As you dear reader know ("you" meaning "me" as I'm the only reader of this damn blog--Heart you Google!), I work in Online Advertising. The Devil Incarnate. No no, I'm just displaying dramatic flair with that one. It's great gig--for example, where else would I be able to work an 11.5 hour day and be able to check my email during that time period. What? Everywhere? Because the Internet is a household staple, you say? That being neither here nor there, I'm at my desk and the mind wanders. A lot. What am I going to eat for my pre-lunch snack. Did I do that last task I was supposed to do? What was that task anyhow? Is my heart palpating too fast? Can you suffer strokes at 27? When is lunch time?
I do yoga after work when I can, giving me respite from a tense existence. Yesterday at yoga I suffered miserably. It's a tortuous love affair we have, centered around my paying an exorbitant amount and sweating out, in a 105 degree room, what little hydration I stockpiled that day. The beauty of yoga is the sole focus on the self. Only you and your breath. Oh, and that little 110 lb. minx who looks like a pretzel next to you--a sex pretzel that you can't help wanting to take a bite out of. Or just take out (of the picture) completely. God I love yoga. So peaceful. So Zen-like. Really makes me feel good about myself, forcing me to accept all of the flaws I'm intently focusing on in the mirror for exactly 1 hour and 30 minutes of intense sweating, creating rivulets that drip and pool in the cellulite dents. AWESOME.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Wax and Wane
The unsettling truth that I was alone in the world--no shoulder to fall asleep on in a pool of drool, no one to hold me tight as I hang out the car door puking from too much bourbon--materialized while I ran my palm over my leg stubble. Alas, no one to shave for, save my roommate and his Chihuahua. Even he is smoother than I, in regions I pray to never see, thanks to his bi-monthly Brazilians. In a regretful moment of self-disclosure I admitted to him I'd never felt the pain of such waxing. Now we have an impending "wax date", the saving grace of which is the tequila and whiskey that floweth from this spa he speaks of. Can I just go for the booze, I ask? He sadly looks at me--I can see on his face the silent question, what kind of woman am I that I can't be bothered to wax my entire nether region? A lazy, lonely one. Stubbiest of them all.
A conversation entailed the following exchange last night with a girlfriend, who coincidentally was second pick for the lead role in "Harry and the Hendersons". No joke. OK, yes--it's a joke. But she admittedly says she's taken to not shaving. Here's the synopsis:
ME: What are you doing? (I'm picking at my toe nails.)
Hairy: I just Naired my Hoo-Ha.
ME: (With surprise) Working on some sex tonight?
Hairy: No. I have a pap smear on Wednesday.
The horrid part, aside from her boyfriend standing in complete confusion as to how the gyno gets special treatment when he's left pulling hairs from his teeth, is this isn't an isolated occurrence. Do you know how many women chuck their razors and eradicating creams once a relationship lands in their laps and hunkers in for the duration? I will tell you. 80%. That's a fact. A visit to the ladies locker room at my downtown gym solidified that bit of statistical relevance, where I was momentarily nervous I wouldn't be able to find the exit without a weed whacker. I have never seen such unruly bush in vast quantity. The obvious, "I have nothing to hide attitude" made me that much more confounded as to what was happening to our sex. Both as a noun and a verb, because I'll assume the sex rate is inversely related to the growth rate. These women couldn't have been less abashed about their untrimmed trim if they had bronzed it and mounted it on a plaque to hang above the mantle.
The flip side of this is the petite nymph in the locker room at my yoga studio, stripped down to nothing but a towel, boobs waving hello to anyone within a ten foot radius. The towel was discarded and in one quick, synchronized move her delicate hand flew down to cover herself. The shame. A hairless freak amongst us. And one who is most likely being served up a nice slice of lovin' on a regular basis I'd surmise, because the fact remains that while I'm sure your gyno appreciates the yearly house cleaning, your man friend would appreciate it more. Unless his name is Moses and he enjoys the challenge of parting things to reach the other side. But in that case he's most likely eighty with impaired vision and appreciates the stubby body Braille directing him to heaven.
A conversation entailed the following exchange last night with a girlfriend, who coincidentally was second pick for the lead role in "Harry and the Hendersons". No joke. OK, yes--it's a joke. But she admittedly says she's taken to not shaving. Here's the synopsis:
ME: What are you doing? (I'm picking at my toe nails.)
Hairy: I just Naired my Hoo-Ha.
ME: (With surprise) Working on some sex tonight?
Hairy: No. I have a pap smear on Wednesday.
The horrid part, aside from her boyfriend standing in complete confusion as to how the gyno gets special treatment when he's left pulling hairs from his teeth, is this isn't an isolated occurrence. Do you know how many women chuck their razors and eradicating creams once a relationship lands in their laps and hunkers in for the duration? I will tell you. 80%. That's a fact. A visit to the ladies locker room at my downtown gym solidified that bit of statistical relevance, where I was momentarily nervous I wouldn't be able to find the exit without a weed whacker. I have never seen such unruly bush in vast quantity. The obvious, "I have nothing to hide attitude" made me that much more confounded as to what was happening to our sex. Both as a noun and a verb, because I'll assume the sex rate is inversely related to the growth rate. These women couldn't have been less abashed about their untrimmed trim if they had bronzed it and mounted it on a plaque to hang above the mantle.
The flip side of this is the petite nymph in the locker room at my yoga studio, stripped down to nothing but a towel, boobs waving hello to anyone within a ten foot radius. The towel was discarded and in one quick, synchronized move her delicate hand flew down to cover herself. The shame. A hairless freak amongst us. And one who is most likely being served up a nice slice of lovin' on a regular basis I'd surmise, because the fact remains that while I'm sure your gyno appreciates the yearly house cleaning, your man friend would appreciate it more. Unless his name is Moses and he enjoys the challenge of parting things to reach the other side. But in that case he's most likely eighty with impaired vision and appreciates the stubby body Braille directing him to heaven.
Who Likes Their Women Just a Little on the Trashy Side?
This just in: the best pick-up spot in all of Seattle is Borren and Seneca--bar none. And I mean that literally. No bars. Just city sidewalks, in all their litter-covered cracked glory.
I trudged home, gleaming with a freshly applied layer of sweat and city grime, chewing my lip. over the night's tasks at hand, hair sticking to my wet face. Despite the visage I presented, I still managed to round up a date in the time it takes to figure out how to say "No" loud enough to cut through the noise of traffic...I knew I had hit dating gold. Fool's gold, perhaps. But it was shiny and pretty and makes me smile none-the-less.
It was 5:45 on a Tuesday and his name was Donnie (which isn't given as much credit as should get). He drove a truck ; middle-aged and perhaps not running on all four but why split hairs, he came into my life out of nowhere, introducing himself with two sharp honks. I turned my head as he stared me down from the inside of his cab, the words, "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" flying by after a glimpse of his face. Freaky? Well I can protest and say I'm against it.
He waved. I stared open-mouthed, confused and a little horrified. And dammit, I'll admit it. Flattered.
I kept walking. He came to a screeching halt and jumped out of the truck, engine running and door hanging open as he bounded towards my frozen figure.
A myriad of questions streamed through my head. Did I drop something? Did I push my pedestrian right too much and cut him off two blocks down? Did I have a tin can tied to my bag that he couldn't wait to recycle and save from looming trash-can doom?
"A girl as beautiful as you should be in Hollywood," he tells me, wringing his hands with what I chose to think of as excitement.
"I. Oh. I. Errrr..." I thanked him.
"You married?" he countered.
"Your truck is running!" I blurted.
"You have beautiful eyes," he retorted.
"Cars are honking," I flirted.
"Yes. Yes, indeed. Well, have a lovely day, beautiful." He took my hand and kissed it, then ran to the truck and out of my life, muttering "What a shame, what a shame."
Yes. Yes, indeed. A man who spends his waking hours dealing with refuse surely knows a gem when he sees it gasping for breath up the sidewalk towards home. I may have canceled my recycle pick-ups and am now wading through piles of paper and soda cans in the dark because I'm afraid to turn my lights on...but that my friends, is the price I'm willing to pay for a compliment.
I trudged home, gleaming with a freshly applied layer of sweat and city grime, chewing my lip. over the night's tasks at hand, hair sticking to my wet face. Despite the visage I presented, I still managed to round up a date in the time it takes to figure out how to say "No" loud enough to cut through the noise of traffic...I knew I had hit dating gold. Fool's gold, perhaps. But it was shiny and pretty and makes me smile none-the-less.
It was 5:45 on a Tuesday and his name was Donnie (which isn't given as much credit as should get). He drove a truck ; middle-aged and perhaps not running on all four but why split hairs, he came into my life out of nowhere, introducing himself with two sharp honks. I turned my head as he stared me down from the inside of his cab, the words, "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" flying by after a glimpse of his face. Freaky? Well I can protest and say I'm against it.
He waved. I stared open-mouthed, confused and a little horrified. And dammit, I'll admit it. Flattered.
I kept walking. He came to a screeching halt and jumped out of the truck, engine running and door hanging open as he bounded towards my frozen figure.
A myriad of questions streamed through my head. Did I drop something? Did I push my pedestrian right too much and cut him off two blocks down? Did I have a tin can tied to my bag that he couldn't wait to recycle and save from looming trash-can doom?
"A girl as beautiful as you should be in Hollywood," he tells me, wringing his hands with what I chose to think of as excitement.
"I. Oh. I. Errrr..." I thanked him.
"You married?" he countered.
"Your truck is running!" I blurted.
"You have beautiful eyes," he retorted.
"Cars are honking," I flirted.
"Yes. Yes, indeed. Well, have a lovely day, beautiful." He took my hand and kissed it, then ran to the truck and out of my life, muttering "What a shame, what a shame."
Yes. Yes, indeed. A man who spends his waking hours dealing with refuse surely knows a gem when he sees it gasping for breath up the sidewalk towards home. I may have canceled my recycle pick-ups and am now wading through piles of paper and soda cans in the dark because I'm afraid to turn my lights on...but that my friends, is the price I'm willing to pay for a compliment.
The Vulgar Things in Life
The word "shit" has a special place carved in my heart. Phrases including but not limited to "Are you shittin' me?", "Gonna eat the shit out of that burger," and "On it like stink on shit" frequently roll off my tongue like..well, shit off a greased pig's back. So varied its uses, so visually descriptive its imagery, how can one not be charmed by the four-letter combo?
My propensity for impropriety startles me sometimes, however. Most notably when I'm forced to reckon with my behavior classification, which verges on crass (my mother nicely calls it "earthy"). I cringed and refused to believe it on initial realization, sputtering Nuh uh, now way. I attend operas and symphonies! I bake scones and drink tea! I couldn't possibly be-- Well now, hold the phone there, Collins. I tell dirty jokes. I like naughty inuendoes. I have an affinity for the hard workin' man with grime on his hands who drinks whiskey with beer backs. And there it was, clear as day--I'm one misdemeanor short of being a societal blight.
This wasn't so much of a news flash as a slow awakening. I sensed this ultimate truth at age seventeen--and the subsequent "beginning of the end" with my first love when he decried my "shit" usage. I could see him physically shrink back with horror when I let it loose in conversation. I'm burning dinner: Oh shit balls! I'm excited: Holy Shit! The Chinese take-out didn't agree with me: Move out of the way--I gotta shit!
Don't let the blonde hair, fair complexion and goofy smile fool you. It's an unintentional false front--gently luring many through the doors of believing I'm possibly a refined creature, maybe of middle-class descent (where I come from we call it "priviledged upbringing"). But a whirling dervish of obscenities is me. The memory of my first love and our vast cravasse in linguistic differences recently reared its head over Orange Beef and Spicy Prawn with Asparagus on a first date with a good looking gent I was kind of keen on. Educated, interesting, and very handsome, out of nowhere he hits me with a softly uttered "What the hay?"
To which I say, "What the fuck?"
What the hay is child's talk. Rubbish. Verbiage for the person to whom the vagaries and vulgarities of life are foreign. Life is not deepened by "the finer things". It's colored and textured with grime, sweat, tears and sex. And maybe a little spilled Jim Beam. Profundity is rarely found within the limits of refinement. As Mark Twain said, "There are no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined."
I like that Twain guy--he really knew his shit.
My propensity for impropriety startles me sometimes, however. Most notably when I'm forced to reckon with my behavior classification, which verges on crass (my mother nicely calls it "earthy"). I cringed and refused to believe it on initial realization, sputtering Nuh uh, now way. I attend operas and symphonies! I bake scones and drink tea! I couldn't possibly be-- Well now, hold the phone there, Collins. I tell dirty jokes. I like naughty inuendoes. I have an affinity for the hard workin' man with grime on his hands who drinks whiskey with beer backs. And there it was, clear as day--I'm one misdemeanor short of being a societal blight.
This wasn't so much of a news flash as a slow awakening. I sensed this ultimate truth at age seventeen--and the subsequent "beginning of the end" with my first love when he decried my "shit" usage. I could see him physically shrink back with horror when I let it loose in conversation. I'm burning dinner: Oh shit balls! I'm excited: Holy Shit! The Chinese take-out didn't agree with me: Move out of the way--I gotta shit!
Don't let the blonde hair, fair complexion and goofy smile fool you. It's an unintentional false front--gently luring many through the doors of believing I'm possibly a refined creature, maybe of middle-class descent (where I come from we call it "priviledged upbringing"). But a whirling dervish of obscenities is me. The memory of my first love and our vast cravasse in linguistic differences recently reared its head over Orange Beef and Spicy Prawn with Asparagus on a first date with a good looking gent I was kind of keen on. Educated, interesting, and very handsome, out of nowhere he hits me with a softly uttered "What the hay?"
To which I say, "What the fuck?"
What the hay is child's talk. Rubbish. Verbiage for the person to whom the vagaries and vulgarities of life are foreign. Life is not deepened by "the finer things". It's colored and textured with grime, sweat, tears and sex. And maybe a little spilled Jim Beam. Profundity is rarely found within the limits of refinement. As Mark Twain said, "There are no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined."
I like that Twain guy--he really knew his shit.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Pied of Contention
Funny things happen when you live alone. Conversations with untangible beings occur. Dinner miraculously feeds one for several days. Cleanliness standards decrease and naked lounge fests increase. Last night was a new one. Still dressed up from happy hour with friends, got self home by 10:30p (make that happy hours). Pulled tall boot off right foot. Left foot wouldn't budge. My arms literally gave out after waging never-ending war over boot's grasp on my appendage, leaving me dejected on edge of bed, shoulders slumped in defeat while I stared miserably at my handsome brown boot, smugly still in place. At this point, all I thought was “Fuck it.” Tired, with no one around to leverage on the other end and pry it off, nor committed to winning this battle alone I pulled back my sheets -- okay, who am I kidding, they were already pulled back seeing as I live alone and don't have to make my bed. So… not committed to winning this battle alone, I climbed under the pre pulled-back sheets, naked from the waist up and clad in jeans and boot from the waist down. As I shimmy further under the sheets, the textured bottom of my heel keeps catching on the sheet, which normally slides gracefully over my feet, allowing me ease of entry. In this case, the boot continued to wreak havoc on my sleep strategy, requiring I throw any preconceived notions about a restful night's sleep out the window (conveniently already open for fresh air). I woke up at 4:45 to find boot had successfully taken all sheets hostage, wrapping itself in every inch of cloth, which in the end made me thankful for having my jeans on because otherwise I would have transformed into a statue of solid ice during the night. When I rolled out of bed, my foot slid out like it wasn't "no thang". All cool and casual like, as if nothing had happened. If feet could smoke, mine would have had a Marlboro hanging from between its toes.
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