C of Disillusion

Breasts are like a Michelangelo masterpiece. Something compels me to stare in admiration at the fleshy mounds. Like a silent stupor that stills you in front of a great work of art. I experienced that once at the Louvre, when I came across Michelangelo's "Dying Slave". I just stopped, breath abated, absorbing the beauty of his work. Except instead of housed in a gallery of stone and marble, breasts are shrouded in folds of cheap cotton/poly blends. Also, museum-goers generally stop short of woof whistling at a favored work.

Perhaps it's uncharacteristically odd for a female to be intrigued by them. I don't want to poke or prod or anything unseemly. I don't want to "motorboat" or suckle. Just blatantly stare, maybe throw a compliment their way. Occasionally fighting the urge to toss a wadded up straw wrapper between them for a 3-pointer.

If I were to psychoanalyze and try to trace the root of my fascination, I may wind my way back to the halls of 7th grade. 7th grade for a girl is rough. 7th grade for a flat-chested, glasses-wearing Jehovah's witness is rougher. Then throw in one year prior of homeschooling and you've whipped up one socially unsavory student body member who may as well just go ahead, get acne and braces and get it over with.

Each year of life brings new revelations and discoveries. 7th grade was the year for the stinging snap of bras, where these constricting contraptions were like newly found gold in the Klondike. All of a sudden it was a mad rush for the backside, right between the blades.

Being a fan of tormenting visions, I entertained various scenarios, all involving me against a group of leering boys. I'd sit at the lunch table, back against the wall, storming up a list of quick retorts to their teasing jabs. In my case though, the jabs wouldn't come because of the fascinating development occurring beneath the shirt causing them so much confused angst, but due to the lack of. And there it was! The torment of my vision, whereby the jeers and chortles took a turn towards derision once discovered that I was the .9% of those not wearing a bra.

Oh breasts, why doth thou forsake me?

A training bra wouldn't have made things any better; it'd be like having a car with no wheels, just sitting there developing rust on my chest due to non-use. The trainers weren't even pleasing to look at, just matronly swaths of basic white cotton bearing no resemblance to those I saw slung around the house by my mom and sister to dry. Times are a-changing though. Nestled on top of my luggage, while visiting my sister, was a cute little flowery number; I picked it up by the strap, dangling it front of me, confirming it wasn't mine. My 13-year old niece pops her head in. "Oh, that's where my bra went!"

"You better watch it," I tease. "I might just take it."

I fling it at her. "Of course," I smirk. "It wouldn't be big enough anyway so you're off the hook."

She looks over, summing me up. "What size do you wear?"

"34 C." Yah, baby! I resist high-fiving her.

"Oh!" she beams. "We wear the same size!"

Mother fucking chicken. What are we doing to our youth, bombarding them with growth hormones upon growth hormones? And more importantly, why in the hell did I decide to start eating organic?

Larry

One potato, two potato, three potato, four.

This is how my nightmare goes. I am stuck in a cell, peeling endless piles of potatoes for a feast to feed 1,000 homeless. Who are very hungry. The dream ends, I roll myself out of bed and make motions to ready for work, where I'll be stuck in a cell answering endless emails to satiate a 1,000 clients.

Hate my job, Hate my job, Hate my job, four.

I stare out the west window, my feet up on its sill, absorbing the view from three stories up. A seagull soars by, hovers, baring his breast towards me before he swoops up and out of sight. He doesn't even know the word "cell". Well, chances are he doesn't know any words, but that lessens my irritation none.

I hate that fucking seagull.

My mouth holds this sour taste for anything at the moment that seems "free"--sans burden. Sounds like a vacation isle off the coast of Portugal or something. OH yes-- Frank and I just got back from our holiday in Sans Burden...oh? You've never been? You simply must visit sometime! If you can find the time of course... Of course.

Lack of responsibility being the only requirement for personal dislike, babies, kittens and rocks are all equal recipients of my cloudy scowl. I'm perplexed by people who seem to have merriment sweep them through the day, like it's swirling dust at their feet flowing with them from joyous moment to joyous moment.

There's an older man, Larry, who is you might say, one sandwich shy of a picnic. He dons the same stained khakis and a ratty wool sweater every morning I run into him at the coffee shop. An old green Schwinn with baskets carries him through town while he mumbles to himself, a large bulbous helmet strapped under his chin. Right now it's parked out front, no lock, as he sits inside and sips his drink. Larry seems to be doing okay in life, drinking cappuccinos extracted from a artisan copper espresso machine, sitting grinning with foam on his nose while others rush in and out, to and from the office.

When in grade-school, little did I know the answer to the question "what do you want to be when you grow up" was not doctor or president, but Larry.

If you look closely between the Gerber jars of Creamed Bananas and Turkey Rice, there's a small innocuous-looking container labeled Romantic Delusions. In minuscule print, under "Ingredients", "Unrealistic Exceptions"is listed first. Across the nation vacuum-sealed lids pop and unwitting parents spoon feed little girls fantastical fairytales, right after they move past smooshed peas and into solids. To ease future pain heaped on both sexes, I think it's time we start doing them a real solid, and forgo the saccharine, BS laden lines instilling princess complexes and images of white steeds bearing metal-clad men who risk life, limb and heat exhaustion to be with them.

You know the stuff--either you've expected it yourself or had it hit you upside the head in a storm of sobby, hard-to-understand wails from your girlfriend. The wheedling, cajoling, beggin'-on-one's-knees that young romantics' hearts are fed by. How many times had I myself hoped to spark such desire in another? The anguish of separation, too much to bear, leaving him besot and on his knees. A Shakespearean sonnet alive and thriving at my window pane, where a lovesick man-boy beseeches me to give him another chance. Or in this particular case, his CD back. You know, the one you borrowed on the road trip to Montana? Thank you, Romeo.

Most of my wild attempts to stir such emotional fervor ended with me storming through door, door slamming, me looking over shoulder in anticipation at door, waiting for said boyfriend to be hot on my heels in pursuit. He'd rush to me, I'd feign contempt. He'd profess his love, I'd turn my head. He'd beg me to forgive what ever menial slight he committed and I'd, of course as fairytales dictate, consent then wither into his strong embrace. Wave of magic wand. Sha-zam! Happily ever after, dammit.

The result of such high hopes always came to a culmination in...nothing. Except me waiting, eyes narrowed, neck craned forward, listening for any sign of progression towards to door. Maybe he tripped in haste. Or was crafting an "I'm sorry" heart of felt and tissue paper that he...er, just had laying around the house under his Playboy mags and five remotes.

What ever ridiculous misdemeanor he initially committed was aggravated to a felony in that two minute span. Equaling jail time in isolation. Because if there's one thing women are good at, it's closing up tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel. Isolation period to increase once boyfriend is spied inside through window, not crafting a Victorian-inspired love gift, but with video controller in hand, fiercely battling to reach level seven in a fantasy land of his own.

Netflix marketing minds have honed in on this unfulfilled desire to be fought for. "Come back to us" implores the first line of their customer retention email. And oh how my heart leaps. To be wanted! No, no Netflix...surely I can't. I turn my head from the browser window. "Please, please Rebecca" it begs. "Life in the vacuous consumer-driven world fueled by your pocketbook is profitless meaningless without you." How can I resist such sentiments? That AND their willingness to deliver Benny & Joon or any Meg Ryan movie my heart desires with nothing but enthusiasm and a sincere followup inquiring on my satisfaction. My satisfaction? Ye gods! I'm in love.

Boyfriends of the world, take note: Netflix is making you look bad.

Deck the Halls with Bling and Holly

Tired of last-minute, sloppy shopping sprees? Done with forcing truckloads of dollars towards slot-fillers to compensate for poorly thought-out gift purchases? Well, luck be a billion-dollar industry hocking jewels these pre-Christmas nights. Now, this holiday you can show her you really love her. No, really. Unlike the other paltry 364 days of the year where you apparently were an insensitive, poor excuse of a partner/lover/husband/boyfriend showering her with trite "I love you"'s and small affectionate gestures from the heart.

Yawn.

Better option: Give 'em something dripping with white gold and karats. This year, buy her a diamond necklace. Better yet, a diamond necklace in the shape of a heart (those gem dealers think of everything!). Because just like your love, they're forever. And a steal at only $199.99 at Sears. Or DeBeers. Or Weisfield. Or Kay's. Or that sketchy diamond outlet store just off the freeway that sells everything at slashed prices (which now puts it only at a 100% markup).

Two weeks ago, strolling along the warf at a beach-side park, I passed a large wooden billboard plastered with safety precautions and ads for dog-walkers. Tacked in the middle read a sign decrying litter. "Plastic," it warned, "is forever."

It's fascinating this diamond craze hinges on the presumption that forever is preferable, as it apparently doesn't even have a corner on that market. Life in prison is forever. Dry rot is forever. Tattoos are also forever. My mother instilled that truism in me at a young age. "Never, ever, ever" she commanded, "Get a man's name tattooed on your body!" I gurgled and flung a spoonful of cheerios at her. And now, plastic it seems, can be added to the list.

Does anyone ever wonder 1) what makes a diamond resistant to destruction, and 2) if that is a good thing? Twinkies are practically forever and I'm pretty certain Hostess would be happier if we'd just forget about their Armageddon-friendly shelf-life. As a metaphor for love, does it make sense to use the hardest mineral substance found in nature? Just like your love, a diamond is forever...and cold. And hard. And can cut glass. No sir, no how...keep your stinkin' diamonds. This year I'm asking for plastic!

Neither a Realist nor a Rationalist Be

"Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business."
-Tom Robbins

I wonder...a lot. Questioning everything, including my own questions. Scrutinizing the left-brain reverence handed to me by the people before me. Does rational thought take you to the end? Does status-quo satiate? Do I fall in line not knowing where the front of it is leading, or do I take myself there, letting others jump on and off as they dare like a cable car.

New thought struggles to form beneath the murky dirt of conscious concepts. It fights, squirming through the debris of societal manure heaped upon us with the belief that its mass-approved logical makeup fertilizes our minds. And it does, though therein lies the problem... it feeds the flavorless, chewed up and indistinguishable yak clogging our engagement with a reality just outside the grasp of rationale. Break free! Push through the layers of murk to rise and meet the sun... let inspiration drip from your brow and adventure breath through every pore.

Any thought that's not disruptive is plagiarism (I plagiarized that) yet we slather brick upon brick with repetitive thought and box ourselves in to avoid tipping over the glass and disrupting the party. Tip the glass! In fact chuck it altogether and promise to only gulp mouthfuls straight from cold mountain streams. That's where the only true thoughts exist: floating sediments suspended in watery motion, dislodged from the earth's womb and thrown into the world for us to catch on our tongues. To taste. To savor. To consume will unbridled anticipation and wonderment of something bigger then we can ever begin to imagine or explain away with that dirty word "logic".

Hi Kettle...Pot Here...You're Black.

Dating is mired with double-standards. Do as I say not as I do'isms. Flirting is not "flirting" when it's you who innocently chatted up some random,inadvertently sharing dirty jokes with him at the bar. But heaven have mercy if some gal bats her eyelashes within a mile of your man or some jerkoff has the nerve to buy a Duck Fart for your lady; faces flare red as blood boils and steam comes out the ears, head nearing combustion.

My personal get-the-hackles-up grievance of the moment is the female-focused misanthrope, who tosses a good ol' double scoop of double standards onto the fairer sex. And by "fairer" I don't mean more socially just, because it's often other women who are the first to persecute their own sex. Classic case of mindlessly swallowing the Adam and Eve parable, where by "that woman", with one fell swoop, ruined man's life.

In dating it's an annoyance, but in marriage it takes on a whole other realm of unpalatable. Take this example: married man engages outside of his marriage with a single lass in flirtatious conversation. So who bares the scarlet letter? Well, it doesn't go well with his sports jacket so we're gonna go with option number two, Bob. Who incidentally isn't the one who made the vow of monogamy. But, after all, he has a penis and was drinking. For those of you who failed math, let me map out the mathematically proven equation for you: (Penis + drink x uncontrollable lust)+ attractive female = Homewreckin' Harlot (also know by Santana as "Black Magic Woman").

My favorite regurgitated line is "Well, he didn't really want to get married to begin with". OH! I forgot about the finely printed infidelity due to unhappiness clause at the bottom of the marriage contract.

If I hear one more friend padding their male friend's/partner's behavior with another lame ass excuse relinquishing him of personal responsibility, I think I'll feed myself that tempting poison apple. After all, I'm a woman. I have a whole bushel of 'em.

Gift Horse

"Don't look one in the mouth," my mother always instructed, referring to the infamous gift horse that as a child I always wondered when it would arrive. Would it be wrapped in a bow at my door? What about a pony--do they come in gift ponies? Where the hell would we keep it? The garage was packed to the gills, full of left-over pieces of wood from deconstruction projects my mother never finished, an old refrigerator that housed her boyfriend's agricultural "experiment" and two roll-away tool chests.

The pony/horse never came. But as time passed and bitterness shed, I came into a deeper realization of her intended meaning. Gratitude.

Which leads me to the subject of the homeless. I've heard grumbles and complaints, funnily enough from those with houses and jobs and not from those without, preceding wishes that they'd be eradicated from our city streets. Perhaps relocated to a more fitting (read: not in my way) setting.

But these street sleepers and corner panhandlers are my personal gift horse. Their unrestrained compliments, sometimes hard to decipher through the slurs, are like sweet nectar to a parched heart.

Like the charming gent who popped out from behind a dumpster to tell me that he wanted to call my mother. "OOOO, girl...I need to call your momma and thank her for your sweet ass." Then he snagged a piece of french fry stuck to his fro, popped it in his mouth and disappeared like a angel sent only to wish me well.

Or the old man who sat by the bus stop and watched me pass every morning as he breathed heavily through his lengthy labyrinth of tubing hooked to a portable oxygen concentrator. "Yer the girl who was here yesterday in that green dress," he remembered as I stood there, waiting.

"Good memory," I praised.

"Outstanding legs," he said with a lingering up-down eye sweep.

I beamed. Outstanding legs, god dammit--I have them!

Yesterday I rushed out the back door of my office building, exiting into the alleyway. "Busted!" declared a jovial voice. I peeked in the doorway kitty-corner to mine and I'll be damned if there wasn't a gift horse sitting right there, this one baring weed.

"Busted smoking reefer and drinking Guinness," he chortled, waving his right hand towards a dark brown glass bottle of beer while the other hung on loosely to a half-smoked joint. "I may be homeless but I still have class!" He pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peeked out from under his blue and white striped conductor hat, staring at me. He narrowed his eyes, the weed making them almost already shut as it were. "You want some reefer? It's good stuff...just sitting here, watching the clouds. Enjoying the good life, ya know."

Yah, I did know. And it never leaves you without a gift horse, the good life. There's one every where you look. Just refrain from looking in its mouth.