As I was driving home this evening I happened to get caught at a downtown red light, one that afforded me an unobstructed view of the early evening sky. In the distance I could see a plane, obviously in it’s beginning efforts of climbing to a respectable altitude, and I was struck by the obscene angle by which it was traveling. It seemed impossible that the passengers inside weren’t being thrown upwards and over their uncomfortably close seats and I immediately envisioned the warning printed on bags of chips, proclaiming that Contents May Settle During Shipping.
For whatever reason I thought about the first time I’d ever been on a plane. The destination was Maastricht, a small university town about an hour’s train ride outside of Amersterdam. My friend Kasi and I had spent a weekend early in the spring semester writing grant proposals for our trip, researching plane fares and in general attempting to contain our excitement at embarking on our first-ever across the pond excursion. When our grants came through we immediately sat down to book our flights, an adventure in and of itself as Kasi had spent the entirety of her previous college career laboriously typing upon a word processor, eschewing The Internet as a thing of demonic possession. She was determined to make her reservations on her own, however, and knowing Kasi as I did, I finally slipped out of my room, leaving Kasi to her own devices and praying my computer would be in one piece by the time I got back.
Our tickets came a week later and both of us slipped them between the pages of our crisp passports, complaining of the hideousness of our passport photos. We’d scheduled the trip around spring break, choosing to miss three days of classes on either end of the vacation to allow for more travel time and recuperation from jet lag, which strangely I never felt. Probably because the entire time overseas I stuck almost religiously to my own local time, not caring that I woke up in early afternoon because the museums were open until five and the hash bars were open all night.
When it came time for us to leave, Kasi and I packed our suitcases full of everything imaginable. We would be staying with friends in the international dorms so they’d prepared us for the weather but it’s amazing how the words ‘Spring’ and ‘Break’ can infiltrate your head so that you still pack a few tank tops and shorts, just in case the weather should warm up. In March. In The Netherlands. Right-o.
We were scheduled to fly out of Little Rock at 4pm on a Wednesday but due to weather or plane malfunction or just some newbie with an affection for the delete key, our flight was canceled for the evening and we were given meal vouchers as compensation. So Kasi and I ate dinner and then drove the thirty miles back to Conway to wait out yet another day before our trip could begin. The next day we showed up in the airport again, still wearing our polar fleece ‘traveling clothes’ which looked nothing so much like actual clothing as soft and cuddly pajamas.
The first flight from Little Rock to Memphis was horrendous, and I remember thinking that if I had to survive this turmoil and tossing about I would surely never make it through the upcoming flights from Memphis to JFK, JFK to Amsterdam and Amsterdam to Maastricht. But the flight to New York was more subdued and the flight across the ocean was much like sitting on a cloud with a constantly rumbly tummy. The only parts I truly hated were the take off and landing, feeling myself either pushed back against my seat by some invisible and unkind hand or pitched forward against the paltry restraint of my seat belt.
The trip itself was fabulous. We spent hours each day roaming the streets of Maastricht and passing ourselves off as students in the dorm cafeteria, feasting on bread with butter and delectable chocolate sprinkles, avoiding the strange meats in the spaghetti and the other meats just in general. We made trips into Amsterdam and found a bar that was actually a boat permanently moored to the side of a canal. We took a four day trip to Paris where we climbed the steps of Sacre Coeur, amusing ourselves to no end with our ridiculous French accents, relying on my two years of high school French to count out bits of change and say things like ‘Laisssez moi tranquille!’ (leave me alone!) when shabbily dressed gypsy women tried to con the shoes off our feet.
Before the trip I’d convinced a new professor to let me take one of the media department’s new digital camcorders and I spent the majority of my time filming our bus rides and train rides and various museum excursions, one of them being a tour of the famous Amsterdam Sex Museum. The museum itself was worth far more than the paltry two dollars we paid to get in because inside were six, seven and eight foot tall penile replicas, along with various artifacts ranging from carved jade depicting rather amusing acts by extremely flexible individuals to short films detailing the evolution of sex (and our reactions to it) throughout the ages.
In my tv cabinet reside two small tapes that hold footage of Kasi and I inside this museum and one day I will befriend someone with access to a converter and the willingness to transfer these to DVD. Because one Christmas many years from now, I’m going to present to Kasi the footage of her standing directly under the curved overhang of an eight foot tall penis, lovingly throwing her leg around the base and ungracefully falling on her ass. And then I’m going to throw in the part where we ran across a shopkeeper who was quite enthralled with our Americaness and insisted on showing us his American Dollars, which happened to be very realistic looking dollars except for the fact that on the front, where George Washington’s stoic and immobile face usually resides, was Monica Lewinsky paying special attention to something that was most definitely not a cigar.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Spies Like Us
My oh my oh MY.
This afternoon I spent the majority of my time cleaning. Not because I really wanted to but because the one place I wanted to clean was and remains unavailable for cleaning.
You see, around 3am I woke up to this utterly atrocious splattering noise. I couldn't possibly imagine what it was but immediately blamed it on The Demonspawn. Upon further inspection, however, I ascertained that The Demonspawn were innocent of my accusations with the real culprit being my bathroom ceiling. Apparently it had been storing up a filthy present for a good long time and chose the middle of the night to make it's grand entrance, pouring and splashing a ricockulous (look YoJ, I used it in a sentence) amount of water all over my bathroom floor.
It would have been too much to ask that it burst over the bathtub, wouldn't it.
There wasn't much I could do in the middle of the night so I waited until morning to ring up my landlord. He sent over one of his maintenance men to cut out the sagging plaster and while I appreciate the gesture, all that did was put a layer of soggy dust over the already soppy floor. And because the ceiling is still dripping there's not much point in me cleaning it up, not to mention the fact that my bathroom is so small that there's no place I can stand to clean up the mess without putting myself in the line of (dirty dripping water) fire.
So in lieu of cleaning the bathroom I found myself angrily scrubbing the windows and polishing the armoire and mopping the floors. I scooped the cat litter and took out the trash and lint rolled the furniture. And then I decided I'd clean up the back porch, because I'd let it go all summer and in three short months my pretty glider had been covered in a layer of sticky dust and the poor potted plants had shriveled up inside their terra cotta pots. The plants have actually been dead for a year but I've just been ignoring them, hoping that one day they'd magically sprout again. I have a complete lack of anything pertaining to a green thumb and the opressive humidity found in this part of the country was the biggest deterrent in replanting some greenery.
As I was grabbing the broom off the wall I happened to look outside and spied an unusual vehicle. Not unusual as in lime green unusual but unusual as in I know the two cars that park on my neighbor's parking pad and this shiny SUV wasn't one of them, not to mention that it was parked at an odd angle. My next door neighbor is what you might call cranky and I almost went outside to tell this new person to move their car before Mr. Crankpot got home but decided whoever this was, they could fight their own battles and secretly I was kind of amused that the SUV was blocking the entrance of the driveway.
Upon going out on the back porch to begin the process of sweeping away a summer's worth of crap, I saw a woman in her mid-sixties walking around the edge of my neighbor's house, the part where the outdoor stairs lead to the upstairs apartment that Mr. Crankpot rents out. I smiled and waived and noticed she was getting various cleaning accoutrements from the back of the SUV so I stopped my sweeping to ask her if she was moving in.
No, she said, just my son.
About that time I see, out of the corner of my eye, a rather tall and broad shouldered individual emerging from the side of the building. The woman smiles at me and introduces her son, Jake, and I walk over and shake his hand.
Hell-o, sugar. My name is Robin and I'll be your cute and SINGLE SINGLE SINGLE neighbor. How ever can I assist you today?
Oh, you're gainfully employed? And you speak in complete sentences? And you have all of your natural born teeth? WHAT MORE COULD I ASK?
Now, guess who's going to be making a concerned effort to take her evening coffee on the back porch? GUESS.
This afternoon I spent the majority of my time cleaning. Not because I really wanted to but because the one place I wanted to clean was and remains unavailable for cleaning.
You see, around 3am I woke up to this utterly atrocious splattering noise. I couldn't possibly imagine what it was but immediately blamed it on The Demonspawn. Upon further inspection, however, I ascertained that The Demonspawn were innocent of my accusations with the real culprit being my bathroom ceiling. Apparently it had been storing up a filthy present for a good long time and chose the middle of the night to make it's grand entrance, pouring and splashing a ricockulous (look YoJ, I used it in a sentence) amount of water all over my bathroom floor.
It would have been too much to ask that it burst over the bathtub, wouldn't it.
There wasn't much I could do in the middle of the night so I waited until morning to ring up my landlord. He sent over one of his maintenance men to cut out the sagging plaster and while I appreciate the gesture, all that did was put a layer of soggy dust over the already soppy floor. And because the ceiling is still dripping there's not much point in me cleaning it up, not to mention the fact that my bathroom is so small that there's no place I can stand to clean up the mess without putting myself in the line of (dirty dripping water) fire.
So in lieu of cleaning the bathroom I found myself angrily scrubbing the windows and polishing the armoire and mopping the floors. I scooped the cat litter and took out the trash and lint rolled the furniture. And then I decided I'd clean up the back porch, because I'd let it go all summer and in three short months my pretty glider had been covered in a layer of sticky dust and the poor potted plants had shriveled up inside their terra cotta pots. The plants have actually been dead for a year but I've just been ignoring them, hoping that one day they'd magically sprout again. I have a complete lack of anything pertaining to a green thumb and the opressive humidity found in this part of the country was the biggest deterrent in replanting some greenery.
As I was grabbing the broom off the wall I happened to look outside and spied an unusual vehicle. Not unusual as in lime green unusual but unusual as in I know the two cars that park on my neighbor's parking pad and this shiny SUV wasn't one of them, not to mention that it was parked at an odd angle. My next door neighbor is what you might call cranky and I almost went outside to tell this new person to move their car before Mr. Crankpot got home but decided whoever this was, they could fight their own battles and secretly I was kind of amused that the SUV was blocking the entrance of the driveway.
Upon going out on the back porch to begin the process of sweeping away a summer's worth of crap, I saw a woman in her mid-sixties walking around the edge of my neighbor's house, the part where the outdoor stairs lead to the upstairs apartment that Mr. Crankpot rents out. I smiled and waived and noticed she was getting various cleaning accoutrements from the back of the SUV so I stopped my sweeping to ask her if she was moving in.
No, she said, just my son.
About that time I see, out of the corner of my eye, a rather tall and broad shouldered individual emerging from the side of the building. The woman smiles at me and introduces her son, Jake, and I walk over and shake his hand.
Hell-o, sugar. My name is Robin and I'll be your cute and SINGLE SINGLE SINGLE neighbor. How ever can I assist you today?
Oh, you're gainfully employed? And you speak in complete sentences? And you have all of your natural born teeth? WHAT MORE COULD I ASK?
Now, guess who's going to be making a concerned effort to take her evening coffee on the back porch? GUESS.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Droplet
I have been trying to write a follow up to The Gospel for what seems like an interminable amount of time now, though in reality it’s only been like a week or so. Every time I go to talk about how the girls in my cabin made it their mission in life to convert me, how they attempted to lay hands upon me in hopes that something other than a virulent strain of bronchitis would find it’s way into my chest cavity, something like the Blessed Lord and Savior, I end up with one really good sentence and then one qualifying sentence. Like the one that’s coming up, where I’m going to say that while I’m sort of making fun here I’m not actually MAKING FUN, if that makes sense.
Because the thing is, I totally don’t care what you worship or even if you worship. I don’t care if you tithe to Maximus Daximus, the god of shag carpeting. Really, I don’t. The only time I’m going to get up in your bees-wax is when you try to convert everyone else to your particular sect of shag-carpet worshipping, because obviously it’s the only way to go. Also I don’t so much like it if you fire missiles or make things go big boom to make a point about how cool your religion is. And I don't like it when you tell little girls that if their family doesn’t convert to Southern Baptist then they’re all going to hell. Overall, I just want everyone to sing hippie songs and frolic in fields of flowers and not get so uptight about how MY church says mini skirts make you a slut and MY church says drinking the grape juice of fire makes you a heathen and MY church says you should wear yellow on Wednesdays because if you don’t, you’re going to burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.
And since I obviously won’t be finishing up The Gospel story I’ll just move along to the Events of My Day.
This morning my alarm clock, which is really my cell phone, went off at 6:34. After I hit the snooze button three times I eventually picked it up and squinted at the screen, attempting to see the time. In theory I should know the time because each snooze is seven minutes long but this is why I set the alarm to go off on an uneven denomination. There’s not a chance in hell I’d be able to calculate 6:34am plus seven minutes plus seven minutes plus seven minutes before at least lunch and eventually I’m forced to pick up the phone to see the actual time. All so that I may have a heart attack and jump out of bed because it’s wicked late and I’ve still got to iron my pants.
But when I flicked open the phone I saw that I had a text message, which was odd because I didn’t have one when I laid down for bed and I didn’t have one when the sun came up so sometime in between those moments I must have slept, hurah! But my excitement was short lived because I saw the text was from an area code where my parents live and I had one of those moments when I thought something had happened, oh my, panic is welling and then I realized I hadn’t yet ingested any caffeine and what drug was I smoking to think that either of my parents could send a text message. (Hi, Mama! I’m not really making fun of you here, swear. And you know you rolled your eyes a bit when you bought Mama Sylvia a DVD player two years ago and still it sits, unused on top of her TV. So this is just like that, only I’m telling the internet. But look how far you’ve come in the cell phone age! You carry it with you almost all the time now! And you call me from places to tell me they have shoes on sale! You DO love me!)
As it turns out this text was from my brother. Oh, you don’t remember him? Let me refresh your memory. He was the one who claimed a kamikaze black dog ran out in front of his car which forced him into the ditch on the side of the highway. And then, because this was totally the best choice ever, he decided to run down the country highway at like four in the morning. Where he was subsequently picked up by the county po-leece and taken to the pokey. And then my father and I spent an entire day looking for him, calling his friends, not finding him, growing more and more grim as the day wore on. Knowing you don’t just leave a car on the side of the road, keys and cell phone and guitar scattered amongst the seats.
Obviously there was no kamikaze black dog and a day later the true story came out, the story that involved a bit of excessive drinking (surprise!) and a black out (shocked!) and my brother’s insane ability to pilot a motor vehicle whilst completely unaware and probably not even awake.
But here’s the thing: I’m not sure I can ever convey to him what that was like, how it felt to sit in my apartment all day and be absolutely convinced that he was gone, that I was never going to see him again. How I sat in a chair in my darkened living room and stared at the wall with tears falling down my cheeks. What it felt like to have something hurt that godamn much and have not a single mark on my body to accuse as the culprit.
After a conversation the next day that involved him proclaiming his innocence and me trying, without success, to tell him how scared I was (oddly enough, this is hard to do when both parties are shouting) he called me a bitch and hung up the phone. Not a word was spoken between us since, not until my mother came to town and tried to force a friendly family dinner on the three of us. While there I asked the right questions, made the right gestures, smiled at the appropriate times. But it wasn’t real. An entire trash bag of beer cans and liquor bottles was literally overflowing onto his kitchen floor and my fear of someday, soon, looking at my brother through dirty plexiglass or inside a satin lined coffin was even more a reality.
And this text message, well, I’m not sure how much it helped. He said he just wanted to say I Love You. That he knows he never calls but he loves me. And while this sounds a bit like a Lionel Ritchie song, you should know that no one in my family is of the inclination to go around spouting off I Love You’s and Can’t Live Without You’s. Even when I say it to my friends I say it in my sing-song voice, the same voice I use when I pick up a pair of five-hundred dollar shoes and talk directly into their shoe depths, proclaiming my unwavering love for them. It’s not that I love my friends with the same part of my brain that I love pretty shoes, it’s just that saying it like you mean it feels kind of like the morning after you ran naked through the What-a-Burger.
Also, this text came through at 12:51am and I know where he goes on Wednesday nights. It sure ain’t church camp, unless church camp serves dollar beer and greasy pizza. So I appreciate the sentimentality, I appreciate that he thought about me because I think about him. I think about him and I worry about him and I can never tell him that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, convinced that he didn’t make it home okay this time.
It was three hours later before I could say it back. It was three hours because it took that long for me to cry in the shower and get dressed for work. I had to stand in the cafeteria breakfast line and stare intently at the price of biscuits while my friend admonished me for not immediately replying. I had to flip open my phone a half dozen times. But I finally said it back, and I mean it. No sing-song voice.
Because the thing is, I totally don’t care what you worship or even if you worship. I don’t care if you tithe to Maximus Daximus, the god of shag carpeting. Really, I don’t. The only time I’m going to get up in your bees-wax is when you try to convert everyone else to your particular sect of shag-carpet worshipping, because obviously it’s the only way to go. Also I don’t so much like it if you fire missiles or make things go big boom to make a point about how cool your religion is. And I don't like it when you tell little girls that if their family doesn’t convert to Southern Baptist then they’re all going to hell. Overall, I just want everyone to sing hippie songs and frolic in fields of flowers and not get so uptight about how MY church says mini skirts make you a slut and MY church says drinking the grape juice of fire makes you a heathen and MY church says you should wear yellow on Wednesdays because if you don’t, you’re going to burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.
And since I obviously won’t be finishing up The Gospel story I’ll just move along to the Events of My Day.
This morning my alarm clock, which is really my cell phone, went off at 6:34. After I hit the snooze button three times I eventually picked it up and squinted at the screen, attempting to see the time. In theory I should know the time because each snooze is seven minutes long but this is why I set the alarm to go off on an uneven denomination. There’s not a chance in hell I’d be able to calculate 6:34am plus seven minutes plus seven minutes plus seven minutes before at least lunch and eventually I’m forced to pick up the phone to see the actual time. All so that I may have a heart attack and jump out of bed because it’s wicked late and I’ve still got to iron my pants.
But when I flicked open the phone I saw that I had a text message, which was odd because I didn’t have one when I laid down for bed and I didn’t have one when the sun came up so sometime in between those moments I must have slept, hurah! But my excitement was short lived because I saw the text was from an area code where my parents live and I had one of those moments when I thought something had happened, oh my, panic is welling and then I realized I hadn’t yet ingested any caffeine and what drug was I smoking to think that either of my parents could send a text message. (Hi, Mama! I’m not really making fun of you here, swear. And you know you rolled your eyes a bit when you bought Mama Sylvia a DVD player two years ago and still it sits, unused on top of her TV. So this is just like that, only I’m telling the internet. But look how far you’ve come in the cell phone age! You carry it with you almost all the time now! And you call me from places to tell me they have shoes on sale! You DO love me!)
As it turns out this text was from my brother. Oh, you don’t remember him? Let me refresh your memory. He was the one who claimed a kamikaze black dog ran out in front of his car which forced him into the ditch on the side of the highway. And then, because this was totally the best choice ever, he decided to run down the country highway at like four in the morning. Where he was subsequently picked up by the county po-leece and taken to the pokey. And then my father and I spent an entire day looking for him, calling his friends, not finding him, growing more and more grim as the day wore on. Knowing you don’t just leave a car on the side of the road, keys and cell phone and guitar scattered amongst the seats.
Obviously there was no kamikaze black dog and a day later the true story came out, the story that involved a bit of excessive drinking (surprise!) and a black out (shocked!) and my brother’s insane ability to pilot a motor vehicle whilst completely unaware and probably not even awake.
But here’s the thing: I’m not sure I can ever convey to him what that was like, how it felt to sit in my apartment all day and be absolutely convinced that he was gone, that I was never going to see him again. How I sat in a chair in my darkened living room and stared at the wall with tears falling down my cheeks. What it felt like to have something hurt that godamn much and have not a single mark on my body to accuse as the culprit.
After a conversation the next day that involved him proclaiming his innocence and me trying, without success, to tell him how scared I was (oddly enough, this is hard to do when both parties are shouting) he called me a bitch and hung up the phone. Not a word was spoken between us since, not until my mother came to town and tried to force a friendly family dinner on the three of us. While there I asked the right questions, made the right gestures, smiled at the appropriate times. But it wasn’t real. An entire trash bag of beer cans and liquor bottles was literally overflowing onto his kitchen floor and my fear of someday, soon, looking at my brother through dirty plexiglass or inside a satin lined coffin was even more a reality.
And this text message, well, I’m not sure how much it helped. He said he just wanted to say I Love You. That he knows he never calls but he loves me. And while this sounds a bit like a Lionel Ritchie song, you should know that no one in my family is of the inclination to go around spouting off I Love You’s and Can’t Live Without You’s. Even when I say it to my friends I say it in my sing-song voice, the same voice I use when I pick up a pair of five-hundred dollar shoes and talk directly into their shoe depths, proclaiming my unwavering love for them. It’s not that I love my friends with the same part of my brain that I love pretty shoes, it’s just that saying it like you mean it feels kind of like the morning after you ran naked through the What-a-Burger.
Also, this text came through at 12:51am and I know where he goes on Wednesday nights. It sure ain’t church camp, unless church camp serves dollar beer and greasy pizza. So I appreciate the sentimentality, I appreciate that he thought about me because I think about him. I think about him and I worry about him and I can never tell him that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, convinced that he didn’t make it home okay this time.
It was three hours later before I could say it back. It was three hours because it took that long for me to cry in the shower and get dressed for work. I had to stand in the cafeteria breakfast line and stare intently at the price of biscuits while my friend admonished me for not immediately replying. I had to flip open my phone a half dozen times. But I finally said it back, and I mean it. No sing-song voice.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
At Last Count, I've Written A Letter To The Air Conditioner Man, CNN and now Diane. Or, Diane!!!!!!
Lately I've been thinking about moving. And while I would love to pack up and find a lovely beach cabin on the coast of Maine (because I am obsessed with the Maine, hello) chances are it would be less beach, more urban jungle. And in all truth I don't really do cabins because when people around here say 'cabin' they mean 'shack' and most shacks I've seen don't come equipped with running water, much less air conditioning.
So about three weeks ago, when The Great Rat Hunt was in full swing, I started kind of looking around. Checking out apartment sites, stopping by a few places for brochures, even taking a tour of a new apartment out by my office. And while I appreciated the decorator colors on the walls and the new refrigerator that doesn't lilt three inches to the side, I couldn't quite bring myself to pay $895 for a one bedroom in central Arkansas. I'm sorry, but I can get a studio in Brooklyn for that plus I can drop off my laundry at the front door and it will appear three days later, magically delicious and clean.
So it was with a bit of amusement that I opened my email this evening to find this:
So about three weeks ago, when The Great Rat Hunt was in full swing, I started kind of looking around. Checking out apartment sites, stopping by a few places for brochures, even taking a tour of a new apartment out by my office. And while I appreciated the decorator colors on the walls and the new refrigerator that doesn't lilt three inches to the side, I couldn't quite bring myself to pay $895 for a one bedroom in central Arkansas. I'm sorry, but I can get a studio in Brooklyn for that plus I can drop off my laundry at the front door and it will appear three days later, magically delicious and clean.
So it was with a bit of amusement that I opened my email this evening to find this:
Hey!! I saw that you were looking around on our website! I thought I would check in with you to see if you needed any help in your search for a new place! I have the current availability at the communities in which you are interested!!!
I would love to help you out, but I need some additional information from you to do so!! Please give me a call or shoot me an email so that I can get the needed info to better hunt for you that perfect place!!
Thanks and I look forward to hearing from you!! Have a great day!!!
Diane
Dear Diane,
Thank you. Never have I actually seen anyone use sixteen exclamation points in three short paragraphs. You have a good day now and if you have time on your lunch break, go ahead and give your doctor a call and let him know he can bring you down a notch on that Lithium.
Robin
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Dear CNN,
On your payroll, you employ a person whose sole job it is to find stock photos and images. I know this because in New York, like, where I worked, there was a guy named Adam who totally rocked out at that job. He could find you stock footage of a melancholy avian on a blue bench in a snowstorm in Ecuador.
But this? You chose to display an airbrushed anime’ version of a stygian overgrown human fetus with red glowing eyes? Seriously, I’m going to need further clarification on this one because where I come from, this picture is more Hell’s Gatekeeper Worries About Decapitation, Loss of Retirement Funds and less Average Worker Complains of Boredom, Lack of Challenge in Workplace.
Regards,
[redacted]
Diversion + Subversion = Assclown
I kind of like coming in to work early. The main lights stay off until a little after eight and the light from my window is perfect at seven. Of course, it’s overcast today and this may be why I say the light is perfect because if it was seven and the sunlight was singing songs from Mariah Carey’s ‘Glitter’ then I’d be very unhappy. Also, the sparse population of coworkers that roll in early come equipped with this look of horror and some leftover bed-squishy face and I can rest assured that no one is going to make an unnecessary comment until at least 7:45.
Also, I got to see a coworker come in with split pants this morning. As in, split right down the posterior, about four inches of starched white shirt pouching out. And while I laughed a little, I had to extend a bit of sympathy in his direction because I did this two days before my vacation:
I managed to walk across the parking lot, through four security doors, up an elevator, across my office floor, to the coffee maker and then to my friend’s office where I sat down in her extra chair. She turned to me and I watched her face kind of tighten in confusion as she said “Um, Robin?” and I looked down to find the one gold shoe and the one black shoe. In less than a second, she’d whipped out her camera phone and snapped the picture, capturing for all time my wardrobe malfunction.
Speaking of camera phones, I tried to convince a guy I work with to take a picture of the pant-splitting debacle but he told me no. He can’t have another man’s ass on his phone, he said.
Also, I got to see a coworker come in with split pants this morning. As in, split right down the posterior, about four inches of starched white shirt pouching out. And while I laughed a little, I had to extend a bit of sympathy in his direction because I did this two days before my vacation:
I managed to walk across the parking lot, through four security doors, up an elevator, across my office floor, to the coffee maker and then to my friend’s office where I sat down in her extra chair. She turned to me and I watched her face kind of tighten in confusion as she said “Um, Robin?” and I looked down to find the one gold shoe and the one black shoe. In less than a second, she’d whipped out her camera phone and snapped the picture, capturing for all time my wardrobe malfunction.
Speaking of camera phones, I tried to convince a guy I work with to take a picture of the pant-splitting debacle but he told me no. He can’t have another man’s ass on his phone, he said.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Gospel, part 1
I grew up in a fairly quiet household. Just last week, my mother joked that if I still lived at home the two of us would undoubtedly find ourselves in different wings of the house, noses buried in books, only venturing forth to mingle in the kitchen when the time came for an afternoon snack. Sundays were even quieter than the norm. In the morning mother would hot roll my hair, press my dress and shove uncomfortable patent shoes upon my feet. I remember these mornings vividly; how she would put on her panty hose and cream slip before putting on her makeup. Spritzing herself with White Shoulders, she’d fluff her hair and pull on her dress, slipping feet inside brown or navy heels before loading us in the van for another lesson in Godliness.
Methodist churches aren’t really known for their frivolity and morning services were always an exercise in quietness. I don’t remember much about Sunday School, only the generic talk of Jesus and Noah, with a dash of the Holy Spirit thrown in for good measure. I do remember that if you got a question right that the teacher would give us a handful of sixlets, the precursors to M&M’s in my world. That tiny candy-coated spherical perfection of chocolate goodness was just the incentive I needed to review last week’s lesson during the drive into town, not so much caring about the religious implications but recognizing that there was a limited supply of sixlets and if I didn’t know all the answers then statistically, I was screwed.
After Sunday School came Big Church and in the Methodist world, the pastor still wears a long black robe, the choir sings in the second story awning and the only time you get out of your seat is when the man in front says Please Rise. From there, you pick up a hymnal and turn to page 352 for a quick choral interlude followed by a pastor-lead prayer with head bowed and eyes closed. Once finished, the pastor indicates that You May Be Seated and in unison, the entire congregation places their bottoms upon the hard wooden pews, legs crossed.
I tell you all of this because I need you to understand where my comfort zone resides. Until I was fifteen, I’d never seen a church without wooden pews and stained glass. I’d never seen people in blue jeans take communion. I’d never seen a full drum set on stage with guitars and tamborines and microphones or a big white screen behind the pulpit where a youth pastor gives a power point presentation on abstinence and tongue kissing. And I’d definitely never heard people interrupt the pastor mid-sermon with a heartfelt Amen! or a Right on, Brother! and you did not clap after a choral solo or even during a moderately upbeat song. Because honestly, have you ever heard anyone clap to organ music? Didn’t think so.
When I was sixteen my friend Melanie convinced me to go to Church Camp with her. Having been to Girl Scout Camp when I was little I figured it was much like that, only with a few more prayers thrown in and maybe songs that focused less on s’mores and more on iconic religious figures. We’d actually stopped going to church when I was nine and in the ensuing years I’d had plenty of time to form the beginnings of an opinion on organized religion, spurred mainly by my visit to a Baptist church at the age of twelve when the pastor pulled me aside and told me my family was going to hell if they weren’t Baptist and that my soul was in eternal jeopardy because I’d never been baptized. I never told my parents about that incident, rationalizing that if they knew that being Methodist sent you straight to hell, why would we have gone to a Methodist church? So I just chalked that episode up to someone’s mama feeding their baby paint chips filled with hate and never went back.
Melanie’s church camp seemed like a fairly reasonable way to spend a week of my summer, though, and I agreed to go right off the bat. So on a hot Saturday afternoon we shoved our sleeping bags and makeup bags and clothing bags and other extraneous bags into the back of her mother’s van, heading out to west Mississippi for some good ol’ Christian fun.
Once there we unloaded all of our belongings into the assigned cabins, picking out lower bunks directly beside each other. Her mom gave us both a hug, told us to be good and hopped back in her van, eager as us sixteen-year-olds were to be rid of her, and her of us. First on the agenda was a walk down to the meeting hall/commissary/gym/worship center. It was a big metal building with huge sets of doors across the front that opened up into a concession area filled with the smells of nachos and jalapenos and popcorn and over fried chicken fingers. Past the concession area was the enclosed gym/worship area. It had a raised red-carpeted platform at the end and the middle had already been filled with rows of metal chairs for the evening services.
At 6pm sharp the bell rang that announced our attendance was required in the gym. We’d finished dinner an hour before and I’d been standing silently by while Melanie made friends with the girls from our cabin.
We were a little late making our way up the hill by the gym and the three girls that Melanie had picked up took seats with us in one of the very back rows. Things started off fairly innocuously with the camp leaders introducing themselves, giving out the camp dress code, reminding us that this was a Christian Camp and we were to be filled with the spirit of the Lord on a daily basis. Translation: No sex in the woods.
Then everyone launched into what they called ‘warm-up’ songs, none of which I knew and none of which came with a hymnal or pamphlet. Nothing is more annoying to me than being surrounded by a group of people who know something I don’t, so I sat back in my chair, arms crossed, non-verbally expressing my growing discomfort with the four-piece band on stage and the unnecessary sounds produced by the drummer. It’s not that I found the drumming offensive but I don’t even like the sound of a toilet flushing or the sound that plates make when people put their dishes away and I go to great pains to gently place mine in the cabinet with as little sound as possible. So imagine my unhappiness with the overzealous drummer playing in the acoustic equivalent of a tin can.
Once the warm-up songs were over, the ones they figured everyone knew, they pulled out the movable white screen and slide projector and launched into an even louder display of musical ability, bringing everyone out of their seats for hand clapping and the occasional hop into the air, arms raised above their heads, eyes closed, faces lifted. Already uncomfortable with the previous display, I sat solidly in my chair, ignoring the arm pulls and head taps from the girls next to me. I kept hoping that if I kept as still as possible, maybe no one would notice me and I could slip out the back for some fresh air and silence.
But the songs continued on. My ass grew numb, the girls beside me grew even more frenzied and the people on stage had stopped pretending to sing recognizable songs and had launched into straight jam-band mode, the lead singer racing across the stage, shouting out indecipherable messages about Heaven and Redemption and Praising Jesus, all of which ended in an out-of-breath Amen. The teenagers in the front rows, obviously the ones much more enthralled with their camp choice than yours truly, had begun jumping up and down in completely erratic movements and I sat in my chair, no longer interested in the spectacle on stage but rather the chair jumping antics of one very tall, very skinny guy.
His face was continuously contorted in an expression of utter pain, his hands periodically tumbling down from above his head to slap his thighs in exuberance. I continued to watch in utter dismay as this young man jumped excitedly into the middle of the aisle, swung his arms into the air and opened his mouth to a screaming, streaming gibberish of nonsense and in unison the rest of the congregation began to offer him shouts of encouragement.
I felt my eyes growing wide, listening to shouts encouraging further possession by the Holy Spirit.
“What. The. Fuck.” I muttered.
How those people heard me I have no idea, what with the drumming antics, the exuberant Amens! on stage and the fast-talking looney toon twenty aisles up, but all three rows ahead of me did a unified Linda Blair to glare at me and I silently cursed their supersonic heathen hearing. But I was sixteen and full of the piss and vinegar, as well as some questionable hamburger meat, and I was not about to be out-stared. So I returned their glare with one of my own: left eyebrow raised, mouth pursed. All in my attempt to convey that I was not amused by these goings-on and I could damn well say Fuck whenever I wanted, thanks for playing.
It was then that it dawned on me that this kid, and now a handful of others, were speaking in tongues. I’d thought it was just a myth, like the Lochness monster or calorie-free ice cream. But figuring out what was going on did nothing to appease my fear, not even Melanie when she turned to me, eyes bright with excitement, “Oooooooh, look! He’s laying hands! Praise Jesus!!!!”
And it was true; the tall, skinny guy who’d started off the pack of tongue-talkers was now making his way down the aisle, forcefully pushing his palm onto the foreheads of individuals who waited in breathless excitement before falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. He’d made it halfway down when I realized I’d taken the aisle seat as I’d straggled in with my group only an hour or so before. I hadn’t minded any at the time, thinking it made an easy escape route if the building caught on fire or the hamburger I’d eaten decided to make a reappearance. But I knew, with the kind of certainty that stiffens your back, that no amount of chair sitting or no-eye-contact rules were going to keep this guy from touching me and I decided right then, “Whatever he’s got, I don’t fucking want it.”
Unfortunately that statement came out with a little more forcefulness than the first and my vibes of distrust and hate must have reached the preacher in record time because he focused on me with blinding speed, urging ‘the girl in the back’ to get out of her seat and participate in the Spirit of Jesus. I politely declined by recrossing my arms across my chest which really just served as a bucket of encouragement and he again called me out, telling me to stand up and glorify in Jesus Christ, My Savior. I politely declined again, thinking that my only savior was my mother magically appearing outside to take me home, stat.
All this time the tongue-speaking, hand-laying teenager was methodically making his way towards the last rows and as I focused on his bouncing, neurotic path I noticed a strange, darkening stain on the front of his jeans.
“Did he just piss himself?” I asked to no one in particular. But before I even got out my last word, the piss-stained teenager fell flat to the ground, fell flat like if you held up your broom and just let it fall backwards, no cushion, no resistance, just bam, right there in the aisle not ten feet away.
A few of the counselors rushed forward, all while the people on stage continued their frolicking and drumming and Amening. The four people each grabbed an extremity and carried him into the concession area and as they passed, I heard one of the girls exclaim that he was drunk with the spirit of the Lord and right then and there, I promised God that I was never drinking again and told him I was right sorry about those two sips of cinnamon liquor I’d had at Ella’s party a few weeks back.
Methodist churches aren’t really known for their frivolity and morning services were always an exercise in quietness. I don’t remember much about Sunday School, only the generic talk of Jesus and Noah, with a dash of the Holy Spirit thrown in for good measure. I do remember that if you got a question right that the teacher would give us a handful of sixlets, the precursors to M&M’s in my world. That tiny candy-coated spherical perfection of chocolate goodness was just the incentive I needed to review last week’s lesson during the drive into town, not so much caring about the religious implications but recognizing that there was a limited supply of sixlets and if I didn’t know all the answers then statistically, I was screwed.
After Sunday School came Big Church and in the Methodist world, the pastor still wears a long black robe, the choir sings in the second story awning and the only time you get out of your seat is when the man in front says Please Rise. From there, you pick up a hymnal and turn to page 352 for a quick choral interlude followed by a pastor-lead prayer with head bowed and eyes closed. Once finished, the pastor indicates that You May Be Seated and in unison, the entire congregation places their bottoms upon the hard wooden pews, legs crossed.
I tell you all of this because I need you to understand where my comfort zone resides. Until I was fifteen, I’d never seen a church without wooden pews and stained glass. I’d never seen people in blue jeans take communion. I’d never seen a full drum set on stage with guitars and tamborines and microphones or a big white screen behind the pulpit where a youth pastor gives a power point presentation on abstinence and tongue kissing. And I’d definitely never heard people interrupt the pastor mid-sermon with a heartfelt Amen! or a Right on, Brother! and you did not clap after a choral solo or even during a moderately upbeat song. Because honestly, have you ever heard anyone clap to organ music? Didn’t think so.
When I was sixteen my friend Melanie convinced me to go to Church Camp with her. Having been to Girl Scout Camp when I was little I figured it was much like that, only with a few more prayers thrown in and maybe songs that focused less on s’mores and more on iconic religious figures. We’d actually stopped going to church when I was nine and in the ensuing years I’d had plenty of time to form the beginnings of an opinion on organized religion, spurred mainly by my visit to a Baptist church at the age of twelve when the pastor pulled me aside and told me my family was going to hell if they weren’t Baptist and that my soul was in eternal jeopardy because I’d never been baptized. I never told my parents about that incident, rationalizing that if they knew that being Methodist sent you straight to hell, why would we have gone to a Methodist church? So I just chalked that episode up to someone’s mama feeding their baby paint chips filled with hate and never went back.
Melanie’s church camp seemed like a fairly reasonable way to spend a week of my summer, though, and I agreed to go right off the bat. So on a hot Saturday afternoon we shoved our sleeping bags and makeup bags and clothing bags and other extraneous bags into the back of her mother’s van, heading out to west Mississippi for some good ol’ Christian fun.
Once there we unloaded all of our belongings into the assigned cabins, picking out lower bunks directly beside each other. Her mom gave us both a hug, told us to be good and hopped back in her van, eager as us sixteen-year-olds were to be rid of her, and her of us. First on the agenda was a walk down to the meeting hall/commissary/gym/worship center. It was a big metal building with huge sets of doors across the front that opened up into a concession area filled with the smells of nachos and jalapenos and popcorn and over fried chicken fingers. Past the concession area was the enclosed gym/worship area. It had a raised red-carpeted platform at the end and the middle had already been filled with rows of metal chairs for the evening services.
At 6pm sharp the bell rang that announced our attendance was required in the gym. We’d finished dinner an hour before and I’d been standing silently by while Melanie made friends with the girls from our cabin.
We were a little late making our way up the hill by the gym and the three girls that Melanie had picked up took seats with us in one of the very back rows. Things started off fairly innocuously with the camp leaders introducing themselves, giving out the camp dress code, reminding us that this was a Christian Camp and we were to be filled with the spirit of the Lord on a daily basis. Translation: No sex in the woods.
Then everyone launched into what they called ‘warm-up’ songs, none of which I knew and none of which came with a hymnal or pamphlet. Nothing is more annoying to me than being surrounded by a group of people who know something I don’t, so I sat back in my chair, arms crossed, non-verbally expressing my growing discomfort with the four-piece band on stage and the unnecessary sounds produced by the drummer. It’s not that I found the drumming offensive but I don’t even like the sound of a toilet flushing or the sound that plates make when people put their dishes away and I go to great pains to gently place mine in the cabinet with as little sound as possible. So imagine my unhappiness with the overzealous drummer playing in the acoustic equivalent of a tin can.
Once the warm-up songs were over, the ones they figured everyone knew, they pulled out the movable white screen and slide projector and launched into an even louder display of musical ability, bringing everyone out of their seats for hand clapping and the occasional hop into the air, arms raised above their heads, eyes closed, faces lifted. Already uncomfortable with the previous display, I sat solidly in my chair, ignoring the arm pulls and head taps from the girls next to me. I kept hoping that if I kept as still as possible, maybe no one would notice me and I could slip out the back for some fresh air and silence.
But the songs continued on. My ass grew numb, the girls beside me grew even more frenzied and the people on stage had stopped pretending to sing recognizable songs and had launched into straight jam-band mode, the lead singer racing across the stage, shouting out indecipherable messages about Heaven and Redemption and Praising Jesus, all of which ended in an out-of-breath Amen. The teenagers in the front rows, obviously the ones much more enthralled with their camp choice than yours truly, had begun jumping up and down in completely erratic movements and I sat in my chair, no longer interested in the spectacle on stage but rather the chair jumping antics of one very tall, very skinny guy.
His face was continuously contorted in an expression of utter pain, his hands periodically tumbling down from above his head to slap his thighs in exuberance. I continued to watch in utter dismay as this young man jumped excitedly into the middle of the aisle, swung his arms into the air and opened his mouth to a screaming, streaming gibberish of nonsense and in unison the rest of the congregation began to offer him shouts of encouragement.
I felt my eyes growing wide, listening to shouts encouraging further possession by the Holy Spirit.
“What. The. Fuck.” I muttered.
How those people heard me I have no idea, what with the drumming antics, the exuberant Amens! on stage and the fast-talking looney toon twenty aisles up, but all three rows ahead of me did a unified Linda Blair to glare at me and I silently cursed their supersonic heathen hearing. But I was sixteen and full of the piss and vinegar, as well as some questionable hamburger meat, and I was not about to be out-stared. So I returned their glare with one of my own: left eyebrow raised, mouth pursed. All in my attempt to convey that I was not amused by these goings-on and I could damn well say Fuck whenever I wanted, thanks for playing.
It was then that it dawned on me that this kid, and now a handful of others, were speaking in tongues. I’d thought it was just a myth, like the Lochness monster or calorie-free ice cream. But figuring out what was going on did nothing to appease my fear, not even Melanie when she turned to me, eyes bright with excitement, “Oooooooh, look! He’s laying hands! Praise Jesus!!!!”
And it was true; the tall, skinny guy who’d started off the pack of tongue-talkers was now making his way down the aisle, forcefully pushing his palm onto the foreheads of individuals who waited in breathless excitement before falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. He’d made it halfway down when I realized I’d taken the aisle seat as I’d straggled in with my group only an hour or so before. I hadn’t minded any at the time, thinking it made an easy escape route if the building caught on fire or the hamburger I’d eaten decided to make a reappearance. But I knew, with the kind of certainty that stiffens your back, that no amount of chair sitting or no-eye-contact rules were going to keep this guy from touching me and I decided right then, “Whatever he’s got, I don’t fucking want it.”
Unfortunately that statement came out with a little more forcefulness than the first and my vibes of distrust and hate must have reached the preacher in record time because he focused on me with blinding speed, urging ‘the girl in the back’ to get out of her seat and participate in the Spirit of Jesus. I politely declined by recrossing my arms across my chest which really just served as a bucket of encouragement and he again called me out, telling me to stand up and glorify in Jesus Christ, My Savior. I politely declined again, thinking that my only savior was my mother magically appearing outside to take me home, stat.
All this time the tongue-speaking, hand-laying teenager was methodically making his way towards the last rows and as I focused on his bouncing, neurotic path I noticed a strange, darkening stain on the front of his jeans.
“Did he just piss himself?” I asked to no one in particular. But before I even got out my last word, the piss-stained teenager fell flat to the ground, fell flat like if you held up your broom and just let it fall backwards, no cushion, no resistance, just bam, right there in the aisle not ten feet away.
A few of the counselors rushed forward, all while the people on stage continued their frolicking and drumming and Amening. The four people each grabbed an extremity and carried him into the concession area and as they passed, I heard one of the girls exclaim that he was drunk with the spirit of the Lord and right then and there, I promised God that I was never drinking again and told him I was right sorry about those two sips of cinnamon liquor I’d had at Ella’s party a few weeks back.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
And I Was Going To Eat Yogurt Covered Raisins For Dessert...
This evening my friend Lilleeee left for parts not unknown but rather well known which is a really cracked out way of saying she took herself on a vacation to a land filled with palm trees and ship boys who bring you drinks when you manage to lift your heavy drunken hand in the air and half-heartedly snap, followed by a lazy point at your empty pina colada glass. I'm sure the ship boys have an actual name because it seems kind of degrading to call them Ship Boys and all but really, what kind of name could you apply to them that would fully encompass the full breadth of their job duties? Because they are much more than a waiter but a bit less than a butler. A smidgeon like an escort but not so much like a hooker, unless you tip them a c-note and tell them you think you've got a leak in your stateroom and could they pretty please come check it out.
Before she left she gave me her key and a bag of cat food for the Kikimonster, with whom I will be bonding over the next week. The Kikster and I have bonded before but not on such daily basis. As far as she was concerned I was just that crazy lady who came over and chased her down the hallway because I knew she secretly wanted to cuddle on my lap. Plus she doesn't have claws and I think that tips the scales in my favor, as far as forcing her to sit on my lap for some soothing ear rubs and back scratches.
I don't know why I like other people's cats so much more than my own. Probably because as I sit here typing this, Llama has managed to shove his front paws inside my $200 shoes, his fat furry body covering the rest of the arch and heel and I can't help but wonder how this is comfortable because he's got a hard leather shoe shoved into his soft underbelly. Plus it always leaves a smattering of cat leftovers, like fur and fur and oh yeah, more fur in the depths of the shoes and if I don't shake them out in the morning then I end up with long gray strands of fur between my toes. Not cool.
As Lilleee was giving me plant watering instructions and cat feeding instructions and the obligatory Southern Monologue of Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, sugar! she mentioned that her boyfriend had made her a cake for her birthday yesterday and she'd only managed to lick a bit of the icing off the side before she had to leave for work this morning and would I be so kind as to eat some of it and then throw the rest of it away before she gets home?
You want to know if I'll help you out by eating some chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting? Hell no! I won't do it, I tell you! Okay, well, since you asked so nicely...
So I went upstairs this evening to feed Kikimonkey and I stared non-stop at the foil wrapped pan sitting silently on top of the stove as I poured dry nuggets into her bowl. I noticed the wee little light above that shimmering aluminum perfection, shining down as if the gods themselves decreed that I should eat this cake, this very one, and I should love it.
As I peeled back the foil the chocolate scent escaped and attacked my salivary glands, forcing them into overdrive. I grabbed a plate and a fork and stared down at my lot in life, my favor for a friend, and I had no idea where to begin. No, seriously. I've never had a whole cake to myself. Yes, I could have taken it into work tomorrow. I could have divided up chunks for my friends. But the prospect of being able to pick any piece within the confines of that pan was almost too much of a decision for me to make and I knew I just couldn't bear to share such perfect, untouched choclate perfection.
At first I cut a wee piece from the corner but after a bite I deemed it a bit too dry and scraped off the cake part, leaving the yummy choclate icing on the side of my plate. Then I decided I didn't have to adhere to cake cutting convention, I could have the moist middle piece and I didn't have to justify my actions or make amends for digging into the center of the cake-i-ness. In fact, I decided, I could even just dip my fork in the middle for a pre-cut taste test, just to see if my suspicions of moistness were correct. They were! Praise the Cake Gods!
And then, because I'd already mauled the center of the cake, I decided that I needed a bit more icing and that I could scrape off whatever I wanted, all in the quest for the Perfect Piece of Cake. I was justified, I thought. I don't have to share any of this with anybody else and the person eating the cake (me) certainly doesn't mind sacrificing the pristine exterior.
I must say- eating cake this way yields only, like, four pieces while if I'd left it alone I'd probably been able to divide it into sixteen. But I don't know of anyone who needs sixteen pieces of cake, much less me, so besides eating the cake for my friend I am doing a favor to myself by not eating the whole thing (hooray!), because parts will be discarded for being too crumbly or too dry or lacking in icing goodness.
Plus, I have cake and you don't. So there.
Before she left she gave me her key and a bag of cat food for the Kikimonster, with whom I will be bonding over the next week. The Kikster and I have bonded before but not on such daily basis. As far as she was concerned I was just that crazy lady who came over and chased her down the hallway because I knew she secretly wanted to cuddle on my lap. Plus she doesn't have claws and I think that tips the scales in my favor, as far as forcing her to sit on my lap for some soothing ear rubs and back scratches.
I don't know why I like other people's cats so much more than my own. Probably because as I sit here typing this, Llama has managed to shove his front paws inside my $200 shoes, his fat furry body covering the rest of the arch and heel and I can't help but wonder how this is comfortable because he's got a hard leather shoe shoved into his soft underbelly. Plus it always leaves a smattering of cat leftovers, like fur and fur and oh yeah, more fur in the depths of the shoes and if I don't shake them out in the morning then I end up with long gray strands of fur between my toes. Not cool.
As Lilleee was giving me plant watering instructions and cat feeding instructions and the obligatory Southern Monologue of Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, sugar! she mentioned that her boyfriend had made her a cake for her birthday yesterday and she'd only managed to lick a bit of the icing off the side before she had to leave for work this morning and would I be so kind as to eat some of it and then throw the rest of it away before she gets home?
You want to know if I'll help you out by eating some chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting? Hell no! I won't do it, I tell you! Okay, well, since you asked so nicely...
So I went upstairs this evening to feed Kikimonkey and I stared non-stop at the foil wrapped pan sitting silently on top of the stove as I poured dry nuggets into her bowl. I noticed the wee little light above that shimmering aluminum perfection, shining down as if the gods themselves decreed that I should eat this cake, this very one, and I should love it.
As I peeled back the foil the chocolate scent escaped and attacked my salivary glands, forcing them into overdrive. I grabbed a plate and a fork and stared down at my lot in life, my favor for a friend, and I had no idea where to begin. No, seriously. I've never had a whole cake to myself. Yes, I could have taken it into work tomorrow. I could have divided up chunks for my friends. But the prospect of being able to pick any piece within the confines of that pan was almost too much of a decision for me to make and I knew I just couldn't bear to share such perfect, untouched choclate perfection.
At first I cut a wee piece from the corner but after a bite I deemed it a bit too dry and scraped off the cake part, leaving the yummy choclate icing on the side of my plate. Then I decided I didn't have to adhere to cake cutting convention, I could have the moist middle piece and I didn't have to justify my actions or make amends for digging into the center of the cake-i-ness. In fact, I decided, I could even just dip my fork in the middle for a pre-cut taste test, just to see if my suspicions of moistness were correct. They were! Praise the Cake Gods!
And then, because I'd already mauled the center of the cake, I decided that I needed a bit more icing and that I could scrape off whatever I wanted, all in the quest for the Perfect Piece of Cake. I was justified, I thought. I don't have to share any of this with anybody else and the person eating the cake (me) certainly doesn't mind sacrificing the pristine exterior.
I must say- eating cake this way yields only, like, four pieces while if I'd left it alone I'd probably been able to divide it into sixteen. But I don't know of anyone who needs sixteen pieces of cake, much less me, so besides eating the cake for my friend I am doing a favor to myself by not eating the whole thing (hooray!), because parts will be discarded for being too crumbly or too dry or lacking in icing goodness.
Plus, I have cake and you don't. So there.
Calculate, Smalculate
What is it about Britney Spears that makes me simultaneously want to gossip about her in the lunchroom after third period and then pull her into the girl’s bathroom by the principal’s office for a little tête-à -tête concerning the proper uses of black hair dye? And why is this not common knowledge? About the black hair dye, I mean. Because surely, someone along the way sent out a memo to those folks who did not start out with, at the very least, dark brown hair, informing them that black dye does not set off your features, it does not provide a strong backdrop for photographs and it does not make you look skinnier.
INSERT TRANSITION
For lunch today, Amanda convinced me to go to Taco Hell. I say convinced like she had to twist my arm or something because hello, where else can you get intestinal difficulties for less than five dollars? And that’s not including the set of Fear Factor, which is technically free for the contestants unless you count the Mystic Tan Unlimited package and the Crunch Fitness membership and if you’re a woman, the ten grand you have to spend on your chesticular area because we all know it’s possible to have point-four percent body fat and a set of double-D’s.
Once there we took our place in line, which was actually not a line but a wide open space of nothingness, seeing as how we were about ten minutes ahead of the lunch crowd. Behind the counter stood JoJo the Special Kid, complete with strange lopsided belly and a smathering of unidentifiable Taco Hell goo across the wide expanse of his chest, all the way down past the crotch of his pants with really suspicious looking stains around his pocket area. Not suspicious as in What Exactly Have You Been Doing Back There Behind The Counter but suspicious as in Do You Think That Guy Is Smuggling A Handful Of Greasy Taco Meat In His Pockets? Which then leads you to the question of exactly why anyone would smuggle handfuls of greasy taco meat in their pockets because wouldn’t a plastic baggie be so much easier? Not to mention the lack of contamination from Strange Pocket Lint or some leftover gum.
Maybe he just thought it would be a nice snack for later. Or that if times really got tough, he could get at least two good meals from licking the front of his shirt. He’d probably draw the line at licking the crotch of his pants though because he’d associate that with the Demon Homosexuals and he knows where those folk go. Straight to the burning fires of hell, first class. 'Least that's what his mama told him.
As I was waiting for JoJo to finish counting out Amanda’s change, a very involved and lengthy process, I noticed a laminated sign taped to the tile wall directly above JoJo’s head.
INSERT TRANSITION
For lunch today, Amanda convinced me to go to Taco Hell. I say convinced like she had to twist my arm or something because hello, where else can you get intestinal difficulties for less than five dollars? And that’s not including the set of Fear Factor, which is technically free for the contestants unless you count the Mystic Tan Unlimited package and the Crunch Fitness membership and if you’re a woman, the ten grand you have to spend on your chesticular area because we all know it’s possible to have point-four percent body fat and a set of double-D’s.
Once there we took our place in line, which was actually not a line but a wide open space of nothingness, seeing as how we were about ten minutes ahead of the lunch crowd. Behind the counter stood JoJo the Special Kid, complete with strange lopsided belly and a smathering of unidentifiable Taco Hell goo across the wide expanse of his chest, all the way down past the crotch of his pants with really suspicious looking stains around his pocket area. Not suspicious as in What Exactly Have You Been Doing Back There Behind The Counter but suspicious as in Do You Think That Guy Is Smuggling A Handful Of Greasy Taco Meat In His Pockets? Which then leads you to the question of exactly why anyone would smuggle handfuls of greasy taco meat in their pockets because wouldn’t a plastic baggie be so much easier? Not to mention the lack of contamination from Strange Pocket Lint or some leftover gum.
Maybe he just thought it would be a nice snack for later. Or that if times really got tough, he could get at least two good meals from licking the front of his shirt. He’d probably draw the line at licking the crotch of his pants though because he’d associate that with the Demon Homosexuals and he knows where those folk go. Straight to the burning fires of hell, first class. 'Least that's what his mama told him.
As I was waiting for JoJo to finish counting out Amanda’s change, a very involved and lengthy process, I noticed a laminated sign taped to the tile wall directly above JoJo’s head.
We Wash and Sanitize Our Hands!
Maybe this is just me but I kind of expect people who prepare my food to Wash and Sanitize their hands. It’s just one of those given things. Like walking into Harry’s Horsefeed store under the impression that Harry only sells horsefeed. No need to have a sign out front, clearly outlining that We Only Sell Horsefeed! If it was called Harry’s Horsefeed and More! I might think differently, that maybe Harry sells horsefeed and possibly some crackers. So is it really necessary to have gone to the trouble of printing and laminating a piece of paper full of underling and italics and even some Microsoft Office Clipart, all for the sole purpose of telling your patrons that yes, you do in fact WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS?
Because all that sign does is make me realize that the last time JoJo washed his hands was probably back in 1997 when he hadn’t quite yet gotten to giant homeless man size and his mother could still wrastle him to the ground for a little face washing and hand cleaning. Because either JoJo has a nostril big enough to accept the prodding search of one of his elephantine fingers or JoJo has a really juicy asscrack and the bathroom ran out of toilet paper last shift.
Because all that sign does is make me realize that the last time JoJo washed his hands was probably back in 1997 when he hadn’t quite yet gotten to giant homeless man size and his mother could still wrastle him to the ground for a little face washing and hand cleaning. Because either JoJo has a nostril big enough to accept the prodding search of one of his elephantine fingers or JoJo has a really juicy asscrack and the bathroom ran out of toilet paper last shift.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Why There Is A Tape... Oh God I Can't Even Say It
Waiting between the curtains as a kid, I was never nervous. The other little girls would twitter with nerves and excitement while I stood stoically in line, stretching ligaments and muscles into perfect suppleness. Had I been surrounded by others less titillated by the novelty of blue eye shadow and bright lights, I imagine there would have been a brief but succinct huddle before show time.
Remember ladies, stage right by the red curtain has a dip in the floor so watch your step. Hit your marks on the green tape before the lights come up and end it on the yellow. Hold your smiles and shake it like you mean it, bitches.
As the years went on I branched out from my yearly displays of pointe shoe perfection and tap dancing talent and into the world of the theater, or theatre if you’re an aspiring off-Broadway performer. I had random parts in Oklahoma!, Krazy Kamp and Charlie Brown and relished every moment I got to strap on the microphone equivalent of a sound engineer’s worst nightmare and parade about the stage, belting out the three notes I could effectively hold and the seventeen others I most certainly could not.
My first theatrical singing solo came around my junior year in high school when my drama teacher held auditions for the much *cough* anticipated Charlie Brown musical. The afternoon of auditions, my classmates sat in petrified silence as Ms. Lamb called repeatedly for the first volunteer. Finally I sighed with great dramatic abandon, rolled my eyes heavenward and marched confidently towards the stage. Once there I instructed the piano player that I wanted to sing Ado Annie’s solo from Oklahoma! but the piano player only knew things like Rod Stewart and Lord I Lift Your Name On High so instead of attempting to learn a Godly-like song or imitate a bleached-out fertile old man, I opened my mouth and began to sing.
Not so strangely, that song is actually one of the few I can sing, not because of incessant practicing but because it requires less vocal ability and more gusto and I had plenty of the latter, far less of the former.
Later that week a blue envelope was hand delivered to my AP English class, informing me I had the part of Peppermint Patty. Just in case you’re not up on your Charlie Brown history, Patty was the one so desperately in love with ol’ Chuck, while ol’ Chuck was desperately in love with the little red headed girl. But that didn’t stop my campy love song from ricocheting off every available surface as night after night I sang my undying love to that yellow shirted idiot. I wasn’t so deluded that I thought I was destined for greatness, however. It’s just that it hit me halfway through rehearsals that I wasn’t so strong of a singer unless I was being backed up by a chorus of ten other dancing guys and gals and that maybe in the future I could try to be less of a badass and refrain from getting myself into situations where I have to sing to a prerecorded backing track played over twenty year old speakers. Because by the end, not only was I aware I had no singing ability, everyone else was aware I had no singing ability.
Honestly, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson way back then. That maybe before I ante up to the plate I check and make sure my bat isn’t made of pure dried shit. Or that my big shiny hat isn’t really a shellacked piece of gingham. But it’s like every now and then I get distracted, maybe by a stray dragonfly or an errant piece of hair, and I open my mouth to the biggest stream of floatacious word vomit you’ve ever seen.
Such was the case my senior year in college.
First semester I had a class with this professor who was supposed to teach things like communications and journalism and ended up teaching a class on film, because he knew jack about communications and journalism. Which was actually perfectly fine with me because by then I’d had it up to HERE with journalism classes and my soul-sucking job in a news station.
As our final project, Senor Professor handed out copies of an unpublished script, instructing us to choose a ten minute scene. We were then to cast it from the eager pool of theater majors, shoot it, edit it and present it to the class before Christmas break. The catch being, of course, that you needed the help of the entire class on each and every shoot. Unless you’re a control freak like me and choose a scene that requires one actress, one room and one camera. Then you just ignore the words your partner speaks at you and do it however the hell you want.
Now, for four years I’d been in these classes with the same people. I didn’t chill with Christy but I knew she was a bad ass softball player. And Doug was a bit squirrely but could put away some hard liquor. And Hudd and Riggin? Just your generic everyday frat boys, complete with muddy Jeeps and chromed-out Tahoes. And being frat boys, they chose the one questionable scene in the whole script. The part where the main character gets out of rehab, slams back a bottle of NyQuil in a seedy bar and has his wicked way with a bar rat in the alley out back.
But when we had to cast our actors, they ran into a bit of a roadblock. Not a single one of the girls would agree to put on a slutty dress and whisper sweet, albeit slurred, nothings in someone’s ear. There probably would have been a revolt among the males as well but we only had three to choose from and one was so obese there’s no way he could have pulled off an alley touchdown and the other two had ‘previous commitments.’ Meaning they had girlfriends who would personally saw off their, you know, bits and nail them to wall.
Which should somewhat explain how I found myself in the alley behind Linens-n-Things on a very chilly night in mid November, wearing my very best slut dress, my come-hither knee high boots and some wicked cool teased hair. I’d finally agreed to the part after Hudd had caught me after class twice in a row and walked me to my car, telling me in his deceptively sweet soft voice that he really wanted me to be the actress in his scene because he was going to play the guy and he knew I was cool. Not like those other girls, he’d said. You’re a total badass.
Hi! My name is Gullible! How are you today!
It was as the lights were being set up for the alley scene that I got my first case of stage fright, ever. Hudd and I had to stand so close our noses touched, just like that, just so, for a full hour as the crew moved this light and that light and that one way over there. There is nothing more terrifying than having to share an inch of breathing space with a boy who you’d like to see sans his letter shirt, all while your classmates watch and you fake nonchalance and a total indifference to the fruits of having a personal gym in a frat house.
And then, oh dear god, and then we started filming. This was the part I’d always been kind of fuzzy on, really. I mean, he was just taking this bar rat outside for a little hanky panky and then he was going to stumble on his merry way while she fixed her mascara in a shiny pink compact. That whole PRETENDING TO HAVE SEX ON CAMERA THING had never really solidified in my head because this was a CLASS, surely it was just going to be kind of suggestive with a little leg here, a little grunt there and BAM! We’re done! Let’s all go out for ice cream.
Note to future self: Please stop being so bloody stupid.
Without warning Hudd hefted me off the ground, wrapping my legs around his waist and placed his forearms in the least sexual way possible under my ass. And let’s be honest here, when you’re upper body is about 4.7 feet from the other person’s upper body, it’s really about as hot as playing water rugby, only without the water. So we stood around like that while they got random shots of Hudd’s shoulders moving, uh, just so and his legs bracing, uh, just so and when they tried to get shots of my face moving, uh, just so I found myself completely overcome with annoyance. I couldn’t have wiped my Bitch Face off with a gallon of bleach and an SOS pad and they finally just gave up, telling me to turn my face as far to the side as possible while they got a few wide shots of us, the alley and my super duper wrinkled dress.
Back at school I managed to be conveniently absent when they debuted the final product and had only those random flashes of face-burning embarrassment when a stray thought or two would cross my brain. It wasn’t until nearly two years later that I came to realize the full extent of my actions and the total shit I manage to get into, all because of some desire to be a badass.
I’d moved back from New York nearly five months before and found myself in the endless cycle of ‘catching up.’ I’d stopped off at a local bar on my way home from work to say hello to some old coworkers and ended up staying until the wee small hours of the morn, sipping on cosmos and munching on pretzels. Right before last call I felt a tap on my arm and I turned, looking into a face only vaguely familiar.
“Are you Robin?” he asked.
“Um, yes.”
“You went to UCA, right? Communications major?”
“Um, yes.”
“Awshitdude! I knew that was you!” He turned to his buddy three tables back. “Steve-O! You have to come here, dude! This is that girl from that film with Hudd!”
Right then and there I would have sold my kidney to crawl in a hole and die. As it turns out, copies of that tape made it all around fraternity row and while I can confidently say that it was about as risqué as an episode of 7th Heaven, it doesn’t take much to set off the imagination of an over-intoxicated frat boy. Which is why I now mix my cosmos in the privacy of my own home, thank you.
Remember ladies, stage right by the red curtain has a dip in the floor so watch your step. Hit your marks on the green tape before the lights come up and end it on the yellow. Hold your smiles and shake it like you mean it, bitches.
As the years went on I branched out from my yearly displays of pointe shoe perfection and tap dancing talent and into the world of the theater, or theatre if you’re an aspiring off-Broadway performer. I had random parts in Oklahoma!, Krazy Kamp and Charlie Brown and relished every moment I got to strap on the microphone equivalent of a sound engineer’s worst nightmare and parade about the stage, belting out the three notes I could effectively hold and the seventeen others I most certainly could not.
My first theatrical singing solo came around my junior year in high school when my drama teacher held auditions for the much *cough* anticipated Charlie Brown musical. The afternoon of auditions, my classmates sat in petrified silence as Ms. Lamb called repeatedly for the first volunteer. Finally I sighed with great dramatic abandon, rolled my eyes heavenward and marched confidently towards the stage. Once there I instructed the piano player that I wanted to sing Ado Annie’s solo from Oklahoma! but the piano player only knew things like Rod Stewart and Lord I Lift Your Name On High so instead of attempting to learn a Godly-like song or imitate a bleached-out fertile old man, I opened my mouth and began to sing.
Not so strangely, that song is actually one of the few I can sing, not because of incessant practicing but because it requires less vocal ability and more gusto and I had plenty of the latter, far less of the former.
Later that week a blue envelope was hand delivered to my AP English class, informing me I had the part of Peppermint Patty. Just in case you’re not up on your Charlie Brown history, Patty was the one so desperately in love with ol’ Chuck, while ol’ Chuck was desperately in love with the little red headed girl. But that didn’t stop my campy love song from ricocheting off every available surface as night after night I sang my undying love to that yellow shirted idiot. I wasn’t so deluded that I thought I was destined for greatness, however. It’s just that it hit me halfway through rehearsals that I wasn’t so strong of a singer unless I was being backed up by a chorus of ten other dancing guys and gals and that maybe in the future I could try to be less of a badass and refrain from getting myself into situations where I have to sing to a prerecorded backing track played over twenty year old speakers. Because by the end, not only was I aware I had no singing ability, everyone else was aware I had no singing ability.
Honestly, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson way back then. That maybe before I ante up to the plate I check and make sure my bat isn’t made of pure dried shit. Or that my big shiny hat isn’t really a shellacked piece of gingham. But it’s like every now and then I get distracted, maybe by a stray dragonfly or an errant piece of hair, and I open my mouth to the biggest stream of floatacious word vomit you’ve ever seen.
Such was the case my senior year in college.
First semester I had a class with this professor who was supposed to teach things like communications and journalism and ended up teaching a class on film, because he knew jack about communications and journalism. Which was actually perfectly fine with me because by then I’d had it up to HERE with journalism classes and my soul-sucking job in a news station.
As our final project, Senor Professor handed out copies of an unpublished script, instructing us to choose a ten minute scene. We were then to cast it from the eager pool of theater majors, shoot it, edit it and present it to the class before Christmas break. The catch being, of course, that you needed the help of the entire class on each and every shoot. Unless you’re a control freak like me and choose a scene that requires one actress, one room and one camera. Then you just ignore the words your partner speaks at you and do it however the hell you want.
Now, for four years I’d been in these classes with the same people. I didn’t chill with Christy but I knew she was a bad ass softball player. And Doug was a bit squirrely but could put away some hard liquor. And Hudd and Riggin? Just your generic everyday frat boys, complete with muddy Jeeps and chromed-out Tahoes. And being frat boys, they chose the one questionable scene in the whole script. The part where the main character gets out of rehab, slams back a bottle of NyQuil in a seedy bar and has his wicked way with a bar rat in the alley out back.
But when we had to cast our actors, they ran into a bit of a roadblock. Not a single one of the girls would agree to put on a slutty dress and whisper sweet, albeit slurred, nothings in someone’s ear. There probably would have been a revolt among the males as well but we only had three to choose from and one was so obese there’s no way he could have pulled off an alley touchdown and the other two had ‘previous commitments.’ Meaning they had girlfriends who would personally saw off their, you know, bits and nail them to wall.
Which should somewhat explain how I found myself in the alley behind Linens-n-Things on a very chilly night in mid November, wearing my very best slut dress, my come-hither knee high boots and some wicked cool teased hair. I’d finally agreed to the part after Hudd had caught me after class twice in a row and walked me to my car, telling me in his deceptively sweet soft voice that he really wanted me to be the actress in his scene because he was going to play the guy and he knew I was cool. Not like those other girls, he’d said. You’re a total badass.
Hi! My name is Gullible! How are you today!
It was as the lights were being set up for the alley scene that I got my first case of stage fright, ever. Hudd and I had to stand so close our noses touched, just like that, just so, for a full hour as the crew moved this light and that light and that one way over there. There is nothing more terrifying than having to share an inch of breathing space with a boy who you’d like to see sans his letter shirt, all while your classmates watch and you fake nonchalance and a total indifference to the fruits of having a personal gym in a frat house.
And then, oh dear god, and then we started filming. This was the part I’d always been kind of fuzzy on, really. I mean, he was just taking this bar rat outside for a little hanky panky and then he was going to stumble on his merry way while she fixed her mascara in a shiny pink compact. That whole PRETENDING TO HAVE SEX ON CAMERA THING had never really solidified in my head because this was a CLASS, surely it was just going to be kind of suggestive with a little leg here, a little grunt there and BAM! We’re done! Let’s all go out for ice cream.
Note to future self: Please stop being so bloody stupid.
Without warning Hudd hefted me off the ground, wrapping my legs around his waist and placed his forearms in the least sexual way possible under my ass. And let’s be honest here, when you’re upper body is about 4.7 feet from the other person’s upper body, it’s really about as hot as playing water rugby, only without the water. So we stood around like that while they got random shots of Hudd’s shoulders moving, uh, just so and his legs bracing, uh, just so and when they tried to get shots of my face moving, uh, just so I found myself completely overcome with annoyance. I couldn’t have wiped my Bitch Face off with a gallon of bleach and an SOS pad and they finally just gave up, telling me to turn my face as far to the side as possible while they got a few wide shots of us, the alley and my super duper wrinkled dress.
Back at school I managed to be conveniently absent when they debuted the final product and had only those random flashes of face-burning embarrassment when a stray thought or two would cross my brain. It wasn’t until nearly two years later that I came to realize the full extent of my actions and the total shit I manage to get into, all because of some desire to be a badass.
I’d moved back from New York nearly five months before and found myself in the endless cycle of ‘catching up.’ I’d stopped off at a local bar on my way home from work to say hello to some old coworkers and ended up staying until the wee small hours of the morn, sipping on cosmos and munching on pretzels. Right before last call I felt a tap on my arm and I turned, looking into a face only vaguely familiar.
“Are you Robin?” he asked.
“Um, yes.”
“You went to UCA, right? Communications major?”
“Um, yes.”
“Awshitdude! I knew that was you!” He turned to his buddy three tables back. “Steve-O! You have to come here, dude! This is that girl from that film with Hudd!”
Right then and there I would have sold my kidney to crawl in a hole and die. As it turns out, copies of that tape made it all around fraternity row and while I can confidently say that it was about as risqué as an episode of 7th Heaven, it doesn’t take much to set off the imagination of an over-intoxicated frat boy. Which is why I now mix my cosmos in the privacy of my own home, thank you.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Sugar is Sweet and Cookies, Too
When I was in college I had a roommate named Ruby who’s real name is Crystal but don’t tell her I told you.
Second semester she started dating this guy named Matt and I can’t say he was any improvement over her previous dating experiments. And that includes the professor who mysteriously accompanied us on late night Waffle House excursions and later utilized my bed to make his spit swapping move. Then Matt came along with his black floppy hair and his big dirty boots and the guitar case that always managed to be resting in my chair or on my bed or directly in front of the door that I was opening. As soon as I made a motion to remove his personal artifacts from my personal space he would roll his eyes and toss back his floppy hair, as if to say I couldn’t possibly appreciate the true deepness of his commitment to music and the bad-assedness of his manly tortured soul.
A couple of months later my friends and I packed up my Jeep and Brittany’s Grand Am and rolled south to the land of beach condos and loose-pooped sea gulls. In my front seat rode Matt, because his legs were long, he said. With him he brought a giant CD case full of Pearl Jam and not much else. Now, say what you like about Pearl Jam but there is nothing more annoying to me than the whining patheticness of Eddie Vedder’s voice. Someone give the man a pocket knife and let him slit his writs already.
For the first four hours of the drive Matt claimed dominance over the CD player, sliding in disc after disc of Pearl Jam, LIve! Pearl Jam, Live in Seattle! and Pearl Jam, the Acoustic Album! By the time we stopped for the night I’d had enough of his his music elitism and threatened bodily harm if my vehicle didn’t have brand spanking new occupants come morning. Naturally, my vehicle elitism won out over his music elitism and Mr. Matt ended up in Brittany’s car for the rest of the trip.
The thing is, I knew where this was heading from the very beginning. Crystal would never leave Matt and Matt would sure as hell never leave Crystal, which explains how two years ago I sat under an overcast evening sky and watched Crystal walk down the aisle in her beautiful white dress, clutching a bouquet of violently red roses, her face creased in a smile unbelievably nervous and happy. At the top of the aisle stood Matt, in cleaner clothes than I had ever seen him, looking almost regal in his tuxedo attire. His smile was less nervous and more goofy and I think that about sums it up. Because if I were him I’d be absolutely giddy that someone as bitchin as Crystal had agreed to be my wife.
Since then they’ve bought a house in the country, one with plenty of room for their three thousand dogs and two pet cats, never mind the added bonus of attack turkeys and stinging scorpions and no, I did not just make that up. As it turns out, Matt sidelined his music career for a hobby involving the byproducts of the outdoors and as all of my hobbies involve air conditioning, I really couldn’t tell you exactly what he does. All I know is that it involves survival skills and lots of dried deer skin. Before you think them country, however, please note that Matt practices Tai Chi every night on his front lawn and spends a lot of time identifying edible plants and reinforcing creek beds.
Ridiculously long history now complete, I can tell you that this evening I attended my first ever baby shower and if you’ve been paying attention, like, at all, then you’ve probably guessed the mom-to-be is Crystal with daddy-to-be Matt by her side. I won’t lie and tell you that I wasn’t confused by toilet-lid shaped pillows and $200 breast pumps but it seemed to make her happy in between the moments when she wasn’t scolding Unnamed Baby on the etiquette of bladder jumping and abdominal rugby.
Over the past couple of years we’ve had a few getogethers like this where a few of the Old Guard mesh with the New Guard and regale them with stories from bygone days of yore. Like last year when we celebrated the Summer Solstice by dancing around naked in Crystal’s back yard. Kidding. Maybe. But these get togethers are always fabulous because, like tonight, you get to squish on the couch with people you used to squish with on a dorm room bed or a big orange couch or a creaky porch swing. Back when we had no qualms about invading each other’s space because, hello, we were eighteen-year-old intellectuals with lots of time on our hands and the mysteries of the world to solve. Like how to use the leftover flat beer from Friday’s party by pouring it in ice cube trays complete with de-cottoned Q-tips. Voila! Beer Popsicle!
It’s just that, inside her belly is this little human and never before have I been more cognizant of that fact. Already she’s got a daycare picked out and last week she interviewed a pediatrician. Seriously. She knows the statistics on breast feeding and the theories on getting babies to sleep. And when she sits on the love seat with her husband she absentmindedly rubs her belly, taut with eight months of baby brewing. And her husband, my god her husband, he sits beside her and brushes her mass of hair from her shoulders and it hits me that this man loves my friend, her loves her so much I can’t even make jokes about fat kids and cake. They’re going to have a baby together. A wee little nugget that’s going to slam the door in Crystal’s face at fifteen and smoke pot in the garage, thinking the smell won’t travel. But they are wise to your ways, little nugget. And I promise, it really is for your own good.
Tonight as I was walking to the door, Matt came up behind me and gave me an unexpected embrace. I realized then and there that he was no longer part of my life by proxy, he was the man in charge of taking care of Crystal. Just as Crystal is the woman in charge of taking care of Matt. They fit. And they made a baby. And I no longer think of him as the guy who put his feet on my bed and made profound statements about grunge music.
He’s the man who awkwardly cradled the six-week old baby of one of their friends, alternately swaying and bouncing and bouncing and swaying until he finally found his rhythm with a nice gentle sway-and-rock.
Kiss Kiss, Hug Hug and Good Luck
Love,
Robin
Second semester she started dating this guy named Matt and I can’t say he was any improvement over her previous dating experiments. And that includes the professor who mysteriously accompanied us on late night Waffle House excursions and later utilized my bed to make his spit swapping move. Then Matt came along with his black floppy hair and his big dirty boots and the guitar case that always managed to be resting in my chair or on my bed or directly in front of the door that I was opening. As soon as I made a motion to remove his personal artifacts from my personal space he would roll his eyes and toss back his floppy hair, as if to say I couldn’t possibly appreciate the true deepness of his commitment to music and the bad-assedness of his manly tortured soul.
A couple of months later my friends and I packed up my Jeep and Brittany’s Grand Am and rolled south to the land of beach condos and loose-pooped sea gulls. In my front seat rode Matt, because his legs were long, he said. With him he brought a giant CD case full of Pearl Jam and not much else. Now, say what you like about Pearl Jam but there is nothing more annoying to me than the whining patheticness of Eddie Vedder’s voice. Someone give the man a pocket knife and let him slit his writs already.
For the first four hours of the drive Matt claimed dominance over the CD player, sliding in disc after disc of Pearl Jam, LIve! Pearl Jam, Live in Seattle! and Pearl Jam, the Acoustic Album! By the time we stopped for the night I’d had enough of his his music elitism and threatened bodily harm if my vehicle didn’t have brand spanking new occupants come morning. Naturally, my vehicle elitism won out over his music elitism and Mr. Matt ended up in Brittany’s car for the rest of the trip.
The thing is, I knew where this was heading from the very beginning. Crystal would never leave Matt and Matt would sure as hell never leave Crystal, which explains how two years ago I sat under an overcast evening sky and watched Crystal walk down the aisle in her beautiful white dress, clutching a bouquet of violently red roses, her face creased in a smile unbelievably nervous and happy. At the top of the aisle stood Matt, in cleaner clothes than I had ever seen him, looking almost regal in his tuxedo attire. His smile was less nervous and more goofy and I think that about sums it up. Because if I were him I’d be absolutely giddy that someone as bitchin as Crystal had agreed to be my wife.
Since then they’ve bought a house in the country, one with plenty of room for their three thousand dogs and two pet cats, never mind the added bonus of attack turkeys and stinging scorpions and no, I did not just make that up. As it turns out, Matt sidelined his music career for a hobby involving the byproducts of the outdoors and as all of my hobbies involve air conditioning, I really couldn’t tell you exactly what he does. All I know is that it involves survival skills and lots of dried deer skin. Before you think them country, however, please note that Matt practices Tai Chi every night on his front lawn and spends a lot of time identifying edible plants and reinforcing creek beds.
Ridiculously long history now complete, I can tell you that this evening I attended my first ever baby shower and if you’ve been paying attention, like, at all, then you’ve probably guessed the mom-to-be is Crystal with daddy-to-be Matt by her side. I won’t lie and tell you that I wasn’t confused by toilet-lid shaped pillows and $200 breast pumps but it seemed to make her happy in between the moments when she wasn’t scolding Unnamed Baby on the etiquette of bladder jumping and abdominal rugby.
Over the past couple of years we’ve had a few getogethers like this where a few of the Old Guard mesh with the New Guard and regale them with stories from bygone days of yore. Like last year when we celebrated the Summer Solstice by dancing around naked in Crystal’s back yard. Kidding. Maybe. But these get togethers are always fabulous because, like tonight, you get to squish on the couch with people you used to squish with on a dorm room bed or a big orange couch or a creaky porch swing. Back when we had no qualms about invading each other’s space because, hello, we were eighteen-year-old intellectuals with lots of time on our hands and the mysteries of the world to solve. Like how to use the leftover flat beer from Friday’s party by pouring it in ice cube trays complete with de-cottoned Q-tips. Voila! Beer Popsicle!
It’s just that, inside her belly is this little human and never before have I been more cognizant of that fact. Already she’s got a daycare picked out and last week she interviewed a pediatrician. Seriously. She knows the statistics on breast feeding and the theories on getting babies to sleep. And when she sits on the love seat with her husband she absentmindedly rubs her belly, taut with eight months of baby brewing. And her husband, my god her husband, he sits beside her and brushes her mass of hair from her shoulders and it hits me that this man loves my friend, her loves her so much I can’t even make jokes about fat kids and cake. They’re going to have a baby together. A wee little nugget that’s going to slam the door in Crystal’s face at fifteen and smoke pot in the garage, thinking the smell won’t travel. But they are wise to your ways, little nugget. And I promise, it really is for your own good.
Tonight as I was walking to the door, Matt came up behind me and gave me an unexpected embrace. I realized then and there that he was no longer part of my life by proxy, he was the man in charge of taking care of Crystal. Just as Crystal is the woman in charge of taking care of Matt. They fit. And they made a baby. And I no longer think of him as the guy who put his feet on my bed and made profound statements about grunge music.
He’s the man who awkwardly cradled the six-week old baby of one of their friends, alternately swaying and bouncing and bouncing and swaying until he finally found his rhythm with a nice gentle sway-and-rock.
Kiss Kiss, Hug Hug and Good Luck
Love,
Robin
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Love Ya, Mean It *cough
I'm on an extended vacation and I'm not dead and I haven't put on makeup for three days and I took a nap yesterday for no reason and I stayed up until three last night nursing a glass of wine and I'm residing here for the next few days, attempting to NOT wake up at forty and realize I never did the one thing that I wanted to do.
So you kids talk amongst yourselves and I'll be back next week. I may even tell you why there's a tape of me being dry humped by a frat boy named Hudd or how I bacame a corporate minion, sans nose ring.
kiss kiss
So you kids talk amongst yourselves and I'll be back next week. I may even tell you why there's a tape of me being dry humped by a frat boy named Hudd or how I bacame a corporate minion, sans nose ring.
kiss kiss
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Elves And Fairies and VICIOUS ATTACK RODENTS, the end! (we hope)
You might have noticed that I haven’t posted anything about The Rats, or even Mr. Bojangles, my favorite footless rodent who for a while there became The Demon spawns sole reason for living. A new toy! they said. A real, live toy!
But then Paul the Rat Killer showed up and placed those little blocks of no-bake cookies around my apartment and suddenly, if suddenly is one week later, I seem to be devoid of the Rodentus Maximus and I think I may be kind of sad. They were my one claim to fame, you see. My friend Amanda expressed horror and dismay as I continued to sleep in my apartment and I took great pride in the fact that I went home every night to an apartment that could honestly and without exaggeration be referred to as ‘infested.’ I’m afraid she feared the worst for me, suspecting that the vicious attack rodents would somehow gnaw off my face in the middle of the night and I would awake to some Silence of the Lambs-esque horror.
But I know that rats can’t climb, at least that’s what I tell myself, and so I never really feared for my safety or pondered the chances of my face being ripped off piece by wee little piece because let’s be honest here, I wake up if my next door neighbor’s dog thinks about shedding a wee little piece of fur much less allowing some persnickety rodent to launch himself onto my bed and make it next to my face without me going all Mr. Miagi on it’s ass. Also, I discarded my knife in favor of a large metal hammer I found in my tool bag due to a stern self-evaluation where I realized that my knife-throwing skills were more than likely sub-par but my hammering skills were right up there with Ty Pennington. I would have said Bob Villa but that guy kind of creeps me out. Though so does Ty Pennington, especially now that he’s shelling for a phone company and I’m supposed to buy into the fact that the majority of American women want to pin his bony ass to a wall and have their wicked way with him. But me, I’d prefer to avoid being impaled by someone’s hip bone so instead I’m going to offer Mr. Pennington a cookie and remind him that indoor tanning is only for chicks.
Truly, I think I was more comfortable when I could see them because at least then I knew their exact whereabouts. Their piercing rodent screams were like an auditory radar screen; Mr. Bojangles in quadrant two! Baby Rat in quadrant four! Send in the piercing kitchen lights and stomping feet to scare them off! It was like Top Gun, without the pre-braces Tom Cruise and the really cool make-out scene that my dad used to casually flip away from while I pretended that kissing boys was wicked gross when really I was just highly confused as to why grown ass folks had to go and put their tongue in everybody’s mouth. Like, ew. So really it was nothing like Top Gun, except maybe that one scene where they all scream out things like TWO BOGEYS, no, THREE BOGEYS, no FIFTEEN BOGEYS! Sir! We’re totally screwed, sir! And then Goose dies and everybody cries a little.
So yeah, I’m totally looking forward to smelling my little rodent friends as their little souls depart their earthen bodies and leave behind their decomposing furry shells for my olfactory pleasures.
But then Paul the Rat Killer showed up and placed those little blocks of no-bake cookies around my apartment and suddenly, if suddenly is one week later, I seem to be devoid of the Rodentus Maximus and I think I may be kind of sad. They were my one claim to fame, you see. My friend Amanda expressed horror and dismay as I continued to sleep in my apartment and I took great pride in the fact that I went home every night to an apartment that could honestly and without exaggeration be referred to as ‘infested.’ I’m afraid she feared the worst for me, suspecting that the vicious attack rodents would somehow gnaw off my face in the middle of the night and I would awake to some Silence of the Lambs-esque horror.
But I know that rats can’t climb, at least that’s what I tell myself, and so I never really feared for my safety or pondered the chances of my face being ripped off piece by wee little piece because let’s be honest here, I wake up if my next door neighbor’s dog thinks about shedding a wee little piece of fur much less allowing some persnickety rodent to launch himself onto my bed and make it next to my face without me going all Mr. Miagi on it’s ass. Also, I discarded my knife in favor of a large metal hammer I found in my tool bag due to a stern self-evaluation where I realized that my knife-throwing skills were more than likely sub-par but my hammering skills were right up there with Ty Pennington. I would have said Bob Villa but that guy kind of creeps me out. Though so does Ty Pennington, especially now that he’s shelling for a phone company and I’m supposed to buy into the fact that the majority of American women want to pin his bony ass to a wall and have their wicked way with him. But me, I’d prefer to avoid being impaled by someone’s hip bone so instead I’m going to offer Mr. Pennington a cookie and remind him that indoor tanning is only for chicks.
Truly, I think I was more comfortable when I could see them because at least then I knew their exact whereabouts. Their piercing rodent screams were like an auditory radar screen; Mr. Bojangles in quadrant two! Baby Rat in quadrant four! Send in the piercing kitchen lights and stomping feet to scare them off! It was like Top Gun, without the pre-braces Tom Cruise and the really cool make-out scene that my dad used to casually flip away from while I pretended that kissing boys was wicked gross when really I was just highly confused as to why grown ass folks had to go and put their tongue in everybody’s mouth. Like, ew. So really it was nothing like Top Gun, except maybe that one scene where they all scream out things like TWO BOGEYS, no, THREE BOGEYS, no FIFTEEN BOGEYS! Sir! We’re totally screwed, sir! And then Goose dies and everybody cries a little.
So yeah, I’m totally looking forward to smelling my little rodent friends as their little souls depart their earthen bodies and leave behind their decomposing furry shells for my olfactory pleasures.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Elves And Fairies and VICIOUS ATTACK RODENTS, pt 3
Less than ten hours from the time I left my very succinct message for my landlord, the message where I threatened to catch one of my new rodent friends and leave it’s crucified remains nailed to the front of his business, I got a call from Paul the Rat Killer. He doesn’t actually go by that Rat Killer moniker but I figure that’s what he does and all, he kills rats, and trying to be all inoffensive about it just grates my nerves a little. To say you’re with Arkansas Pest Control is very misleading because I consider my neighbor’s children to be pests and if you caught me in the right mood I might contact you for a little pest removal of the human (under eight) variety so just to be as clear as possible I think it’s best to remove any ambiguity found in the title of your business. If you were a hooker you wouldn’t tell your friend in the Lexus that you work for the Anonymous Gratification Company, you’d tell him that you’ll love him long time for five dollar. Very simple concept plus you know you’re reaching the right customer base.
Paul the Rat Killer droned on and on for quite some time, rambling about how he was sorry he didn’t make it in my apartment when he was there earlier in the week but the landlord didn’t have a key to my apartment. I’d call his bluff here but I know for a fact he was in every single other apartment and I know this because he walked in on my upstairs neighbor while she was in the shower, much to her utter dismay. I also have little to no faith in my management company thanks to the biannual festivities involving me, no air conditioning and lots of angry sweat. So I took him at his word and asked when he was available to come by, anxious as I was to watch a herd of rodents die a miserable, convulsing, foaming death.
He quickly informed me he didn’t work weekends but this coming Tuesday was free. I’m not one to split hairs with the individual involved in my Rat Killing so I told him I’d meet him at my place ‘round 6pm and drinks were on me. He didn’t really get my joke, which to be honest wasn’t so much a joke as it was a singing homage to my inability to function in uncomfortable situations. I mean, the guy had just spent nearly half my lunch break talking about stuffing steel wool in the rat holes so they’d gnaw on it and then bleed to death internally which was a very painful process but not to feel sorry for the buggers ‘cause they breed like crazy anyway and the Mama Rat will just go make some more. And instead of verbally nodding and keeping my mouth shut I tried to make light of the upcoming massacre and made an attempt at a joke and all that guy did was tell me he was a Baptist and didn’t believe in the drinking. In case you’re keeping score, I listened to twenty minutes of Rat Death talk AND got shot down by a 60-year-old Baptist pest control guy. WINNER.
This afternoon I raced home after work, driving the speed limit obviously because the cops round these here parts are starting to go all CHiPS on me but not a single one of them have been swayed by low cut tops or outright begging, which I think is doing their CHiPS legacy a true disservice because Erik Estrada so would have let me off. Once home I gave my apartment the once over with some Pledge because a) it smells nice and b) I wanted nice clean print-free surfaces available for my Rat Killer Man, just in case the CSI folk needed to do a dust-down later. I wouldn’t want them to confuse the Rat Killer’s prints with my neighbors boyfriend’s prints and it’s not that I’m judging anyone, I’m just saying you got to be prepared when strange folk are coming in your house, especially ones that choose careers involving killing.
Paul the Rat Killer showed up right on time and made himself at home with his roach spray by soaking every available baseboard in the semi-clear goop. He was quite proud of the orange smell and asked me repeatedly to affirm that the roach spray was just like opening up an orange and all I could think to tell him was ‘Yeah, that sure does smell like, um, oranges’ and then ask him why he’s spraying for roaches when I’ve got a blessed colony of rodents that are right this very second spewing forth future spawn that will find the titanic-sized bag of cat food a tasty treat. He then puts his hands on his BRIGHT ASS RED SUSPENDERS and gives them one good solid pop! and chortles merrily to himself all the while I’m mentally gauging the distance between me, him and the butcher knife in the kitchen when he says:
“I’d done forgot all about them rats!”
Oh dear lord, and I’d almost forgotten why I lived in Arkansas.
So he finishes up with the roach spray because he “might as well, an’all” and then lumbers out to his pickup for a big black box of rat poison. Back inside the apartment he breaks off these big squares that remind me of those No-Bake cookies that people always try to pass off as tasty because they’ve got peanut butter in them and usually some oats and nuts and sugar, which I’m sure seem like perfectly tasty ingredients to you but I hate peanut butter, as in hate it so much I’d rather eat it, vomit it up and then snort it up my nose. I might be over exaggerating just a bit but it really doesn’t matter if I like the poison blocks or not, it matters that the Vicious Attack Rodents like it, eat it and then DIE. Preferably outside amongst a lot of nature and a really heavy wind.
After Paul the Rat Killer finished off his display-o-poison in my cabinets he tells me that he’s never had a cat go for the poison but should I notice that they’ve eaten a piece, the antidote is vitamin K. And while I’m taking a few seconds to digest this whole ‘antidote’ scenario and wondering how I’m going to know if the cats have eaten the poison he then proceeds to tell me all about the poison.
“Do you know what a coagulant is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure I know what a coagulant is.”
“What is it?”
God, what is this, fifth grade? “A coagulant is something that aids in the clotting process.”
“Very good!” Bite me asshole. “So if you know what a coagulant is, can you guess what an anticoagulant is?” He’s serious. This is like those scenes in movies where they cut to a dream sequence where the hero gets to beat the Annoying Guy with a large bat and then cut! right back to the normal scene, Annoying Guy’s head still intact.
“It would be the opposite of ‘to clot.’”
“Very good! Now this poison is an anticoagulant. Basically, it makes the rats bleed internally until it rots out their gut and they die. Normally takes about three to seven days.”
Oh goody.
Paul the Rat Killer droned on and on for quite some time, rambling about how he was sorry he didn’t make it in my apartment when he was there earlier in the week but the landlord didn’t have a key to my apartment. I’d call his bluff here but I know for a fact he was in every single other apartment and I know this because he walked in on my upstairs neighbor while she was in the shower, much to her utter dismay. I also have little to no faith in my management company thanks to the biannual festivities involving me, no air conditioning and lots of angry sweat. So I took him at his word and asked when he was available to come by, anxious as I was to watch a herd of rodents die a miserable, convulsing, foaming death.
He quickly informed me he didn’t work weekends but this coming Tuesday was free. I’m not one to split hairs with the individual involved in my Rat Killing so I told him I’d meet him at my place ‘round 6pm and drinks were on me. He didn’t really get my joke, which to be honest wasn’t so much a joke as it was a singing homage to my inability to function in uncomfortable situations. I mean, the guy had just spent nearly half my lunch break talking about stuffing steel wool in the rat holes so they’d gnaw on it and then bleed to death internally which was a very painful process but not to feel sorry for the buggers ‘cause they breed like crazy anyway and the Mama Rat will just go make some more. And instead of verbally nodding and keeping my mouth shut I tried to make light of the upcoming massacre and made an attempt at a joke and all that guy did was tell me he was a Baptist and didn’t believe in the drinking. In case you’re keeping score, I listened to twenty minutes of Rat Death talk AND got shot down by a 60-year-old Baptist pest control guy. WINNER.
This afternoon I raced home after work, driving the speed limit obviously because the cops round these here parts are starting to go all CHiPS on me but not a single one of them have been swayed by low cut tops or outright begging, which I think is doing their CHiPS legacy a true disservice because Erik Estrada so would have let me off. Once home I gave my apartment the once over with some Pledge because a) it smells nice and b) I wanted nice clean print-free surfaces available for my Rat Killer Man, just in case the CSI folk needed to do a dust-down later. I wouldn’t want them to confuse the Rat Killer’s prints with my neighbors boyfriend’s prints and it’s not that I’m judging anyone, I’m just saying you got to be prepared when strange folk are coming in your house, especially ones that choose careers involving killing.
Paul the Rat Killer showed up right on time and made himself at home with his roach spray by soaking every available baseboard in the semi-clear goop. He was quite proud of the orange smell and asked me repeatedly to affirm that the roach spray was just like opening up an orange and all I could think to tell him was ‘Yeah, that sure does smell like, um, oranges’ and then ask him why he’s spraying for roaches when I’ve got a blessed colony of rodents that are right this very second spewing forth future spawn that will find the titanic-sized bag of cat food a tasty treat. He then puts his hands on his BRIGHT ASS RED SUSPENDERS and gives them one good solid pop! and chortles merrily to himself all the while I’m mentally gauging the distance between me, him and the butcher knife in the kitchen when he says:
“I’d done forgot all about them rats!”
Oh dear lord, and I’d almost forgotten why I lived in Arkansas.
So he finishes up with the roach spray because he “might as well, an’all” and then lumbers out to his pickup for a big black box of rat poison. Back inside the apartment he breaks off these big squares that remind me of those No-Bake cookies that people always try to pass off as tasty because they’ve got peanut butter in them and usually some oats and nuts and sugar, which I’m sure seem like perfectly tasty ingredients to you but I hate peanut butter, as in hate it so much I’d rather eat it, vomit it up and then snort it up my nose. I might be over exaggerating just a bit but it really doesn’t matter if I like the poison blocks or not, it matters that the Vicious Attack Rodents like it, eat it and then DIE. Preferably outside amongst a lot of nature and a really heavy wind.
After Paul the Rat Killer finished off his display-o-poison in my cabinets he tells me that he’s never had a cat go for the poison but should I notice that they’ve eaten a piece, the antidote is vitamin K. And while I’m taking a few seconds to digest this whole ‘antidote’ scenario and wondering how I’m going to know if the cats have eaten the poison he then proceeds to tell me all about the poison.
“Do you know what a coagulant is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure I know what a coagulant is.”
“What is it?”
God, what is this, fifth grade? “A coagulant is something that aids in the clotting process.”
“Very good!” Bite me asshole. “So if you know what a coagulant is, can you guess what an anticoagulant is?” He’s serious. This is like those scenes in movies where they cut to a dream sequence where the hero gets to beat the Annoying Guy with a large bat and then cut! right back to the normal scene, Annoying Guy’s head still intact.
“It would be the opposite of ‘to clot.’”
“Very good! Now this poison is an anticoagulant. Basically, it makes the rats bleed internally until it rots out their gut and they die. Normally takes about three to seven days.”
Oh goody.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Elves And Fairies and VICIOUS ATTACK RODENTS, pt 2
I realized almost immediately that standing on my bed, knife in hand, was bound to get me nowhere good so I sat down on the edge with my feet dangling over the side and then I had a very surreal flashback to 1989 and watching Pet Cemetery at my friend Bridget’s birthday party. I’d managed to skip most of the really terrifying parts by cowering in the vacant kitchen and pretending to get a snack which probably fooled, um, let’s count: NO ONE as I distinctly remember mounds upon mounds of hot dogs and this kid right here doesn’t eat hot dogs, no ma’am, have you ever seen the Discovery Channel special on meat processing? No? Well you should stop watching porn and watch something educational now and again.
Now I realize that Gage and his desire to play with YOU, if You is really me, doesn’t so much relate to a Rodent of Unusual Size careening around the corner into the kitchen but cut me some slack, I’d just yanked a knife from between my mattress and stood screaming on my bed for 4.5 seconds and there was probably some residual traumatization which hastened along some really unsettling flashbacks to that Gage kid hiding under Grampa’s bed with that handy dandy scalpel and look at the delicate achilles heel! Fresh for the cutting!
So just to ascertain that there was no Gage hiding under my bed or maybe even some leftover Rat Friends who were too drunk to leave the party, I laid on my belly and scooted my torso over the edge where I made some loud noise and waived my knife around in the black depths because I figure Under The Bed Things are afraid of loud noises and knife waiving. I then attempted to peek my little eyeballs under there but the thing about my bed is that it’s wicked far off the ground so I ended up very ungracefully planting both my hands on the wooden floor which gave me a very clear view of the Under The Bed Area but if I’d needed to, say, react quickly like bunny, things could have ended very badly.
Once I’d righted myself, feet planted on the floor this time, I walked silently out of the bedroom and into the archway of the darkened kitchen. Both of The Demonspawn were eerily still on opposite sides of the refrigerator for what I can only assume was a strategically coordinated double-team move designed to give them more face time with their new live toy. Not even the sudden glare of the overhead light was enough to startle them though it definitely took away the creepy green-gold glowing eye thing they’d had going on.
As I was tip toeing into the kitchen, Llama made a quick paw swiping move under the fridge and I showed how much I supported him by jumping on top of the nearest kitchen chair. I didn’t want him to think that my trust for him had waned, I wanted it clear that I was giving him full reign to find that rat and tear his insides apart with his saber kitty teeth and tiger claws. But his paw came back empty and I suppressed my vocal disappointment by scooting the chair across the rug to the cabinet under the sink, a cabinet far, far away from that refrigerator where I keep my tile cleaner with bleach and my sink cleaner with bleach and my whole gallon jug of bleach because one can never have too much bleach, do not judge me.
But there, in the back of the cabinet, was the industrial size bottle of pet-friendly bug killer and I rationalized that rats were like bugs, only bigger and more mammalian-like and without those crunchy exoskeletons and maybe if someone just did the math in her head and said the bug is THIS big so I use THIS much pesticide so if the rodent is THAT big then I use THAT much pesticide and voila! No more rodent!
I really should stop listening to myself when I rationalize these things because just two weeks ago I rationalized that since my weekend had given me a bit too much sun and hence a wee bit of the peeling action, perhaps I would just speed up the peeling process by pumicing my forehead. Note to self: do not use pumice on delicate forehead skin as will only leave area with an unattractive mottled look that will force others to ask if you’d been recently mauled and burned with a strangely shaped curling iron.
But rationalize I did, which explains how at 1am I found myself crouching on top of a chair and pointing the spray nozzle of the Pet Friendly! pesticide directly under the fridge, turning my head and pressing the nozzle which was simultaneously met with a really high pitched rat scream and a lot of bumping noises but no actual rat appearance. I figure if someone sprayed roach killer in my face I’d scream too but don’t you go thinking I was starting to feel sympathetic to it’s plight, I was only hoping it would gimp home and tell all his friends about the crazy lady in 4D with the spray fire that burns out your eye-holes.
Five minutes later with no sign of Mr. Bojangles and I was so over the whole rodent killing thing because I went to school for communications, not The Proper Methods of Rodent Extermination and HELLO, don’t people get paid to get rid of these things? Isn’t that someone’s job? Wait, I know who’s job it is! It’s my landlords job!
So I hopped off my chair and kind of skittered back to my bedroom because it was late and I was tired and what if that had been my one night to sleep and it had been ruined by the sudden squealing appearance of an overgrown (and vicious) hamster?
Don’t think I didn’t call my landlord and leave him a really special message about that.
Now I realize that Gage and his desire to play with YOU, if You is really me, doesn’t so much relate to a Rodent of Unusual Size careening around the corner into the kitchen but cut me some slack, I’d just yanked a knife from between my mattress and stood screaming on my bed for 4.5 seconds and there was probably some residual traumatization which hastened along some really unsettling flashbacks to that Gage kid hiding under Grampa’s bed with that handy dandy scalpel and look at the delicate achilles heel! Fresh for the cutting!
So just to ascertain that there was no Gage hiding under my bed or maybe even some leftover Rat Friends who were too drunk to leave the party, I laid on my belly and scooted my torso over the edge where I made some loud noise and waived my knife around in the black depths because I figure Under The Bed Things are afraid of loud noises and knife waiving. I then attempted to peek my little eyeballs under there but the thing about my bed is that it’s wicked far off the ground so I ended up very ungracefully planting both my hands on the wooden floor which gave me a very clear view of the Under The Bed Area but if I’d needed to, say, react quickly like bunny, things could have ended very badly.
Once I’d righted myself, feet planted on the floor this time, I walked silently out of the bedroom and into the archway of the darkened kitchen. Both of The Demonspawn were eerily still on opposite sides of the refrigerator for what I can only assume was a strategically coordinated double-team move designed to give them more face time with their new live toy. Not even the sudden glare of the overhead light was enough to startle them though it definitely took away the creepy green-gold glowing eye thing they’d had going on.
As I was tip toeing into the kitchen, Llama made a quick paw swiping move under the fridge and I showed how much I supported him by jumping on top of the nearest kitchen chair. I didn’t want him to think that my trust for him had waned, I wanted it clear that I was giving him full reign to find that rat and tear his insides apart with his saber kitty teeth and tiger claws. But his paw came back empty and I suppressed my vocal disappointment by scooting the chair across the rug to the cabinet under the sink, a cabinet far, far away from that refrigerator where I keep my tile cleaner with bleach and my sink cleaner with bleach and my whole gallon jug of bleach because one can never have too much bleach, do not judge me.
But there, in the back of the cabinet, was the industrial size bottle of pet-friendly bug killer and I rationalized that rats were like bugs, only bigger and more mammalian-like and without those crunchy exoskeletons and maybe if someone just did the math in her head and said the bug is THIS big so I use THIS much pesticide so if the rodent is THAT big then I use THAT much pesticide and voila! No more rodent!
I really should stop listening to myself when I rationalize these things because just two weeks ago I rationalized that since my weekend had given me a bit too much sun and hence a wee bit of the peeling action, perhaps I would just speed up the peeling process by pumicing my forehead. Note to self: do not use pumice on delicate forehead skin as will only leave area with an unattractive mottled look that will force others to ask if you’d been recently mauled and burned with a strangely shaped curling iron.
But rationalize I did, which explains how at 1am I found myself crouching on top of a chair and pointing the spray nozzle of the Pet Friendly! pesticide directly under the fridge, turning my head and pressing the nozzle which was simultaneously met with a really high pitched rat scream and a lot of bumping noises but no actual rat appearance. I figure if someone sprayed roach killer in my face I’d scream too but don’t you go thinking I was starting to feel sympathetic to it’s plight, I was only hoping it would gimp home and tell all his friends about the crazy lady in 4D with the spray fire that burns out your eye-holes.
Five minutes later with no sign of Mr. Bojangles and I was so over the whole rodent killing thing because I went to school for communications, not The Proper Methods of Rodent Extermination and HELLO, don’t people get paid to get rid of these things? Isn’t that someone’s job? Wait, I know who’s job it is! It’s my landlords job!
So I hopped off my chair and kind of skittered back to my bedroom because it was late and I was tired and what if that had been my one night to sleep and it had been ruined by the sudden squealing appearance of an overgrown (and vicious) hamster?
Don’t think I didn’t call my landlord and leave him a really special message about that.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Elves And Fairies and VICIOUS ATTACK RODENTS, pt 1
We were still living in Texas when I was eight years old, in a small town in a small subdivision in a relatively small house. Truth be told I always liked that house the best and not because my mother had stenciled small blue birds and red hearts and green vines around my window but because it was the last house at the bottom of the subdivision, a real live subdivision, one full of families who all managed to get knocked up within the same year, spewing forth cute little girls ripe for afternoons of Girl Scouting, bike riding and sandbox digging. Sometimes I even acquiesced to Barbie-doll playing but only after much coercion and after formal agreements were signed indicating I could chop off their hair, rip off their heads and stuff bits of trash and leftover firecrackers in their hollow bodies. Now, of course, I’d sooner put a cheese grater to my face than live in a subdivision but as an eight-year-old, Quail Lane was the height of Cool.
For my eighth birthday party I invited the entire Girl Scout Troop for a sleepover, the kind where your mother prepares for weeks in advance; cleaning house, hanging streamers, baking cakes and cookies and buying hot dogs from the crazy bulk aisle at Sam’s because nineteen little girls can eat hella amounts of food. This is the same kind of party where your dad hides out in the shed in the back, venturing forth only if someone screams bloody murder for at least twenty seconds because a 10 second scream is really only like a warning beacon but twenty seconds indicates severe bodily injury. It’s not like I judge the shed-hiding though because, hello, that many pre-pubescent little girls are bound to make anyone nervous.
That night we threw our sleeping bags haphazardly across the living room floor, giggling amongst ourselves the way all little Southern girls do. I mean, little Northern girls may giggle as well but I always kind of associated ‘north’ with ‘cold barren wasteland’ and I figured it was probably quite hard just to stay warm much less do something as useless as giggle or braid hair.
Much later that night, when the room was completely silent save for steady breathing and the occasional snore, I was awakened by the strangest of sensations. A weight upon my forehead, one both warm and kind of prickly. Not trickly, prickly. As I was coming out of my peaceful slumber I was slowly taking inventory of the kinds of things that my friends could have placed on my forehead. It wasn’t toothpaste or salt or a frozen panty wad because all those things, I imagined, would have very distinct feelings associated with them and as I couldn’t detect any toothpaste running or salt spilling or frozen panty melting, I could effectively eliminate those objects from the list of possible things adorning my forehead.
It was about that time that I started to become fully awake, no longer half-heartedly wondering about that prickly and unstable weight but truly and quite concernedly wondering what the Hello Kitty was going on up there and as I crinkled my brow in confusion I felt a squirming furry body launch itself from my crown and into the quiet black air around me, realizing instantly that the prickly sensation was attributed to wee small claws and HOLY SPACEBALLS THERE WAS SOMETHING WITH CLAWS AND FUR ON MY FOREHEAD, NOW IS THE TIME TO AWAKEN EVERYONE WITH MY SCREAMING.
Naturally as soon as one eight-year-old starts screaming then any eight-year-old within a forty mile radius will join in as well because we are nothing if not supportive of each other’s vocal ability. I mean, it’s not like you have many skills at eight. Sometimes you can make some bead jewelry or beat your younger siblings without mom catching on but as far as True Skills go, screaming’s all you got. So as I was struggling out of my sleeping bag the other eighteen girls were struggling out of theirs as well, vocal chords a-trembling in unified terror. And as soon as the others became aware of the scampering furry wee-clawed rodent running around, that terror got ramped up to DEFCON 500, which is wicked more important than DEFCON 5 because, LIKE DUH, there is a rodent on the lam.
Someone flicked on the lights and out of the corner of my eye I caught some quick and covert movement along the baseboard against the far wall and I opened my mouth to express my ongoing and now amplified fear when it dawned on me, just as the scream was beginning to break free, that this was no ordinary furry rodent, this one was kind of pretty. Kind of like the color of caramel or creamy coffee or… wait for it…
BUTTERSCOTCH.
Amidst the screaming and couch jumping and confused panic I made my way to the baseboard in the far corner of the room where the wee little rodent was cowering in abject fear. I gently reached down and grabbed him ‘round his soft belly, pulling him up against my neck for a nice warm cuddle, his wee scratchy claws grabbing onto any available flesh.
As soon as I showed the other girls the pretty little furball in my hands, a cute little hamster by the name of Butterscotch, they calmed down considerably. He’d apparently escaped by launching himself from the top of his spinning wheel and squeezing between the crevice at the top, jumping from the elevated terrarium located in my bedroom in a bid for freedom only to find mounds of warm sleeping bodies in what probably looked like an endless string of Body Jungle. I imagine he stopped atop my forehead for a bit of a rest and regroup, rethinking his escape route and now total lack of cedar shavings and green hamster nuggets not to mention his long-time companion, Valentine. Though now that I think of it, Valentine may have been a deciding factor in his escape attempt as we later had to separate the two after Valentine clawed out both of Butterscotch’s eyes.
No, I’m not kidding.
And yes I believed my father when he told me he would send Butterscotch off to a research facility that would do their best to figure out why my hamster had dried up eye sockets.
And while I’d like to tell you that the scream from the mouth of this 26-year-old last night was all in vain, all due to the long lost cousin of dear Butterscotch, I Cannot Tell A Lie. At least about rodents, other subjects are fair game. So it began that at 12:45am I was lounging sleepless in my bed complete with earplugs and sleep mask, attempting to ignore the continued antics of the strangely active Demonspawn and the fact that I was just at the cusp of breaking a sweat in an apartment supposedly outfitted with a brand new compressor less than a month ago. I finally lost patience with the Cat Circus and Sweltering Heat and whipped out the ear plugs, intent on telling anything within earshot about my all-consuming desire to shove my broomstick into any available ass when I heard the unmistakable sounds of a squealing rodent, one who was running helter skelter down my hallway floor, chased by the undeniably gleeful felines.
I caught the glint of it’s beady black eye as it hightailed it around the corner into the kitchen and before I knew it, I’d whipped out the knife from under my bed and jumped to my feet on top of the mattress, full scream ahead.
For my eighth birthday party I invited the entire Girl Scout Troop for a sleepover, the kind where your mother prepares for weeks in advance; cleaning house, hanging streamers, baking cakes and cookies and buying hot dogs from the crazy bulk aisle at Sam’s because nineteen little girls can eat hella amounts of food. This is the same kind of party where your dad hides out in the shed in the back, venturing forth only if someone screams bloody murder for at least twenty seconds because a 10 second scream is really only like a warning beacon but twenty seconds indicates severe bodily injury. It’s not like I judge the shed-hiding though because, hello, that many pre-pubescent little girls are bound to make anyone nervous.
That night we threw our sleeping bags haphazardly across the living room floor, giggling amongst ourselves the way all little Southern girls do. I mean, little Northern girls may giggle as well but I always kind of associated ‘north’ with ‘cold barren wasteland’ and I figured it was probably quite hard just to stay warm much less do something as useless as giggle or braid hair.
Much later that night, when the room was completely silent save for steady breathing and the occasional snore, I was awakened by the strangest of sensations. A weight upon my forehead, one both warm and kind of prickly. Not trickly, prickly. As I was coming out of my peaceful slumber I was slowly taking inventory of the kinds of things that my friends could have placed on my forehead. It wasn’t toothpaste or salt or a frozen panty wad because all those things, I imagined, would have very distinct feelings associated with them and as I couldn’t detect any toothpaste running or salt spilling or frozen panty melting, I could effectively eliminate those objects from the list of possible things adorning my forehead.
It was about that time that I started to become fully awake, no longer half-heartedly wondering about that prickly and unstable weight but truly and quite concernedly wondering what the Hello Kitty was going on up there and as I crinkled my brow in confusion I felt a squirming furry body launch itself from my crown and into the quiet black air around me, realizing instantly that the prickly sensation was attributed to wee small claws and HOLY SPACEBALLS THERE WAS SOMETHING WITH CLAWS AND FUR ON MY FOREHEAD, NOW IS THE TIME TO AWAKEN EVERYONE WITH MY SCREAMING.
Naturally as soon as one eight-year-old starts screaming then any eight-year-old within a forty mile radius will join in as well because we are nothing if not supportive of each other’s vocal ability. I mean, it’s not like you have many skills at eight. Sometimes you can make some bead jewelry or beat your younger siblings without mom catching on but as far as True Skills go, screaming’s all you got. So as I was struggling out of my sleeping bag the other eighteen girls were struggling out of theirs as well, vocal chords a-trembling in unified terror. And as soon as the others became aware of the scampering furry wee-clawed rodent running around, that terror got ramped up to DEFCON 500, which is wicked more important than DEFCON 5 because, LIKE DUH, there is a rodent on the lam.
Someone flicked on the lights and out of the corner of my eye I caught some quick and covert movement along the baseboard against the far wall and I opened my mouth to express my ongoing and now amplified fear when it dawned on me, just as the scream was beginning to break free, that this was no ordinary furry rodent, this one was kind of pretty. Kind of like the color of caramel or creamy coffee or… wait for it…
BUTTERSCOTCH.
Amidst the screaming and couch jumping and confused panic I made my way to the baseboard in the far corner of the room where the wee little rodent was cowering in abject fear. I gently reached down and grabbed him ‘round his soft belly, pulling him up against my neck for a nice warm cuddle, his wee scratchy claws grabbing onto any available flesh.
As soon as I showed the other girls the pretty little furball in my hands, a cute little hamster by the name of Butterscotch, they calmed down considerably. He’d apparently escaped by launching himself from the top of his spinning wheel and squeezing between the crevice at the top, jumping from the elevated terrarium located in my bedroom in a bid for freedom only to find mounds of warm sleeping bodies in what probably looked like an endless string of Body Jungle. I imagine he stopped atop my forehead for a bit of a rest and regroup, rethinking his escape route and now total lack of cedar shavings and green hamster nuggets not to mention his long-time companion, Valentine. Though now that I think of it, Valentine may have been a deciding factor in his escape attempt as we later had to separate the two after Valentine clawed out both of Butterscotch’s eyes.
No, I’m not kidding.
And yes I believed my father when he told me he would send Butterscotch off to a research facility that would do their best to figure out why my hamster had dried up eye sockets.
And while I’d like to tell you that the scream from the mouth of this 26-year-old last night was all in vain, all due to the long lost cousin of dear Butterscotch, I Cannot Tell A Lie. At least about rodents, other subjects are fair game. So it began that at 12:45am I was lounging sleepless in my bed complete with earplugs and sleep mask, attempting to ignore the continued antics of the strangely active Demonspawn and the fact that I was just at the cusp of breaking a sweat in an apartment supposedly outfitted with a brand new compressor less than a month ago. I finally lost patience with the Cat Circus and Sweltering Heat and whipped out the ear plugs, intent on telling anything within earshot about my all-consuming desire to shove my broomstick into any available ass when I heard the unmistakable sounds of a squealing rodent, one who was running helter skelter down my hallway floor, chased by the undeniably gleeful felines.
I caught the glint of it’s beady black eye as it hightailed it around the corner into the kitchen and before I knew it, I’d whipped out the knife from under my bed and jumped to my feet on top of the mattress, full scream ahead.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Breadpudding
I’m sitting in the doctor’s office yesterday, perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of those vinyl covered raised beds with the thin and crispy white paper crunching under my ass as I fidget with my toes and hands and yank on the poor mistreated strand of hair that’s been abused since the early nineties. The nurse with the half grown-out perm and purple scrubs keeps asking me questions and I can tell from the tone of her voice that she thinks I’m crazy or that I’m just taking up space in her room, hoping to score some Xanax. I want to tell her I have no interest in Xanax or in being crazy and that I can feel her Judging Vibes emanating from her person like stank on a skunk and yes, I may have judged her for her lackluster perm but she makes up for it with some of the prettiest brown hair I’ve ever seen, all shiny and smooth, at least on the part that’s grown free of the perm’s wrath. But the room is so chilly and quiet and deep down I know that offering up more than the date of my last menstrual cycle or my list of drug allergies is going to be met with an even deader dead stare so my mouth, it stays shut and I just stifle back the jaw-cracking yawn waiting to make it’s grand debut.
I don’t tell the nurse much more than the normal “I’m not sleeping well” speech, the one that involves just the barest of details, like how I once put a pencil and paper beside my pillow and each time I woke up I just made a nice little tick-mark and when I got up the next morning, guess how many swipes I’d made at that little paper? Seventeen. Now ask me again why I’m always tired. Ask me.
So the doctor comes in and while he acts concerned, he’s skeptical that someone would be able to function if they slept as little as I say I do and then I tell him about the time that I hallucinated bloody beating hearts on my pretty oak floor and his first thought is probably which anti-psychotic to put me on but I try and make it perfectly clear that I’m not crazy, I’m just crazy tired and for the love of everything holy, just give me something to make me sleep. I tell him I’d give up The Crush, The Demonspawn AND pepperjack cheese for one good solid night of blissful slumber and it’s then, naturally, that I tear up because this doctor is ignoring almost everything I’m saying and is handing me a questionnaire that I’m supposed to fill out, one which will magically indicate if I’m at risk for becoming a serial killer due to my depressive nature.
When I’m finished I hand the paper back and he scans my responses and finally admits that I’m probably not depressed and I reign in my urge to scream in frustration because This Is What I’ve Been Telling Him, over and over and over. Look, I’m on Brooke Shields side here. If a little bit of Zoloft or Lithium or Welbutrin gets you out of bed in the morning then by all means, take it. I support you. And I realize this man only sees me when I’m sneezing out infected green globules and maybe I just don’t do a good job of making myself clear but please understand, Mr. Doctor-Man, that I’m not one to circumvent something and should I feel like question ten, the one where I had to rate my desire to keep living, is bordering on something below a 9.8, don’t worry, I’ll tell you.
So he leaves the room and comes back with a trial pack of something-or-other and tells me that we’re going to try this version first and to come back in a month to reevaluate this whole not sleeping thing and I literally skip out to my car, if skipping is really just a slightly faster than normal walk, because I realize I’ve only got four short hours before I can pop open this package and cuddle up in my bed for some Blissful Slumber. I make it through the last hour at work and then the two hours at the animal shelter (for my speeding sins) and then I’m walking in the front door with that packet in hand, already ripping off the back cover and popping a small white pill into my hand.
And all I got to say is that Children’s Tylenol has more game than this shit and if you think I’m waiting until August to reevaluate ‘this whole not sleeping thing’ then THINK AGAIN, Mr. Doctor-Man.
I don’t tell the nurse much more than the normal “I’m not sleeping well” speech, the one that involves just the barest of details, like how I once put a pencil and paper beside my pillow and each time I woke up I just made a nice little tick-mark and when I got up the next morning, guess how many swipes I’d made at that little paper? Seventeen. Now ask me again why I’m always tired. Ask me.
So the doctor comes in and while he acts concerned, he’s skeptical that someone would be able to function if they slept as little as I say I do and then I tell him about the time that I hallucinated bloody beating hearts on my pretty oak floor and his first thought is probably which anti-psychotic to put me on but I try and make it perfectly clear that I’m not crazy, I’m just crazy tired and for the love of everything holy, just give me something to make me sleep. I tell him I’d give up The Crush, The Demonspawn AND pepperjack cheese for one good solid night of blissful slumber and it’s then, naturally, that I tear up because this doctor is ignoring almost everything I’m saying and is handing me a questionnaire that I’m supposed to fill out, one which will magically indicate if I’m at risk for becoming a serial killer due to my depressive nature.
When I’m finished I hand the paper back and he scans my responses and finally admits that I’m probably not depressed and I reign in my urge to scream in frustration because This Is What I’ve Been Telling Him, over and over and over. Look, I’m on Brooke Shields side here. If a little bit of Zoloft or Lithium or Welbutrin gets you out of bed in the morning then by all means, take it. I support you. And I realize this man only sees me when I’m sneezing out infected green globules and maybe I just don’t do a good job of making myself clear but please understand, Mr. Doctor-Man, that I’m not one to circumvent something and should I feel like question ten, the one where I had to rate my desire to keep living, is bordering on something below a 9.8, don’t worry, I’ll tell you.
So he leaves the room and comes back with a trial pack of something-or-other and tells me that we’re going to try this version first and to come back in a month to reevaluate this whole not sleeping thing and I literally skip out to my car, if skipping is really just a slightly faster than normal walk, because I realize I’ve only got four short hours before I can pop open this package and cuddle up in my bed for some Blissful Slumber. I make it through the last hour at work and then the two hours at the animal shelter (for my speeding sins) and then I’m walking in the front door with that packet in hand, already ripping off the back cover and popping a small white pill into my hand.
And all I got to say is that Children’s Tylenol has more game than this shit and if you think I’m waiting until August to reevaluate ‘this whole not sleeping thing’ then THINK AGAIN, Mr. Doctor-Man.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Hemingway Was Just A Mean Drunk
A couple of weeks ago my boss hosted a class, the kind of class where you get a test at the end and I got so excited I clapped my hands for joy. And if you think I'm kidding then you haven't been paying attention 'tall, now have you?
So at the end of the class we all filed diligently out of the conference room, none so focused upon finishing that test in a precise and timely manner than yours truly. Blame it on The Sickness, the one that involves methodically eating wee boxes of tic tacs and hitting all the radio preset buttons in a row, even if I've found a song in which I'd like my ears to partake. This sickness extends to test taking as well and it's really just best if you not come between me, my pen and my paper because I'll be slapped upside the head and called Billy Bob before I let someone beat me.
It's not necessarily that I don't want people to beat me it's just that I don't want to be last, or second to last or within spitting distance of last. If everyone gets the answers right then kudos to us all but should it appear that everyone gets it but ME, well then, we've got a verified flashback to 7th grade Algebra and the many, many hours I spent threatening to disembowel my father because his explanations were coming from the mind of a 45-year-old engineer who happens to think numbers are the coolest while I just wanted him to tell me the answer already so I could go finish The Old Man and the Freaking Sea.
So when I watched everyone turning in their tests that morning I could feel my neck start to get itchy and my blood pressure start to rise because these people were not only turning in their tests before I'd made it to question two, they weren't even stressed about it and then here's me, dropping f-bombs like rabbit pellets because I'm convinced I've got every question wrong and my boss just cannot know that I'm a total reject.
And that's basically what it boils down to: Not being the throwback DKNY sweater that gets sent to TJ Maxx to languish in the half-off bin.
All of this drivel has been the world's longest lead-in to my continued inability to go to sleep. I mean, I know how sleep works. I know all about the different stages and the REM and the right amount of hours and the good bedtime habits. I know I shouldn't eat right before bed or watch lots of television or drink too much or set the neighborhood cats on fire because that's totally bad karma. So if I understand all about the process and I see everyone around me being able to do it normally, at least a majority of the time, you can bet your collection of Ninja Turtles that it's going to piss me off. Someone's doing something way better than me and this isn't like someone is a wicked good soccer player and I'm just regular old me because I have no desire to be a wicked good soccer player so being regular old me isn't an issue. But hearing someone talking about sleeping a whole night through is like telling the girl who placed 19th out of 20 in the Miss Arkansas pageant that what really counts is her good personality when we all know damn good and well that the swimsuit competition is way more important.
You're probably not following my reasoning on that one and to be honest, I'm probably not either but the cool thing about not sleeping is that you get to blame nonsensical analogies on The Insomnia.
And just because I cannot have anyone thinking I got the questions on that test wrong, I totally won the candy bar my boss dangled in front of us as a reward for being the first to finish with all the correct answers.
So at the end of the class we all filed diligently out of the conference room, none so focused upon finishing that test in a precise and timely manner than yours truly. Blame it on The Sickness, the one that involves methodically eating wee boxes of tic tacs and hitting all the radio preset buttons in a row, even if I've found a song in which I'd like my ears to partake. This sickness extends to test taking as well and it's really just best if you not come between me, my pen and my paper because I'll be slapped upside the head and called Billy Bob before I let someone beat me.
It's not necessarily that I don't want people to beat me it's just that I don't want to be last, or second to last or within spitting distance of last. If everyone gets the answers right then kudos to us all but should it appear that everyone gets it but ME, well then, we've got a verified flashback to 7th grade Algebra and the many, many hours I spent threatening to disembowel my father because his explanations were coming from the mind of a 45-year-old engineer who happens to think numbers are the coolest while I just wanted him to tell me the answer already so I could go finish The Old Man and the Freaking Sea.
So when I watched everyone turning in their tests that morning I could feel my neck start to get itchy and my blood pressure start to rise because these people were not only turning in their tests before I'd made it to question two, they weren't even stressed about it and then here's me, dropping f-bombs like rabbit pellets because I'm convinced I've got every question wrong and my boss just cannot know that I'm a total reject.
And that's basically what it boils down to: Not being the throwback DKNY sweater that gets sent to TJ Maxx to languish in the half-off bin.
All of this drivel has been the world's longest lead-in to my continued inability to go to sleep. I mean, I know how sleep works. I know all about the different stages and the REM and the right amount of hours and the good bedtime habits. I know I shouldn't eat right before bed or watch lots of television or drink too much or set the neighborhood cats on fire because that's totally bad karma. So if I understand all about the process and I see everyone around me being able to do it normally, at least a majority of the time, you can bet your collection of Ninja Turtles that it's going to piss me off. Someone's doing something way better than me and this isn't like someone is a wicked good soccer player and I'm just regular old me because I have no desire to be a wicked good soccer player so being regular old me isn't an issue. But hearing someone talking about sleeping a whole night through is like telling the girl who placed 19th out of 20 in the Miss Arkansas pageant that what really counts is her good personality when we all know damn good and well that the swimsuit competition is way more important.
You're probably not following my reasoning on that one and to be honest, I'm probably not either but the cool thing about not sleeping is that you get to blame nonsensical analogies on The Insomnia.
And just because I cannot have anyone thinking I got the questions on that test wrong, I totally won the candy bar my boss dangled in front of us as a reward for being the first to finish with all the correct answers.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Atlas shrugged and said "Bite Me"
If you look to the right you'll see, right under the spot where I gave up my anonymity, that I live in an apartment with creaky wooden floors and the occasional leak. And here's the thing: I don't mind that the floors creak in the winter and the summer and all the indistinguishable seasons in between. I don't mind that my air conditioning has picked the two hottest weeks known to man, two consecutive years in a row, to pack up and leave for greener pastures. I don't even mind that I had to move the bag of cat food out of the wee midget closet under the kitchen window to a more secure area because some toothy woodland-turned-urban creature ate an actual hole in the floorboard and started stealing the tuna-flavored nuggets from the extra large bag I buy for The Demonspawn. And just let it be known that while my cats may be lazy-ass indoor felines, they don't play with folk who steal their tuna nuggets which should sort of explain the dry hardened rodent foot I found under the kitchen rug a few weeks ago but I really just don't like to think too hard about that. Because it's not really the severed foot that bothers me it's the fact that I sure as hell haven't found the owner of that severed foot so on one hand I've got a pissed off footless rodent gimping around and on the other I've got a dead rodent decomposing in some unknown apartment locale and I'm not entirely sure which is worse.
What this all comes down to is earlier this evening as I was standing in my bathroom, patiently drying my hair. This isn't a normal occurrence because it takes a damn long time to get all of it dry which should hopefully explain to my fellow coworkers why I roll into work with wet hair every day. It's not that I don't like drying my hair it's that I like sleeping way more and when it's down to having pretty hair and sleeping I'm probably going to pick sleeping. So as I'm drying my hair I feel a big fat drop of water go plop! right there on my arm. No big deal, right? I mean, I just got out of the shower so there's bound to be stray droplets of moisture, like, accumulating on, like, shower curtains, right?
I continue with the hair drying because there's nothing worse than half dried hair. It's like eating a half cooked biscuit, all yummy and crunchy on the outside but disturbingly gummy and doughy in the center. No good. But then I feel another cold plop! and I start to get a little concerned. Because it's a way bigger droplet than anything my hair could have produced and the shower curtain doesn't seem to be producing attacking water molecules so I raise my gaze heavenwards, towards the bathroom ceiling, the ceiling which is now sporting a decidedly unflattering crack right down the middle. And it's then that the vague thoughts I'd had about the bath mat being wet first thing in the morning, you know, before I'd even had a shower, start to congeal into one big coherent thought and I realize I'm staring at the multitude of little bitty water droplets that kind of roll together into the big mama drop and look, there it goes, PLOP, right on my pink bath mat.
And for whatever reason this annoys me more than the rodent friend, the fickle a/c and the creaky floors. It even annoys me more than the two gunshots I heard last week because I'm prepared for those. I mean, hello, I live downtown. Plus it's summertime and folk get all crazy-like when it's hot outside. Someone goes and pisses you off, what are you going to do? Let them get away with it? HELL NO! Shoot his ass! This is a viable solution!
But back to the leaky ceiling: Yeah, I'm pretty damn annoyed about that.
What this all comes down to is earlier this evening as I was standing in my bathroom, patiently drying my hair. This isn't a normal occurrence because it takes a damn long time to get all of it dry which should hopefully explain to my fellow coworkers why I roll into work with wet hair every day. It's not that I don't like drying my hair it's that I like sleeping way more and when it's down to having pretty hair and sleeping I'm probably going to pick sleeping. So as I'm drying my hair I feel a big fat drop of water go plop! right there on my arm. No big deal, right? I mean, I just got out of the shower so there's bound to be stray droplets of moisture, like, accumulating on, like, shower curtains, right?
I continue with the hair drying because there's nothing worse than half dried hair. It's like eating a half cooked biscuit, all yummy and crunchy on the outside but disturbingly gummy and doughy in the center. No good. But then I feel another cold plop! and I start to get a little concerned. Because it's a way bigger droplet than anything my hair could have produced and the shower curtain doesn't seem to be producing attacking water molecules so I raise my gaze heavenwards, towards the bathroom ceiling, the ceiling which is now sporting a decidedly unflattering crack right down the middle. And it's then that the vague thoughts I'd had about the bath mat being wet first thing in the morning, you know, before I'd even had a shower, start to congeal into one big coherent thought and I realize I'm staring at the multitude of little bitty water droplets that kind of roll together into the big mama drop and look, there it goes, PLOP, right on my pink bath mat.
And for whatever reason this annoys me more than the rodent friend, the fickle a/c and the creaky floors. It even annoys me more than the two gunshots I heard last week because I'm prepared for those. I mean, hello, I live downtown. Plus it's summertime and folk get all crazy-like when it's hot outside. Someone goes and pisses you off, what are you going to do? Let them get away with it? HELL NO! Shoot his ass! This is a viable solution!
But back to the leaky ceiling: Yeah, I'm pretty damn annoyed about that.
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