLY SHIT…YOU TOTALLY FUCKING HAD US GOING!”

“Oh, my god, lady…you scared the living shit out of us! We thought we were fired for sure!”

“Dude, seriously…I THINK I MY SHORTS MIGHT BE AS BROWN ON THE INSIDE AS THEY ARE ON THE OUTSIDE.”

And then one of them — a tall, blond, corn-fed boy with a sweet face who looked rather like an Austrian shotputter — was apparently so overjoyed and so relieved, that he actually stood up from the table, picked both me and my baby son up in his BUTCH, PACKAGE-CHUCKIN’ ARMS, and spun us around in the air, like we were all in an alpine dance number on the side of a mountaintop with the fucking Family VonTrapp.

May Maud bless and protect all those who wear brown and bravely deliver our trinkets, treats, and treasures — through rain, heat, sleet, snow…and CRAZY BITCHES LIKE THIS:

Honey, I got news for all my Privileged White Feminist Sisters out there who are thus far UNBELIEVABLY unaware/occluded/in denial/in contempt of this reality:

As we forge onward into the 21st Century, without Intersectionality…Feminism is COMPLETELY MEANINGLESS.

UTTER HORSESHIT.

Political/Cultural/Liberal MASTURBATION.

FUCKED.

So, now…our task, as enlightened, dedicated Feminists, is to quit talkin’ about it…and JUST DO IT. 

“Intersectionality is an awkward word representing an important idea. While feminism is the belief that the rights of women are as inalienable as the rights of men, feminism, at its best, is so much more. No one assumes only one identity. We cannot consider the needs of women without also accounting for race, ethnicity, gender, citizenship, class, sexuality, ability and more. Such nuanced awareness, such intersectionality, is the marrow within the bones of feminism. Without it, feminism will fracture even further.” — Roxane Gay, NPR

Happy what would have been your 93rd birthday last week, Hank Bukowski — from another trashy, profane, working class shit who has no choice in the matter, either.

I recently read that in your poem, “no eulogies, please”, you wrote you’d much prefer it if people didn’t patronize your relative merits and worth after your death, but instead hoped that, upon your passing, one of your many ex-lovers would saunter out in a tight dress, high heels, and too much make-up and announce to the world that, “he really was a great fuck, after all.” Goddamnit, Hank, you were my kind of guy.

You are inarguably the best writer to ever come out of Los Angeles — this magnificent, fiendish place that I now call home. Make no mistake…you changed my goddamned life, old man. Your words showed me that even when you hail from deplorable, felonious places like we come from, it can still be done — and everyday I wake up and think of shitkickers like you seducing the world with your language and with your heart…and I smile to myself and just fucking get to it.

From you I learned that miracles exist everywhere, all ripe for the plucking…even for teenage brides from Fresno, California. Thank you for that.

Oh, and I’d bet my life that you were an extraordinary fuck, Mr. Bukowski; I bet you were the kind of guy who, when he fucked a woman, she stayed fucked.

For a broad like me, I can offer you no greater tribute.

Happy Birthday, old man…and Requiescat in Pace.

60 yard pass

by Charles Bukowski

most people don’t do very well and I get discouraged with
their existence, it’s such a waste: all those
bodies, all those lives
malfunctioning: lousy quarterbacks, bad waitresses, in-
competent carwash boys and presidents, cowardly
goal-keepers
inept
garage mechanics
bumbling tax accountants and
so forth

yet

now and then

I see a single performer doing something with a
natural excellence

it

can be
a waitress in some cheap cafe or a 3rd string
quarterback
coming off the bench with 24 seconds on the clock
and completing that winning
60 yard pass

which lets me believe that
the possibility of the miracle is here with us
almost every day

and I’m glad that now and then
some 3rd string quarterback
shows me the truth of that belief
whether it be in science, art, philosophy,
medicine, politics, and/or etc.

else I’d shoot all the lights out of
this fucking city
right now

All Zaftig Knitters: Hey, real quick mini-survey. Does anybody else out there occasionally use their GUNT as a needle holder whilst knitting…or is it just me? Thanks!

ALL HAIL THE FAB CASS!

Yes, yes, yes…I know that you are awesome, passionate, opinionated, and committed — but as the fabulous Beth Ditto says, “I think anyone who’s an activist but doesn’t own up to their contradictions is not doing anyone a favor.” My fearless, ballsy, in-your-face fatass agrees with her fearless, ballsy, in-your-face fatass wholeheartedly. OWN YOUR SHIT…or GET THE FUCK ON DOWN THE ROAD.

So, are you a Democrat who is a proud, card-carrying member of the NRA? Or, are you a radically pro-choice Christian Republican? In what ways do you veer from the particular political ideology with which you most strongly identify, whether it be Liberal, Conservative, Independent, or otherwise? It can be a belief, a bias, a practice, a tendency, a schism within, a flaw. Speak your truth — or SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Call it, Bitches.

And to get you started…here’s one of my very own SHAMEFUL, FATAL-FLAW, CHARACTER CONTRADICTIONS for you to ponder and judge:

This here FIERCE RADICAL FEMINIST you see typing before you…wants to TRIGGER FUCK this ARROGANT, ABUSIVE, ENTITLED, SEXIST, CLASSIST, CONDESCENDING, MISOGYNISTIC, DEAD-SEXY PRICK into next week.

Always have.

ALWAYS WILL.

Two decades ago, I purposely, and with GREAT ponderance, bestowed upon my second daughter the name Anne, in honor of three astounding Annes whose presence in this world changed my life:

The brilliant, hilarious, fearless actress, Anne Bancroft.

The gorgeous, velvety, wise, bonafide, New England brunette, Anne Welles, in “Valley of the Dolls”.

And the most EXTRAORDINARY, BLOW THE TOP OFF YOUR FUCKING HEAD, NATURALLY-GIFTED POET I HAVE EVER READ, Anne Sexton. 

I named the beautiful baby I grew in my body, Anne. For Bancroft. For Welles. But, most of all, for Sexton, so that I could infuse her with Anne’s brilliance and humor and insight and raise her how Anne SHOULD HAVE BEEN raised. How she DESERVED to have been raised. So that — speaking in the lofty language of my wildly poetic, metaphorical, and delusional youth — Anne might have a second chance for The Universe to finally get it right: A childhood without FUCKING HORRORS BOTH UNSPEAKABLE AND UNIMAGINABLE.

If there be any truth whatsoever to the myth I wove and the spell I cast that day in the Summer of 1991 — standing over my newborn daughter’s isolette in Fresno, California, filling out the initial official paperwork of her brandly-new life — it is this:

That now, at age 22, she is an astonishing young woman poised on the brink of her entire marvelous, shimmering existence that stretches out endlessly before her — the astonishing young woman that I, myself, always wanted to be…but, perhaps because of my own demons, danger, and damage from the past, simply could not. She is FIERCE, FEARLESS, FOCUSED, and, best of all, UPROARIOUSLY FUNNY. I did okay, goddamnit. I got it right. For Anne.

And, for Anne.

And, Knitter PLEASE…Ol’ Peter Gabriel — possessor of no necessary birthing bits himself — merely wrote her a goddamned song.

But, OH, WHAT AN AWESOME SONG THAT IT IS.

“So, Edith, tell me…have you ever felt suicidal?”

“You’re asking me if I have ever felt suicidal?”

“Yes, I am. Why are you smiling? Is that a funny question to you?”

“Funny. Yes. And the answer to your funny question is yes, Dr. Lowell, I have felt suicidal. In fact, I am feeling suicidal right now. Right now, as I am sitting here in your mauve office speaking these words aloud to you, I am feeling suicidal. I felt suicidal when I was brushing my teeth this morning, and I will feel suicidal when I am brushing my teeth tonight. Feeling suicidal is such an integral part of who I am and how I move through this world, that I could literally sit here and continue sipping this delicious, icy cold bottle of water and enjoying your air conditioning, your muzak, and our lovely conversation…or, just as easily, pick up this chair, chuck it through that fucking window right there, and French kiss the sidewalk seven stories below us — without a single change in my expression, demeanor, or pulse. For me, one choice is just the same as the other. I would feel nothing…except, of course, the concrete…and the very distinct awareness that my last moments in this world were spent looking exactly like a Tex Avery cartoon. Now, THAT’S funny.”

Inane Muff Fact #804: In what surely must have been a COMPLETELY SHOCKING and DISQUIETING SIGHT, I spoke in full sentences whilst still an infant (this fact having been verified by several pediatric medical specialists) and could easily read tawdry grown-up novels like, “Valley of the Dolls” aloud when most children are still learning their colors. Can you say MUTANT? My first spoken word was MOON — and my first and earliest memory is of bare black branches against a grey blustery sky, most likely as seen from the vantage point of flat on my back in my baby buggy during my very first Fall/Winter in Rochester, New York. To this day, that remains the time of year when I am finally roused from my LONG, SURLY, HEAT SLEEP and feel MOST FULLY ALIVE, VIBRANT, PRODUCTIVE, AND CREATIVE.

The rich, velvety, visual life that has both sustained and compelled me artistically and augmented my private interior world as a human being for nearly half a century…began with THIS:

And speaking of my unhealthy obsession with the film, “Rosemary’s Baby” — about seven years ago, I made an executive decision to at long last change the classic bob hairstyle that has been my headly calling card since before the goddamned Carter Administration. So, I walked to an ol’ school men’s barbershop by the sea and boldly marched my fatass up to a crusty punk hairdresser with a thousand tatts and torpedo tits…and told her, “Yes. I FULLY realize that I am fat, Sicilian, and middle-aged and the result will most definitely not live up to the EPIC aesthetic fantasy inside of my dangerously imbalanced brain…but will you please just look past all that and give me the infamous Rosemary Woodhouse Vidal Sassoon cut?” Being a HUGE horror fangirl, she, of course, smiled a wicked smile and said, “LET’S DO THIS, BITCH.”

And so…we did.

The only problem, however, is that it never, ever occurred to me that, when it’s long, Mia Farrow actually has fine, curly hair…and I, of course, do not. Consequently, because I am a FAT GIRL FROM FRESNO WITH THICK, STRAIGHT HAIR…I looked less like the gorgeous, glowing, gamine, Mid-Century mother of the anti-Christ…and more like PETE FUCKING ROSE.

Yeah. Picture THAT, won’t you? When they saw me walk through the front door after my ruthless crusty punk shorning…all three of my children ACTUALLY STARTED BELLY CRYING OUT LOUD.

Of course, I have now LONG been back dancing with my CLASSIC BOB…but, at least I can say this for myself: For a fleeting moment in time, I looked as BUTCH ON THE OUTSIDE, AS I AM ON THE INSIDE. They can ban me from major league baseball for the rest of my mortal life, goddamnit, but they CAN’T take THAT away from me.

I’M BUTCH!

Bonus Photo for those who have actually stuck around long enough to finish this drivelous tale!: Me with my Rosemary Woodhouse hairdo…actually KISSING the anti-Christ.