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.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
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.
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