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?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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 isprofitless 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.
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
Boyfriends of the world, take note: Netflix is making you look bad.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
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".
-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".
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Nice Shoes...Where'd You Get 'Em?
I walked into my floor's bathroom at work the other day. It's 10am and of the two stalls, one is occupied. I always feel a small wave of pity for the person who thought they'd perfectly time their toilet usage, squeezing between the 9:30am post-coffee rush and the 11:30am making-room-for-lunch herd. It's not hard to guess the scenario--the dead silence from their frozen frame (because if they're veeewy, veeewy quiet you'll never know they're squatting behind the stall door) paradoxically heightens their presence tenfold. The feet planted firmly on the floor as if they're bracing for a biggun don't help either.
I think they even stop breathing at this point, like I'm the toilet Gestapo about to make an arrest and one false move could mean death by humiliation. And depending on my mood, I either try to help them out by peeing fiercely fast, no dallying around or anything to extenuate their misery and potentially lead to their own asphyxiation, or -- if my evil side is at the wheel -- I pick my teeth in the mirror or hum while carefully folding a swath of toilet paper into a crane, enjoying my right to breath loudly next to them.
Then I'll mentally entertain conversation starters to volley over the stall wall.
"Do you know a good doctor by any chance?"
"So this 80 year-old man and a platypus walk into this bar, you see..."
"Wow, who would have thought Red Bull and Indian curry didn't mix well!"
"I'm stuck on 23 across...What's a five letter word for 'Montezuma's Revenge'?"
"Hover or sit--which is it?"
Which ever way you slice it, I feel wrong not saying something. Maybe it's the awkwardness of sharing such intimate space with someone whose name you don't know, let alone whose face you can't see. It's like having sex with someone without even having shaken a hand first. Cart before horse kind of situation. That's why I'm going to start stuffing my pockets full of business cards. I'll casually slip one across the cool linoleum floor, the smooth flourish speaking to my ease and grace. Just in case you wondered who you were shitting next to... By the way, I just love that shade of toenail polish. What is it--vermilion?
I think they even stop breathing at this point, like I'm the toilet Gestapo about to make an arrest and one false move could mean death by humiliation. And depending on my mood, I either try to help them out by peeing fiercely fast, no dallying around or anything to extenuate their misery and potentially lead to their own asphyxiation, or -- if my evil side is at the wheel -- I pick my teeth in the mirror or hum while carefully folding a swath of toilet paper into a crane, enjoying my right to breath loudly next to them.
Then I'll mentally entertain conversation starters to volley over the stall wall.
"Do you know a good doctor by any chance?"
"So this 80 year-old man and a platypus walk into this bar, you see..."
"Wow, who would have thought Red Bull and Indian curry didn't mix well!"
"I'm stuck on 23 across...What's a five letter word for 'Montezuma's Revenge'?"
"Hover or sit--which is it?"
Which ever way you slice it, I feel wrong not saying something. Maybe it's the awkwardness of sharing such intimate space with someone whose name you don't know, let alone whose face you can't see. It's like having sex with someone without even having shaken a hand first. Cart before horse kind of situation. That's why I'm going to start stuffing my pockets full of business cards. I'll casually slip one across the cool linoleum floor, the smooth flourish speaking to my ease and grace. Just in case you wondered who you were shitting next to... By the way, I just love that shade of toenail polish. What is it--vermilion?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Pole cat
I determined, 18 hours ago, that I could not be famous. Not due to lack of ability or amazing talent *ahem*, but for the pure simple, undeniable physiological reason that...I'm a bruiser.
Lord knows why but, despite my staunch belief in high standards of mental stimulation, I succumb to shit journalism on a regular basis (celebrity buzz mostly). With such regularity, in fact, it's like I'm mainlining Metamucil. While undertaking such mind-dumbing research with the senseless commitment of a crow pecking at a shiny scrap in the middle of the road, I noticed a common trait in all these covertly taken snapshots: perfection.
A scratch, scabbed-over wound or blue-hued bruise were all but impossible to find amongst the star-studded shots. Then there's me. I walk to the fridge to refresh my drink and stumble back to the couch, knee nicked from whacking the coffee table and arm scratched by a piece of plastic jutting from the fridge when I unsuspectingly reached into its vicious mouth. So this begs the question: What are these people doing? Do they sit, frozen in fear, knowing that one false move could mar their blemish-free epidermis and lower their box-office draw? Is that the real reason behind their personal assistant's existence? Not laziness or an over-inflated sense of entitlement as we'd believe, but because they are victims of their own stature, forced to use daily stand-ins for life's blows? "Man, you should see poor Jennifer Aniston's assistant--bruises all over the girl! You'd think she was beaten for buying Aquafina instead of a SmartWater!"
This weekend I also learned that stripper is not in my career cards. And definitely not, as I established, a famous one. Mid-Saturday morning hike, following a brief spin on a pole the night before (another story for another time), I halted and looked in horror at the now solid blue of my inner left leg. My mind raced. Had I brushed against a blue-painted post? Cut off circulation to my leg? Squashed a smurf?
No.
No.
And only that one time I did 'shrooms.
It was seven bruises merging into one giant representation of why I am not a dancer by trade. Not about to be defeated by a pole of any sort, one week later I try my hand with one of the fishing variety. Small and wielding to my desires, this was one pole I would defeat. Until a fish bit. At which point the rod spurred its butt into my left hip, bracing against the halibut on the line, my face melting into an interpretation of Munch's "The Scream" as my reeling arm generated enough heat to melt the butter I'd later cook the fish in. I knew before even landing the damn creature that my capillaries were bursting under my skin, hatching battle plans to launch the impending bruise that would consume my left side.
Two nights later, a sauced yet curious gent at the bar inquired if I smoked pole. I looked him square in the eye and said that I would not, in no uncertain terms, touch any pole, lest of all with a ten foot pole, lest of all consider smoking it. God only knows what that would bruise.
Lord knows why but, despite my staunch belief in high standards of mental stimulation, I succumb to shit journalism on a regular basis (celebrity buzz mostly). With such regularity, in fact, it's like I'm mainlining Metamucil. While undertaking such mind-dumbing research with the senseless commitment of a crow pecking at a shiny scrap in the middle of the road, I noticed a common trait in all these covertly taken snapshots: perfection.
A scratch, scabbed-over wound or blue-hued bruise were all but impossible to find amongst the star-studded shots. Then there's me. I walk to the fridge to refresh my drink and stumble back to the couch, knee nicked from whacking the coffee table and arm scratched by a piece of plastic jutting from the fridge when I unsuspectingly reached into its vicious mouth. So this begs the question: What are these people doing? Do they sit, frozen in fear, knowing that one false move could mar their blemish-free epidermis and lower their box-office draw? Is that the real reason behind their personal assistant's existence? Not laziness or an over-inflated sense of entitlement as we'd believe, but because they are victims of their own stature, forced to use daily stand-ins for life's blows? "Man, you should see poor Jennifer Aniston's assistant--bruises all over the girl! You'd think she was beaten for buying Aquafina instead of a SmartWater!"
This weekend I also learned that stripper is not in my career cards. And definitely not, as I established, a famous one. Mid-Saturday morning hike, following a brief spin on a pole the night before (another story for another time), I halted and looked in horror at the now solid blue of my inner left leg. My mind raced. Had I brushed against a blue-painted post? Cut off circulation to my leg? Squashed a smurf?
No.
No.
And only that one time I did 'shrooms.
It was seven bruises merging into one giant representation of why I am not a dancer by trade. Not about to be defeated by a pole of any sort, one week later I try my hand with one of the fishing variety. Small and wielding to my desires, this was one pole I would defeat. Until a fish bit. At which point the rod spurred its butt into my left hip, bracing against the halibut on the line, my face melting into an interpretation of Munch's "The Scream" as my reeling arm generated enough heat to melt the butter I'd later cook the fish in. I knew before even landing the damn creature that my capillaries were bursting under my skin, hatching battle plans to launch the impending bruise that would consume my left side.
Two nights later, a sauced yet curious gent at the bar inquired if I smoked pole. I looked him square in the eye and said that I would not, in no uncertain terms, touch any pole, lest of all with a ten foot pole, lest of all consider smoking it. God only knows what that would bruise.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Bailout Fail
Interesting lunch excursion to WAMU, now known as Chase. They were renovating. The question “Why?” crossed my mind. Here we have a financial giant who begged for a bailout and now they’re hanging new drapes (figuratively, not literally since that’s not part of the “look”). Was something wrong with the building? No, a WAMU representative confirmed. It was just time to give it the Chase stamp and an ol’ heave-ho to the WAMU layout…to the tune of half a million dollars.
So I try to wrap my head around this bailout spending plan. Chase was given a $25 billion bailout. Assuming they’ve kept all 2,239 WAMU branches they obtained and will rebrand each branch at $.5 million, this equals $1,119,500,000. That’s $1.1 billion spent on redesigning a building that was renovated by WAMU in recent years and had NO structural or electrical problems. In other words, $500,000 wasted, per branch, on changing the layout so it has the Chase “look and feel”.
This is like your daughter borrowing $800 to pay her rent then going to the mall and buying a new pair of jeans because she needed something to match the top she got a month ago...when she has five other pairs in perfect condition stacked in her dresser drawer.
Frankly, I’m not sure establishing a bank is Chase-owned is the best route at the moment. I might be more inclined to hand my money over to a guy with a handwritten sign saying “Bank” taped to his Dodge van. And he doesn’t even require I write out a deposit slip.
So I try to wrap my head around this bailout spending plan. Chase was given a $25 billion bailout. Assuming they’ve kept all 2,239 WAMU branches they obtained and will rebrand each branch at $.5 million, this equals $1,119,500,000. That’s $1.1 billion spent on redesigning a building that was renovated by WAMU in recent years and had NO structural or electrical problems. In other words, $500,000 wasted, per branch, on changing the layout so it has the Chase “look and feel”.
This is like your daughter borrowing $800 to pay her rent then going to the mall and buying a new pair of jeans because she needed something to match the top she got a month ago...when she has five other pairs in perfect condition stacked in her dresser drawer.
Frankly, I’m not sure establishing a bank is Chase-owned is the best route at the moment. I might be more inclined to hand my money over to a guy with a handwritten sign saying “Bank” taped to his Dodge van. And he doesn’t even require I write out a deposit slip.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Waiting
My doctor's waiting room cracks me up. I can't help it, and even though I know it's perverse to find a place where the sick and miserable congress "funny", it's like the beginning of bad joke. So a guy with an eye patch walks into a doctor's office...
Squeezed in between the medical posters reminding us to wash our hands and get our shots, the drab walls are covered with giant images framed in white oak: rolling hills with fading red barn, flowering meadows with glacial creek, and crisp waterfall crashing on mossy rocks. Below this sits a young girl, black stocking cap pulled tightly over head as she slumps in the chair with her belly hanging over jeans, scratching madly at her forearm. The beautification attempt stops with the hung art, as if the interior decorator froze mid stream, throwing her hands in the air, crying "I cannot vork in dees mizerable conditions!" fleeing in artistic anguish. The nurses would have shook their heads and clucked their tongues at such delicate sensitivities--she didn't even get past the waiting room let alone step near a bed pan.
The second part of the joke is the budding social scene that withers before it blooms. Think! All these people in one room, elbow to elbow, and not one word is said to your neighbor or is one number even exchanged. I've gotten in more conversations while waiting in line with my legs crossed after eating a sausage that didn't agree with me, praying I didn't shit my pants before the second quarter started, than I do here. I can imagine the social hour enfolding as we idly wait for our appointments. Gentleman A leans over to gentle lady B, coughing lightly to rouse her attention, which the undiscerning ear might hear as only an attempt to clear the phlegm. "Excuse me," he starts. "I couldn't help noticing that your eyes, behind the puffy red exterior, are exquisite." She flushes -- perhaps flattered, perhaps feverish -- and after agreeing to connect post lab results, Cupid puffs his chest with pride. Another match made!
Instead of plundering this treasure trove, we as a group unanimously choose not to acknowledge the person wheezing next to us. Though I've never donned camo fatigues and picked ducks from the sky in my life, my nose is buried in "Gun Dog" magazine with unbreakable concentration. The man next to me is studying "Good Housekeeping" with such fascination I'm compelled to do a nut check. Just to make sure. But really it's all luck of the draw in the reading material rotation. There's always the magazine that we all want to read but won't because the guy who put it down as he trudged his way towards the nurse calling his name from a clipboard didn't look too good. So there sits "People Magazine", its cover's promise of a tell-all "Who's sleeping with whom in Hollywood" teasing us as we eye it from afar, seeing if anyone else dare approach it. Then in walks a newbie, fresh from the elevator. She can barely contain her look of triumph -- the Holy Grail of waiting rooms, there for the taking! She has something we don't. Yes, we all concur in silence. Yes, you do. A nice case of hepatitis B with onset Molluscum contagiosum compliments of the leper who just left the room. We smirk into our magazines that we secretly wish we weren't reading, and I snuggle deep into my hard, merciless chair, contentedly flipping the page of my clean copy of "Gun Dog". Any why I do declare! If this wasn't the best damn article on coon hound training tips I ever read, I don't know what is.
Squeezed in between the medical posters reminding us to wash our hands and get our shots, the drab walls are covered with giant images framed in white oak: rolling hills with fading red barn, flowering meadows with glacial creek, and crisp waterfall crashing on mossy rocks. Below this sits a young girl, black stocking cap pulled tightly over head as she slumps in the chair with her belly hanging over jeans, scratching madly at her forearm. The beautification attempt stops with the hung art, as if the interior decorator froze mid stream, throwing her hands in the air, crying "I cannot vork in dees mizerable conditions!" fleeing in artistic anguish. The nurses would have shook their heads and clucked their tongues at such delicate sensitivities--she didn't even get past the waiting room let alone step near a bed pan.
The second part of the joke is the budding social scene that withers before it blooms. Think! All these people in one room, elbow to elbow, and not one word is said to your neighbor or is one number even exchanged. I've gotten in more conversations while waiting in line with my legs crossed after eating a sausage that didn't agree with me, praying I didn't shit my pants before the second quarter started, than I do here. I can imagine the social hour enfolding as we idly wait for our appointments. Gentleman A leans over to gentle lady B, coughing lightly to rouse her attention, which the undiscerning ear might hear as only an attempt to clear the phlegm. "Excuse me," he starts. "I couldn't help noticing that your eyes, behind the puffy red exterior, are exquisite." She flushes -- perhaps flattered, perhaps feverish -- and after agreeing to connect post lab results, Cupid puffs his chest with pride. Another match made!
Instead of plundering this treasure trove, we as a group unanimously choose not to acknowledge the person wheezing next to us. Though I've never donned camo fatigues and picked ducks from the sky in my life, my nose is buried in "Gun Dog" magazine with unbreakable concentration. The man next to me is studying "Good Housekeeping" with such fascination I'm compelled to do a nut check. Just to make sure. But really it's all luck of the draw in the reading material rotation. There's always the magazine that we all want to read but won't because the guy who put it down as he trudged his way towards the nurse calling his name from a clipboard didn't look too good. So there sits "People Magazine", its cover's promise of a tell-all "Who's sleeping with whom in Hollywood" teasing us as we eye it from afar, seeing if anyone else dare approach it. Then in walks a newbie, fresh from the elevator. She can barely contain her look of triumph -- the Holy Grail of waiting rooms, there for the taking! She has something we don't. Yes, we all concur in silence. Yes, you do. A nice case of hepatitis B with onset Molluscum contagiosum compliments of the leper who just left the room. We smirk into our magazines that we secretly wish we weren't reading, and I snuggle deep into my hard, merciless chair, contentedly flipping the page of my clean copy of "Gun Dog". Any why I do declare! If this wasn't the best damn article on coon hound training tips I ever read, I don't know what is.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Roe is Me
You have roe in your teeth, he tells me.
I hate roe in my teeth. More than just because the neon orange balls look ridiculous as you sit there grinning and chatting oblivious to your marred mouth. But because they come replete with grappling hooks used to anchor into a crevice, only to surprise you later in the day, a hidden land mine waiting to explode. The sneaky suckers lie in wait until your mind has long drifted from the spicy tuna roll you had for lunch; you’re thinking about laundry or sex or if you’d rather be able to fly or see through people’s clothes. Or read minds, which would either help or exacerbate my social anxiety. At this point the foe roe would slide out of its hiding spot, where it schemed up tactical approaches all day, inching down to my lower tooth in wait. Which is exactly the moment the trap would spring, me biting through its squishy barrier, bursting it like a pregnant woman’s water. A sea urchin going into labor next to my left incisor. A disgusting, albeit intriguing, thought.
So I was happy to have the roe pointed out to me, saving me from the horror of an unexpected egg explosion. There are times when a revisit to your past meal is a delightful surprise, say burping up the $30 Filet Mignon you devoured and washed down with a sumptuous bottle of Pinot for dinner. That’s practically doubling your money’s worth and an impecunious imbiber such as myself rubs her hands together with glee here. The exception: sushi. Simply stated, sushi reruns are never good. Raw fish is only good once around and in fact, the vaguely fishy tinge developing in my mouth’s memory as I think it over makes me squeamish, certainly guaranteeing I’ll never develop a taste for lesbianism.
Some, or maybe most, wouldn’t say a damn thing about the lodged particle butted against my gum line. Facial anomalies are the 500-pound gorilla in the room no one talks about, but everyone is taking a picture of when you’re not looking. They all know it’s there--they’re looking right at it from the corner of their eye, thinking about it, giving looks to anyone else within visual range to confirm they got a load of it too. The other day, ignorant to the large, dark glob of gooey chocolate below my lower lip, I had an animated five-minute conversation with a receptionist. Looking like a small tarantula poised to devour my entire face, she said nothing of it; I’d bet my last dollar as I walked out the door she picked up the phone to squeal a regaling of the story to a coworker. I consider it karmic retribution, taking into account the many times I’ve never said a word at another’s expense. My friend’s half-blind grandmother consistently drew her eyebrows on with cobalt blue eyeliner, creating startling if not strangely peaceful arches across her face. We never said a thing while we stared over teacup rims at the celestial-looking bursts of blue or during grocery shopping expeditions where she would raise them while mentally weighing the prices of canned soup, only to laugh about it later over some beers where both of us failed to tell the other they had foam on their upper lip. It’s a bitch, karma.
My mother’s friend, who’s body has aged but who’s mind still holds firm to her 80’s rock n’ roll youth and subsequent sense of style, draws a thick dark scarlet line around her lips, forgetting or perhaps refusing to fill it in with lipstick. While she’s not half blind she may be half a sandwich short of a picnic as she considers it, how do you say, attractive; in reality it makes it look like she’s been giving head all day and forgot to reapply. And we all laugh uproariously behind her back over this fact, coming up with new nicknames like Clown Mouth, Ronald McDon’t Mouth and The Joker. None of which are really that funny when you see them on paper, but that doesn’t stop our gut busting sessions. And she has no reason to rethink her application technique because its merit is confirmed in the simple fact she still gets dates. What she doesn’t realize is it’s because she’s advertising her oral proficiency. She may, however, be on to something. The only thing my oral proficiency ever got me was a mother’s swat across the bottom and a spot on the debate team. And I don’t recall the debate team ever pulling me any ass.
I hate roe in my teeth. More than just because the neon orange balls look ridiculous as you sit there grinning and chatting oblivious to your marred mouth. But because they come replete with grappling hooks used to anchor into a crevice, only to surprise you later in the day, a hidden land mine waiting to explode. The sneaky suckers lie in wait until your mind has long drifted from the spicy tuna roll you had for lunch; you’re thinking about laundry or sex or if you’d rather be able to fly or see through people’s clothes. Or read minds, which would either help or exacerbate my social anxiety. At this point the foe roe would slide out of its hiding spot, where it schemed up tactical approaches all day, inching down to my lower tooth in wait. Which is exactly the moment the trap would spring, me biting through its squishy barrier, bursting it like a pregnant woman’s water. A sea urchin going into labor next to my left incisor. A disgusting, albeit intriguing, thought.
So I was happy to have the roe pointed out to me, saving me from the horror of an unexpected egg explosion. There are times when a revisit to your past meal is a delightful surprise, say burping up the $30 Filet Mignon you devoured and washed down with a sumptuous bottle of Pinot for dinner. That’s practically doubling your money’s worth and an impecunious imbiber such as myself rubs her hands together with glee here. The exception: sushi. Simply stated, sushi reruns are never good. Raw fish is only good once around and in fact, the vaguely fishy tinge developing in my mouth’s memory as I think it over makes me squeamish, certainly guaranteeing I’ll never develop a taste for lesbianism.
Some, or maybe most, wouldn’t say a damn thing about the lodged particle butted against my gum line. Facial anomalies are the 500-pound gorilla in the room no one talks about, but everyone is taking a picture of when you’re not looking. They all know it’s there--they’re looking right at it from the corner of their eye, thinking about it, giving looks to anyone else within visual range to confirm they got a load of it too. The other day, ignorant to the large, dark glob of gooey chocolate below my lower lip, I had an animated five-minute conversation with a receptionist. Looking like a small tarantula poised to devour my entire face, she said nothing of it; I’d bet my last dollar as I walked out the door she picked up the phone to squeal a regaling of the story to a coworker. I consider it karmic retribution, taking into account the many times I’ve never said a word at another’s expense. My friend’s half-blind grandmother consistently drew her eyebrows on with cobalt blue eyeliner, creating startling if not strangely peaceful arches across her face. We never said a thing while we stared over teacup rims at the celestial-looking bursts of blue or during grocery shopping expeditions where she would raise them while mentally weighing the prices of canned soup, only to laugh about it later over some beers where both of us failed to tell the other they had foam on their upper lip. It’s a bitch, karma.
My mother’s friend, who’s body has aged but who’s mind still holds firm to her 80’s rock n’ roll youth and subsequent sense of style, draws a thick dark scarlet line around her lips, forgetting or perhaps refusing to fill it in with lipstick. While she’s not half blind she may be half a sandwich short of a picnic as she considers it, how do you say, attractive; in reality it makes it look like she’s been giving head all day and forgot to reapply. And we all laugh uproariously behind her back over this fact, coming up with new nicknames like Clown Mouth, Ronald McDon’t Mouth and The Joker. None of which are really that funny when you see them on paper, but that doesn’t stop our gut busting sessions. And she has no reason to rethink her application technique because its merit is confirmed in the simple fact she still gets dates. What she doesn’t realize is it’s because she’s advertising her oral proficiency. She may, however, be on to something. The only thing my oral proficiency ever got me was a mother’s swat across the bottom and a spot on the debate team. And I don’t recall the debate team ever pulling me any ass.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
How to Steal a Heart
Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near? How do I love thee (I'll count the ways)? What level of debt adequately proves my heart's burning desire? These are the big questions rearing their heads over the course of February 1st to 4:59p February 14th (everyone knows you have until 5p the day of to pull something out of your ass).
I've seen all sorts of solicitations for bribing your loved one to fall madly in love with you. Jewelry (thank you DeBeers for your commitment to years of anthropological and psychological study to establish what truly makes a woman "tick"), crappy mass-produced floral arrangements thrown together by monkeys who would otherwise fling poo from an FTD shop "near you!" (nicely tossed into an equally crappy vase -- BONUS), and the newest testament of love with technological relevance: a CELL PHONE. Get one for you and her. Because you aren't connected at the hip enough already and everyone knows that punching a string of seven digits strengthens your love bond.
Oh oh oh...lest I forget the chocolate. Please do not forget the mandatory melt-in-the-mouth pure goodness, molded into bite-sized morsels and wrapped up in a purdy box n' bow. Of course, I use the term "pure goodness" loosely. In 2007, the Chocolate Manufacturers Association lobbied the FDA to change the legal definition of chocolate, letting them substitute partially hydrogenated vegetable oils for cocoa butter in addition to using artificial sweeteners and milk substitutes. I don't know about you, but my momma always said I needed to eat more veggies -- and now, thanks to chocolatier shortcuts, I can consume oil of vegetables in a tastier form. And it's only partially hydrogenated!
And here's more uplifting news for those still ready to hurl their Hersey bars out the window. In 2006, the FDA lowered (by one-fifth) the amount of lead permissible in candy! Of course compliance is only voluntary and while chocolate has one of the higher concentrations of lead among products that constitute a typical Westerner's diet, a 2006 review article stated that there is a "paucity of data on lead concentrations in chocolate products". Wheeeee! Bring on the chocolate fountain, I'm talking a bath in it.
Veteran V-day participants might be savvy enough to combine the flower and chocolate mandates into one snazzy gift sure to make her flail about with unbridled lust (oh, and love) with...you ready for this? Long stemmed milk chocolate roses! That's right, you read between the lines correctly: two birds with one stone, my friend. Best of all, these flowering professions of love don't wilt and can last as long as her will-power does!
And if you really love each other, with your newly purchased mobiles you can perform daily check-ins, ensuring her vital signs haven't diminished and she's free of any lead poisoning symptoms, such as retching, cramping, fatigue, and headaches (violent sobs are not attributed to lead but may be the result of a poorly-crafted Valentine). Because really nothing says "I love you" like the concern of a guilt-ridden boyfriend who may or may not have inadvertently given you lead-laced chocolate. Happy Valentine's Day!
I've seen all sorts of solicitations for bribing your loved one to fall madly in love with you. Jewelry (thank you DeBeers for your commitment to years of anthropological and psychological study to establish what truly makes a woman "tick"), crappy mass-produced floral arrangements thrown together by monkeys who would otherwise fling poo from an FTD shop "near you!" (nicely tossed into an equally crappy vase -- BONUS), and the newest testament of love with technological relevance: a CELL PHONE. Get one for you and her. Because you aren't connected at the hip enough already and everyone knows that punching a string of seven digits strengthens your love bond.
Oh oh oh...lest I forget the chocolate. Please do not forget the mandatory melt-in-the-mouth pure goodness, molded into bite-sized morsels and wrapped up in a purdy box n' bow. Of course, I use the term "pure goodness" loosely. In 2007, the Chocolate Manufacturers Association lobbied the FDA to change the legal definition of chocolate, letting them substitute partially hydrogenated vegetable oils for cocoa butter in addition to using artificial sweeteners and milk substitutes. I don't know about you, but my momma always said I needed to eat more veggies -- and now, thanks to chocolatier shortcuts, I can consume oil of vegetables in a tastier form. And it's only partially hydrogenated!
And here's more uplifting news for those still ready to hurl their Hersey bars out the window. In 2006, the FDA lowered (by one-fifth) the amount of lead permissible in candy! Of course compliance is only voluntary and while chocolate has one of the higher concentrations of lead among products that constitute a typical Westerner's diet, a 2006 review article stated that there is a "paucity of data on lead concentrations in chocolate products". Wheeeee! Bring on the chocolate fountain, I'm talking a bath in it.
Veteran V-day participants might be savvy enough to combine the flower and chocolate mandates into one snazzy gift sure to make her flail about with unbridled lust (oh, and love) with...you ready for this? Long stemmed milk chocolate roses! That's right, you read between the lines correctly: two birds with one stone, my friend. Best of all, these flowering professions of love don't wilt and can last as long as her will-power does!
And if you really love each other, with your newly purchased mobiles you can perform daily check-ins, ensuring her vital signs haven't diminished and she's free of any lead poisoning symptoms, such as retching, cramping, fatigue, and headaches (violent sobs are not attributed to lead but may be the result of a poorly-crafted Valentine). Because really nothing says "I love you" like the concern of a guilt-ridden boyfriend who may or may not have inadvertently given you lead-laced chocolate. Happy Valentine's Day!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
To the Redhead at Point Defiance Zoo
I lay on my couch, staring contemplatively at the Spackled ceiling, saline drops of sadness pooling in my eyes as I thought of my long-passed pops, tragically playing scenes staring my 12 year-old self and him in my head. He left when I was nine months-old, his passion for and commitment to drugs taking up a good portion of his waking hours -- but dammit, if he had not spent his money on dime bags and eight balls, he would have shelled out a couple of bucks for a birthday card now and then. I know he would have, I can feel it in my gut. Or was the the left over Mu Shu Pork from Panda Palace? Either way, after 10 minutes the absurdity of my blubbering image hit me and I laughed between sobs, sounding like a choked gurgle, at the histrionic display of self-pity, thinking "get a hold of yourself, Bex." I mentally shook my shoulders until the sense lodged firmly back in place, then heaved myself out of the couch's comfortable embrace and pulled out my laptop -- where I sullenly skimmed the "Missed Connections" on Craigslist instead. Damn you, Craig and your lists of lost or never-yet-had loves. With each title I lamented my lack of presence there on the screen. Why can't I be the adored redhead seen ogling the gorillas on Sunday? Aside from being blonde and avoiding zoos all together, tell me why?
A well-meaning friend, tired of seeing me trudge through life alone as he beamed with newly-engaged bliss, suggested a little thing called "online dating". I may have had a look of disgust on my face at the time, but I swore I was open to considering it. So I simultaneously considered and crossed off while we dissected my life over California rolls and miso. Simply put: I do not do that.
Yet eight days and 43 solo meals later I found myself selecting the damn three month option (just shy of a $200 commitment)on eHarmony. The heavens only know what inspired me, though I will point a bitter finger at the handsome cowboy I met two weeks prior (aka "The Catalyst) who lit a fire under my cold, detached ass making me question my rigid single status.
And I tell you--it's liberating. Now I can see it in black and white, bold-face type when someone closes the match because they have not one iota of interest in pursuing communication. And you even have a list of choices to choose from: other, no chemistry, didn't like your "must haves", couldn't see us between the sheets (no, no...that's just one I want them to adopt). So no more wasting time pondering possibilities, such as "he lost my number", "he secretly had a girlfriend and felt horrified at our tryst", or my personal favorite, "he was electrocuted while trying to dial my number in a thunderstorm because the lightening reminded him our first kiss". Yah. That's a good one. So thank you, eHarmony for taking that from me. I'm a better, more grounded person because of it.
Subsequently, I've gone back to reading the Missed Connections with a box of Kleenex next to me. And what do you know -- I was in there! Certain as my name is Bex that it was me, the blonde with natural beauty spotted at the University Trader Joe's. My admirer was in black, eying me from a far. Excitedly, I remember him. His pale skin complemented by the dark hoodie he sported. The beady eyes boring through me. The way my skin crawled when I repeatedly ran into him aisle after aisle. I sit back, a huge shit-eating grin on my face. To the blonde sneaking away from TJ's... I AM a missed connection. And pervy stalkers be damned, my faith is restored that you can meet people the good ol' fashioned way.
A well-meaning friend, tired of seeing me trudge through life alone as he beamed with newly-engaged bliss, suggested a little thing called "online dating". I may have had a look of disgust on my face at the time, but I swore I was open to considering it. So I simultaneously considered and crossed off while we dissected my life over California rolls and miso. Simply put: I do not do that.
Yet eight days and 43 solo meals later I found myself selecting the damn three month option (just shy of a $200 commitment)on eHarmony. The heavens only know what inspired me, though I will point a bitter finger at the handsome cowboy I met two weeks prior (aka "The Catalyst) who lit a fire under my cold, detached ass making me question my rigid single status.
And I tell you--it's liberating. Now I can see it in black and white, bold-face type when someone closes the match because they have not one iota of interest in pursuing communication. And you even have a list of choices to choose from: other, no chemistry, didn't like your "must haves", couldn't see us between the sheets (no, no...that's just one I want them to adopt). So no more wasting time pondering possibilities, such as "he lost my number", "he secretly had a girlfriend and felt horrified at our tryst", or my personal favorite, "he was electrocuted while trying to dial my number in a thunderstorm because the lightening reminded him our first kiss". Yah. That's a good one. So thank you, eHarmony for taking that from me. I'm a better, more grounded person because of it.
Subsequently, I've gone back to reading the Missed Connections with a box of Kleenex next to me. And what do you know -- I was in there! Certain as my name is Bex that it was me, the blonde with natural beauty spotted at the University Trader Joe's. My admirer was in black, eying me from a far. Excitedly, I remember him. His pale skin complemented by the dark hoodie he sported. The beady eyes boring through me. The way my skin crawled when I repeatedly ran into him aisle after aisle. I sit back, a huge shit-eating grin on my face. To the blonde sneaking away from TJ's... I AM a missed connection. And pervy stalkers be damned, my faith is restored that you can meet people the good ol' fashioned way.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Twat Talk
I'm not sure if this is an isolated occurrence--or if it happens to myriads of women across the globe. If so, I think an online support group is in order--women who need vaginal strength unite! Crotch confidence if you will. We can have wrist cuffs and special cyber handshakes...maybe throw in some spandex suits. Eh, EH? Or if no one else visualizes a score of Wonder Women converging, I'll scrap the cuffs; they'd just clunk on my keyboard while typing anyway. I may or may not be wearing a full body spandex leotard whilst at my compture though. No promises.
Perhaps it's just me, but I feel...strange...giving myself a pussy pep talk. Social networking is all up in our digital grills, why not *ahem* elsewhere? Just think, how awesome would it be if I could find a space where others shared triumphant stories (and tips) of getting back in the game after a long sexless stretch. I termed mine a "sabbatical", which lent more ostensible legitimacy if not complete contextual irrelevancy. Because really, who would ask probing questions pertaining to a person's abstinence sabbatical?
But I stood corrected. I forgot the office whore. And by "whore" I mean the "better-and-more-fucked-than-thou" married gal who delights in the band of metal and compressed carbon circling her spindly little finger. She flashes it around like her husband personally stripped the platinum from the earth and forged it with a diamond he single-handedly wrenched from the hand of an African just for her. Seriously? You're going to ask me WHY? Oh I don't know, Stacie, maybe it's because the way to eternal bliss and spiritual awakening isn't found through the vaginal tract, you shallow sex fiend. Or perhaps I was too busy solving world hunger one small nameless village at a time in the southern hemisphere and I was overwhelmed with larger issues outside of my own carnal contentment. Note I said perhaps. Incidentally, that ring your sporting could put food in those bellies for a year. Just sayin'.
So here was the scene in which I found myself: Bathroom, pre-date Friday night. Underwear on, make-up not. I exhaled deeply, looking down with my arms extended and hands holding firmly to the wash basin to prove I meant business.
ME: "Alright pussy. It's time for a serious chat -- woman to, er...well you get the point."
VAGINA: Silence
ME: "I know it's been a while for you -- us. And I want you to do your damnedest to work with me on this. None of that dry spell nonsense. We're not Oakies during the Dust Bowl! And it wouldn't hurt to act like you're enjoying it, ya know? Maybe a few strong clenches or a quiver. Do we see eye-to-eye?" (Yes, I realize at this point I was making odd metaphor choices.)
VAGINA: *belabored sigh* "Fiiiiine"
NOOOO, come on now. We all know vaginas can't talk. But I knew what it was thinking. And here is where a support system would have saved me from this unsettling chat with my nether parts. Because if I enjoyed one-sided conversations with the communication-disabled, I would have stayed with my ex-boyfriend.
Perhaps it's just me, but I feel...strange...giving myself a pussy pep talk. Social networking is all up in our digital grills, why not *ahem* elsewhere? Just think, how awesome would it be if I could find a space where others shared triumphant stories (and tips) of getting back in the game after a long sexless stretch. I termed mine a "sabbatical", which lent more ostensible legitimacy if not complete contextual irrelevancy. Because really, who would ask probing questions pertaining to a person's abstinence sabbatical?
But I stood corrected. I forgot the office whore. And by "whore" I mean the "better-and-more-fucked-than-thou" married gal who delights in the band of metal and compressed carbon circling her spindly little finger. She flashes it around like her husband personally stripped the platinum from the earth and forged it with a diamond he single-handedly wrenched from the hand of an African just for her. Seriously? You're going to ask me WHY? Oh I don't know, Stacie, maybe it's because the way to eternal bliss and spiritual awakening isn't found through the vaginal tract, you shallow sex fiend. Or perhaps I was too busy solving world hunger one small nameless village at a time in the southern hemisphere and I was overwhelmed with larger issues outside of my own carnal contentment. Note I said perhaps. Incidentally, that ring your sporting could put food in those bellies for a year. Just sayin'.
So here was the scene in which I found myself: Bathroom, pre-date Friday night. Underwear on, make-up not. I exhaled deeply, looking down with my arms extended and hands holding firmly to the wash basin to prove I meant business.
ME: "Alright pussy. It's time for a serious chat -- woman to, er...well you get the point."
VAGINA: Silence
ME: "I know it's been a while for you -- us. And I want you to do your damnedest to work with me on this. None of that dry spell nonsense. We're not Oakies during the Dust Bowl! And it wouldn't hurt to act like you're enjoying it, ya know? Maybe a few strong clenches or a quiver. Do we see eye-to-eye?" (Yes, I realize at this point I was making odd metaphor choices.)
VAGINA: *belabored sigh* "Fiiiiine"
NOOOO, come on now. We all know vaginas can't talk. But I knew what it was thinking. And here is where a support system would have saved me from this unsettling chat with my nether parts. Because if I enjoyed one-sided conversations with the communication-disabled, I would have stayed with my ex-boyfriend.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
OM(g)
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.
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.
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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