Number of weeds, mainly thistles, eradicated by my weeding fork this evening: 65
Number of scraggly-ass irises finally laboriously dug up and tossed so they no longer get their banana-fiber leaves tangled up in my weed wacker and make me have to dig them out with my fingers, as nervous as if I was sticking a fork in a toaster that was not only plugged in, but actually toasting something: 2
Areas of weird mushy bogginess dug up and examined, to reveal only rotting tree roots and weird little pockets of trash wrapped in tin foil that I genuinely hope wasn't the drug-addled former occupant of our house's idea of "saving it for later,": 1
Feral cats scaring the shit out me by buzzing my kneeling form and letting out a low rumble as they pass by not inches from my uncovered arms and their daily frequency of terror: 1 (named Socks) and at least 2 if I'm outside.
Charcoal briquettes tossed into the hedges: 16
Full bins of yard debris: 1
Earwigs obliterated by said weeding fork: 8
Slugs tossed over the fence: 4
Times this year I've thought about getting a compost container: approximately 30
Rank of the smell of rot on the list of why I don't: 1
Bowls of homemade macaroni and cheese consumed after said yard activities gave me a blister on the inside of my thumb and made me retreat to the house like I'd received a mortal wound: 1.5
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Tuna Intervention
When I looked over at him, Chris was using his remaining tuna nigiri as a flesh drum pad, whacking it senseless with a pair of those disposable saliva-covered chopsticks, wasabi and soy sauce splattering around.
"What are you doing?" I asked, horrified.
"What do you mean?"
"Why can't you, you know, respect your tuna? Isn't it enough that it gave its life for you? Now you humiliate it by beating on it with a stick to 'Superstition?'"
Of course Chris and Eddy laugh uproariously at this, as would I, if I were them and not suddenly filled with sadness for the indignity of the whole ordeal.
"What if that fish used to be Jesus?" I ask.
"If Jesus were cut up into little sections like this, then I probably wouldn't recognize him."
"That's my point."
"Oh (hahahahaha)....um...(hahahahaha)...ZING!"
I get really emotional at inappropriate moments about inanimate objects. Cartoon drawings of dancing hot dogs have been known to make me break down in tears in the refrigerated section at the grocery store because I don't like that the hot dogs don't know that they look like idiots . One time, a fake fur pillow made me weep because it was just too soft for its own good. It goes without saying that scruffy stuffed animals abandoned on the side of the road send me into a def-con 2 meltdown.
So for some reason that last lonely piece of tuna, looking tired and ready to just be eaten, for god's sake, struck the mis-strung cat-gut stitches of my heart.
This all reminds me of that personality defining moment way back when I was married, and my husband wanted to make me something fancy for my 24th birthday dinner, so he brought home a big package of surf clams, a vehicle for butter that I had recently discovered. He cooked them and brought me a dish of drawn butter and a bowl of steaming yawning clams. As I shovelled them into my mouth, using their shells as spoons, he casually mentioned that it had taken them a long time to die.
I froze. Shell-scoop part way to my mouth, dripping into my lap.
"What do you mean, 'a long time to die?'" Like Tim Curry as Wadsworth in the movie Clue, asking the officer what he means by 'murder' after opening the door grinning like an idiot.
"You know, they open when they die in the boiling water. That's how you tell when they're done. They're alive when you put them in the pot." A look, a furrowed brow. "Angela? What's wrong?"
Tears are running down my face, mixing with the broth already in my lap, ruining my pants. I'm sobbing, yet still scooping up butter and slurping brainless clams into my mouth. My nose is starting to run. It's truly amazing how fast my face can melt into an unrecognizable Butoh mask.
"I didn't, I didn't know they were...ALIVE. Oh, God, that's horrible!" Still scooping, still chewing.
"If you're getting so upset, why are you still eating them?" He's reaching for the bowl, trying to remove the source of my pain. I won't let him.
"Because they're delicious!" I sob again, and sort of hiccup, and I wonder why he didn't just leave me then.
But at sushi now, Chris is so affected my my goofy statements that two veins in his forehead are throbbing in tandem with his heart.
"Are you upset, because you look like your head is going to pop."
"Hahaha...hahahaha..."
And the tuna shares none of this hilarity. It goes on sitting there, slowly oozing into the rice, trying to become invisible.
"What are you doing?" I asked, horrified.
"What do you mean?"
"Why can't you, you know, respect your tuna? Isn't it enough that it gave its life for you? Now you humiliate it by beating on it with a stick to 'Superstition?'"
Of course Chris and Eddy laugh uproariously at this, as would I, if I were them and not suddenly filled with sadness for the indignity of the whole ordeal.
"What if that fish used to be Jesus?" I ask.
"If Jesus were cut up into little sections like this, then I probably wouldn't recognize him."
"That's my point."
"Oh (hahahahaha)....um...(hahahahaha)...ZING!"
I get really emotional at inappropriate moments about inanimate objects. Cartoon drawings of dancing hot dogs have been known to make me break down in tears in the refrigerated section at the grocery store because I don't like that the hot dogs don't know that they look like idiots . One time, a fake fur pillow made me weep because it was just too soft for its own good. It goes without saying that scruffy stuffed animals abandoned on the side of the road send me into a def-con 2 meltdown.
So for some reason that last lonely piece of tuna, looking tired and ready to just be eaten, for god's sake, struck the mis-strung cat-gut stitches of my heart.
This all reminds me of that personality defining moment way back when I was married, and my husband wanted to make me something fancy for my 24th birthday dinner, so he brought home a big package of surf clams, a vehicle for butter that I had recently discovered. He cooked them and brought me a dish of drawn butter and a bowl of steaming yawning clams. As I shovelled them into my mouth, using their shells as spoons, he casually mentioned that it had taken them a long time to die.
I froze. Shell-scoop part way to my mouth, dripping into my lap.
"What do you mean, 'a long time to die?'" Like Tim Curry as Wadsworth in the movie Clue, asking the officer what he means by 'murder' after opening the door grinning like an idiot.
"You know, they open when they die in the boiling water. That's how you tell when they're done. They're alive when you put them in the pot." A look, a furrowed brow. "Angela? What's wrong?"
Tears are running down my face, mixing with the broth already in my lap, ruining my pants. I'm sobbing, yet still scooping up butter and slurping brainless clams into my mouth. My nose is starting to run. It's truly amazing how fast my face can melt into an unrecognizable Butoh mask.
"I didn't, I didn't know they were...ALIVE. Oh, God, that's horrible!" Still scooping, still chewing.
"If you're getting so upset, why are you still eating them?" He's reaching for the bowl, trying to remove the source of my pain. I won't let him.
"Because they're delicious!" I sob again, and sort of hiccup, and I wonder why he didn't just leave me then.
But at sushi now, Chris is so affected my my goofy statements that two veins in his forehead are throbbing in tandem with his heart.
"Are you upset, because you look like your head is going to pop."
"Hahaha...hahahaha..."
And the tuna shares none of this hilarity. It goes on sitting there, slowly oozing into the rice, trying to become invisible.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Stephen King Library Internet Policy Quote from Everything's Eventual
"They had a computer room in the library, and you could get on the Internet at a very reasonable cost. I had to get a library card too, but that was okay. A library card is good to have, you can never have too much ID."
I sort of love Mr. King.
I sort of love Mr. King.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Public Humiliation: Drawer Soiling VS Vomiting
"I have some...concerns," I inform Eddy as I put my coat on.
"Oh...kay...What might these concerns be?"
My activities for the past hour have included crapping my guts out, walking back to my desk, and then running back to the restroom under the influence of what feels like a red-hot poker pressing down on my colon. I don't say this exactly, but lay out what I feel our options might be for geting back to my car, which is parked across the river, driving Eddy to his house and then getting to my own.
"Well, you could go get my car yourself and come back here and pick me up. We could call a cab. Or we could just try walking to the bus stop and see what happens." I fuss around with my sleeve, disturbed to find the lining pushing out past the cuff.
"I suppose I could go get your car. Or we could call a cab."
I have been thinking about the possibility of just riding the bus, and have put a stash of tissue in a plastic bag and tucked it in my satchel. You never know when a ziplock full of toilet paper could save your ass, literally.
The other options seem less likely to produce a scenario where I would have to bolt into the bushes, drop trou, and humiliate myself in front of God and everyone than taking an admittedly short but tortured bus ride over the bridge. I've had a rumbly in my tumbly before on public transportation, and while I've never actually had to pull any emergency manuever, I have run through enough scenarios in my mind (hundreds for sure, more likely thousands-chronic stomach issues can push large critical buttons in the imagination, to be sure) to know that I'd have virtually no problem jumping off a bus and wrestling out of my pants to drop a load on the sidewalk. Considering the alternatives, it's the most pleasant.
Now, on the other hand, the thought of throwing up in front of people in the same forced social situation mortifies me beyond rationality. I mean, I am so anti-vomit that I will lie still for hours on end when I'm sick, feeling like a dog, toughing it out when I know I'd feel better if I just let myself puke. I haven't officially thrown up in over 20 years. I've gagged, dry heaved, and belched stomach acid into the back of my mouth, but never produced a stinking pile of totally identifiable foodstuffs through my mouth.
I try to relate this to Eddy on our way to the bus stop (I've decided to just roll with it), this I-don't-know-if-preference-is-the-right-word preference, and he strongly disagrees with me.
"But vomiting is so much more intimate," I protest. "Your whole body gets wracked, vile stuff is coming out of your mouth, people can tell what you've eaten and if you've chewed it properly. I don't want anyone hanging over my shoulder exclaiming 'Wow, is that a whole mushroom?' You can't tell that sort of thing from excrement." I think for a minute. "Unless you've had corn."
He does concede that if you vomit hard enough, it can and does come out your nose, which is really bad, and there's a taste that doesn't easily go away, but he still sticks to his opinion.
I chalk this up to a difference in life experience at the mercy of an easily irritated bowel and by the time we make it to the other side of the river, I am no longer feeling the familiar yet in no way welcome clenching and twisting of my gut.
Eddy will have to wait until next time to hold my bag and pretend not to know me while I defile the side of a building.
"Oh...kay...What might these concerns be?"
My activities for the past hour have included crapping my guts out, walking back to my desk, and then running back to the restroom under the influence of what feels like a red-hot poker pressing down on my colon. I don't say this exactly, but lay out what I feel our options might be for geting back to my car, which is parked across the river, driving Eddy to his house and then getting to my own.
"Well, you could go get my car yourself and come back here and pick me up. We could call a cab. Or we could just try walking to the bus stop and see what happens." I fuss around with my sleeve, disturbed to find the lining pushing out past the cuff.
"I suppose I could go get your car. Or we could call a cab."
I have been thinking about the possibility of just riding the bus, and have put a stash of tissue in a plastic bag and tucked it in my satchel. You never know when a ziplock full of toilet paper could save your ass, literally.
The other options seem less likely to produce a scenario where I would have to bolt into the bushes, drop trou, and humiliate myself in front of God and everyone than taking an admittedly short but tortured bus ride over the bridge. I've had a rumbly in my tumbly before on public transportation, and while I've never actually had to pull any emergency manuever, I have run through enough scenarios in my mind (hundreds for sure, more likely thousands-chronic stomach issues can push large critical buttons in the imagination, to be sure) to know that I'd have virtually no problem jumping off a bus and wrestling out of my pants to drop a load on the sidewalk. Considering the alternatives, it's the most pleasant.
Now, on the other hand, the thought of throwing up in front of people in the same forced social situation mortifies me beyond rationality. I mean, I am so anti-vomit that I will lie still for hours on end when I'm sick, feeling like a dog, toughing it out when I know I'd feel better if I just let myself puke. I haven't officially thrown up in over 20 years. I've gagged, dry heaved, and belched stomach acid into the back of my mouth, but never produced a stinking pile of totally identifiable foodstuffs through my mouth.
I try to relate this to Eddy on our way to the bus stop (I've decided to just roll with it), this I-don't-know-if-preference-is-the-right-word preference, and he strongly disagrees with me.
"But vomiting is so much more intimate," I protest. "Your whole body gets wracked, vile stuff is coming out of your mouth, people can tell what you've eaten and if you've chewed it properly. I don't want anyone hanging over my shoulder exclaiming 'Wow, is that a whole mushroom?' You can't tell that sort of thing from excrement." I think for a minute. "Unless you've had corn."
He does concede that if you vomit hard enough, it can and does come out your nose, which is really bad, and there's a taste that doesn't easily go away, but he still sticks to his opinion.
I chalk this up to a difference in life experience at the mercy of an easily irritated bowel and by the time we make it to the other side of the river, I am no longer feeling the familiar yet in no way welcome clenching and twisting of my gut.
Eddy will have to wait until next time to hold my bag and pretend not to know me while I defile the side of a building.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Little Portly VS Miso
Portly decidedly does not like the interloper. Miso is quite rightly feeling put out by the fact that he's a laid back, easy-going sort of cat, and yet he has been quarantined in Chris' studio until Portly can get over the fact that someone else wants to claw up the sofa.
We knew Portly was a freak of the evil step-sibling kind, but this new family member is proving that he is as snuggly awesome as she is cranky.
Attempts to move her food dish to the hallway, where the door to the studio is, have shown us that Portly will break her daily ritual of throwing herself in her empty food dish and begging and just not eat if it means she'll have to eat in the vicinity of the smell of HIM.
She will now enter the hallway and scootch around for a few nervous seconds before bolting, tail ramrod straight and as big around as a soup can. This is progress.
Miso, on the other hand, when we go in to pay attention to him, will hop right into our Portly scented arms, wrap his velvety paws around us, and rest his face on our necks. Oh the Joy! The horror of comparison! I can understand how parents can love two children the same, and yet favor one against their will.
It just occurred to me that if we get fleas ever again, that two cats will be far more challenging than one; they can work together to thwart the Time of the Medicated Bath. Maybe once Portly sees that she can utilize this newcomer to her advantage, she'll warm up.
Or maybe she'll just keep hissing at everything until her saliva gland shrivels up.
We knew Portly was a freak of the evil step-sibling kind, but this new family member is proving that he is as snuggly awesome as she is cranky.
Attempts to move her food dish to the hallway, where the door to the studio is, have shown us that Portly will break her daily ritual of throwing herself in her empty food dish and begging and just not eat if it means she'll have to eat in the vicinity of the smell of HIM.
She will now enter the hallway and scootch around for a few nervous seconds before bolting, tail ramrod straight and as big around as a soup can. This is progress.
Miso, on the other hand, when we go in to pay attention to him, will hop right into our Portly scented arms, wrap his velvety paws around us, and rest his face on our necks. Oh the Joy! The horror of comparison! I can understand how parents can love two children the same, and yet favor one against their will.
It just occurred to me that if we get fleas ever again, that two cats will be far more challenging than one; they can work together to thwart the Time of the Medicated Bath. Maybe once Portly sees that she can utilize this newcomer to her advantage, she'll warm up.
Or maybe she'll just keep hissing at everything until her saliva gland shrivels up.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
New Favorite Sentence
"The guy is smarter than anyone I know. If you were to open up his head, his brain would burst out like an airbag."
From "Spook" by Mary Roach.
This is what it means to be admired. What an awesome metaphor!
From "Spook" by Mary Roach.
This is what it means to be admired. What an awesome metaphor!
Monday, April 23, 2007
Presidents Who Resemble Catfish
Someone came up to the desk a few weeks ago and launched into this little statement with no preamble:
"I have scrutinized THOSE BOOKS and George W. Bush and Abraham Lincoln look like CATFISH!"
"..."
Once again, the public rendered me speechless.
Before I could even begin to think up an appropriate response to that, the guy left. I nodded to myself and filed the interaction away for later processing.
The next person who came up didn't actually need any help either, he just wanted to let me know his thoughts on the catfish guy: "Oh yeah, I bet he scrutinized those books. They don't look anything at all like catfish." This from a well-known built-in bookcase who might be missing a few shelves himself. "They look like rodents; ask anyone and they'll agree."
Luckily, my hour was up and I escaped to my closet-like office and hid behind the door until I was sure it was safe to come out.
Most days I have the words "FREAKS TALK TO ME" written in invisible-to-regular-people ink on my forehead. Most of the time I'm totally all right with that. I pretty much meet other people's definition of Nutcake myself. When anyone starts in with politics though, even just cosmetic opinions from a whole different century, it's usually time to take a break.
For the record, Lincoln totally looks like a falcon or some other big bird of prey, don't you think?
"I have scrutinized THOSE BOOKS and George W. Bush and Abraham Lincoln look like CATFISH!"
"..."
Once again, the public rendered me speechless.
Before I could even begin to think up an appropriate response to that, the guy left. I nodded to myself and filed the interaction away for later processing.
The next person who came up didn't actually need any help either, he just wanted to let me know his thoughts on the catfish guy: "Oh yeah, I bet he scrutinized those books. They don't look anything at all like catfish." This from a well-known built-in bookcase who might be missing a few shelves himself. "They look like rodents; ask anyone and they'll agree."
Luckily, my hour was up and I escaped to my closet-like office and hid behind the door until I was sure it was safe to come out.
Most days I have the words "FREAKS TALK TO ME" written in invisible-to-regular-people ink on my forehead. Most of the time I'm totally all right with that. I pretty much meet other people's definition of Nutcake myself. When anyone starts in with politics though, even just cosmetic opinions from a whole different century, it's usually time to take a break.
For the record, Lincoln totally looks like a falcon or some other big bird of prey, don't you think?
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Have you missed me?
I am entering this on my new laptop, courtesy of the wireless router Chris just bought. Chris actually fixed this up for me so that everything runs. I have trouble even turning it on and off. I picked it up last night and realized it had been in standby mode for 2 days. I'm not technologically inclined.
I'm learning all the things that millions of people in the US have known for years: cats dig sacking out on the keyboard when you're typing, internal touch pads are in alternating cycles irritatingly sensitive and then completely unresponsive, the message "No problem detected" really gets on my nerves when there IS a problem or I wouldn't be running a program to help me figure out what it is.
Enough about that though, let's talk about the amazing array of life at the library's lobby level. I have heard 3 "My Evil Twin Stole My Identity and I Can't Do Anything About It Because S/he Looks Just Like Me" stories this month. Not always twins; some people just have the bad luck to look like their siblings. And not always evil; but definitely delinquent. So it appears that numerous people in the metro area have managed to get government issued IDs that have their brother's/sister's info as their own, which I find a little hard to believe, but not totally impossible. What to do with those accounts?
Chris just asked, "Are you blogging?"
"Mm-hmm," I said.
"Are you writing about the, uh, loaf of bread?"
"No. Do you want me to?"
"Not really."
Chris made up an awesomely raunchy sex joke while we were coming back from Pambiche earilier today, one that involved a loaf of bread and other baked goods and had me laughing so hard I was snorting into the steering wheel, but I have taken an oath to not post it here.
Sorry.
Okay, I'd say this entry has been long and pointless enough. I am back online and officially committed to bringing you more stories about whatever whenever.
La la la!
I am entering this on my new laptop, courtesy of the wireless router Chris just bought. Chris actually fixed this up for me so that everything runs. I have trouble even turning it on and off. I picked it up last night and realized it had been in standby mode for 2 days. I'm not technologically inclined.
I'm learning all the things that millions of people in the US have known for years: cats dig sacking out on the keyboard when you're typing, internal touch pads are in alternating cycles irritatingly sensitive and then completely unresponsive, the message "No problem detected" really gets on my nerves when there IS a problem or I wouldn't be running a program to help me figure out what it is.
Enough about that though, let's talk about the amazing array of life at the library's lobby level. I have heard 3 "My Evil Twin Stole My Identity and I Can't Do Anything About It Because S/he Looks Just Like Me" stories this month. Not always twins; some people just have the bad luck to look like their siblings. And not always evil; but definitely delinquent. So it appears that numerous people in the metro area have managed to get government issued IDs that have their brother's/sister's info as their own, which I find a little hard to believe, but not totally impossible. What to do with those accounts?
Chris just asked, "Are you blogging?"
"Mm-hmm," I said.
"Are you writing about the, uh, loaf of bread?"
"No. Do you want me to?"
"Not really."
Chris made up an awesomely raunchy sex joke while we were coming back from Pambiche earilier today, one that involved a loaf of bread and other baked goods and had me laughing so hard I was snorting into the steering wheel, but I have taken an oath to not post it here.
Sorry.
Okay, I'd say this entry has been long and pointless enough. I am back online and officially committed to bringing you more stories about whatever whenever.
La la la!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
i love my dog jake and here's why:
when we first brought him home from the humane society, we were so excited. here was a Constant Companion, a creature to love us unconditionally, caring not about whether we put the milk container back in the fridge when it was empty, or forgot to pay the water bill for three months. to be loyal, and come when we called his name. it was all so very american dreamy that in retrospect it sort of makes me gag. but that is neither here nor there. we loved him, robert and i, and we found it difficult to leave the house at all, for fear we would miss something cute that jake might do. in one extreme instance of this overprotective maternal manifestation, i actually left my little sister at the emergency room all by herself, in pain, holding a soggy washcloth on the edge of her eye, where she had developed an unfortunately placed sty, causing her so much distress that she ended up having me take her to the er, as i've said, and then after almost an hour, i lept up and realized that the puppy had been by himself for all that time, and was probably dying of loneliness right then and there, and i had to leave kristi and rush home and bundle jake into my arms, all squirmy and not the least bit upset at all, really.
when we first brought him home from the humane society, we were so excited. here was a Constant Companion, a creature to love us unconditionally, caring not about whether we put the milk container back in the fridge when it was empty, or forgot to pay the water bill for three months. to be loyal, and come when we called his name. it was all so very american dreamy that in retrospect it sort of makes me gag. but that is neither here nor there. we loved him, robert and i, and we found it difficult to leave the house at all, for fear we would miss something cute that jake might do. in one extreme instance of this overprotective maternal manifestation, i actually left my little sister at the emergency room all by herself, in pain, holding a soggy washcloth on the edge of her eye, where she had developed an unfortunately placed sty, causing her so much distress that she ended up having me take her to the er, as i've said, and then after almost an hour, i lept up and realized that the puppy had been by himself for all that time, and was probably dying of loneliness right then and there, and i had to leave kristi and rush home and bundle jake into my arms, all squirmy and not the least bit upset at all, really.
A Whole Big List Of Stuff:
1) Today a man wanted to renew a video he had checked out on Islam because, and I quote, “You have to understand your enemies.”
2) On Sunday, a man with a bullhorn burst into the main lobby and yelled as he flew up the stairs, “THIS IS THE LIBRARY!” Security was all over him in a matter of seconds. They excluded him for overstating the obvious. I’m kidding.
3) I dealt with my first deceased patron the other day. A woman called to say her husband had died, and she received a bill that that read “Assumed Dead- $49.95.” She asked if she was being billed for an item with that title, or if “assumed dead” was the category for which she was being billed. As in, we assumed the man had died and wasn’t going to return his items. I was horrified that she would think that, and reassured her that we presume nothing of anyone at any time. We had a sad laugh, and I deleted the man’s account. My boss says that the saddest one she ever had to deal with was a person for whom English was a second language, and the wife had printed on the bill “He is exit.” She said she could visualize her paging through a dictionary looking for the correct term to explain, and it made her really sad.
4) My friend David is sick of calling me only to get my voice mail, even though I’ve told him repeatedly that I can hardly ever hear my phone through my bag, and I’m not setting it any louder or I’d be one of those people who answer their phone on the bus and tempt everyone to slit their wrists with long, boring accounts of what their dinner plans would be if they didn’t have to work late. Anyway, he suggested that I just set it to vibrate and keep it in my underwear. Which might work, although it probably wouldn’t make me want to answer the phone any faster, even though I would know it was ringing. So I vetoed.
5) I caught an elbow to the face the other night while we were out dancing, and my labret caught under my gum, the little space right in front of my lower incisor, and ripped. Bleeding from the mouth but having too much fun to realize, it was the next day before I understood how many nerve endings blossom in that weird little pocket behind my lower lip. I had to take out my metal piece and replace it with my glass retainer so the rubber band could keep it snug up against my lip. Stupid jewelry. Don’t tell my mom, who would say, “Well, what did you think was going to happen when you put a piece of metal in your face?”
6) Chris returned from his wild weekend playing noise music in Texas with famous click-music celebrities and riding around with nutcake drivers polishing their nails while in rush hour traffic and proclaimed to have missed me and my ‘ding-dong dangly ways.’ That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.
1) Today a man wanted to renew a video he had checked out on Islam because, and I quote, “You have to understand your enemies.”
2) On Sunday, a man with a bullhorn burst into the main lobby and yelled as he flew up the stairs, “THIS IS THE LIBRARY!” Security was all over him in a matter of seconds. They excluded him for overstating the obvious. I’m kidding.
3) I dealt with my first deceased patron the other day. A woman called to say her husband had died, and she received a bill that that read “Assumed Dead- $49.95.” She asked if she was being billed for an item with that title, or if “assumed dead” was the category for which she was being billed. As in, we assumed the man had died and wasn’t going to return his items. I was horrified that she would think that, and reassured her that we presume nothing of anyone at any time. We had a sad laugh, and I deleted the man’s account. My boss says that the saddest one she ever had to deal with was a person for whom English was a second language, and the wife had printed on the bill “He is exit.” She said she could visualize her paging through a dictionary looking for the correct term to explain, and it made her really sad.
4) My friend David is sick of calling me only to get my voice mail, even though I’ve told him repeatedly that I can hardly ever hear my phone through my bag, and I’m not setting it any louder or I’d be one of those people who answer their phone on the bus and tempt everyone to slit their wrists with long, boring accounts of what their dinner plans would be if they didn’t have to work late. Anyway, he suggested that I just set it to vibrate and keep it in my underwear. Which might work, although it probably wouldn’t make me want to answer the phone any faster, even though I would know it was ringing. So I vetoed.
5) I caught an elbow to the face the other night while we were out dancing, and my labret caught under my gum, the little space right in front of my lower incisor, and ripped. Bleeding from the mouth but having too much fun to realize, it was the next day before I understood how many nerve endings blossom in that weird little pocket behind my lower lip. I had to take out my metal piece and replace it with my glass retainer so the rubber band could keep it snug up against my lip. Stupid jewelry. Don’t tell my mom, who would say, “Well, what did you think was going to happen when you put a piece of metal in your face?”
6) Chris returned from his wild weekend playing noise music in Texas with famous click-music celebrities and riding around with nutcake drivers polishing their nails while in rush hour traffic and proclaimed to have missed me and my ‘ding-dong dangly ways.’ That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
My sister sends me an email with an attachment from the local “I Saw You” ads on she cruises online. It reads something like this: “You: sexy, well-dressed blond working at (store where she works) with killer smile and laugh. Brown boots. Coffee or drink?”
Totally her. She’s the only blond in the store.
Now if you’ve ever trolled around looking at the “I Saw You” section on any site or in any paper, you know that what you’re really looking for, although you might feign purely anthropological/sociological interest, is yourself. My sister happens to be one of those women who get noticed by the sort of person who writes these ads. Descriptions of her appear in papers and online like clockwork. It doesn’t matter if the guy is some bottom-feeding troglodyte because she’ll never know. She can just fantasize that it’s some independently wealthy Johnny Depp look-alike with a mysterious past who will ravish her daily until her brain explodes. Or maybe that’s what I would fantasize about.
Whatever.
I don’t ever see myself in those ads. It might be because I never leave the house.
But so not five minutes after I read her email, a woman comes up to my desk. She’s 45 or so, huge Einstein hair with bad red-brown dye job, chapped lips, crooked glasses, and an odor of fish food. Her wiry eyebrows jump all over her forehead like a couple of puffy squirrels.
“Hi,” I say and lean back out of her reach. I’ve been grabbed at by nutjobs before, and I’m not taking any chances.
“I just wanted to tell you that I love your eyebrows.” She leans heavily on the counter and flakes of dead skin from her lips fall to the marble surface. I recoil.
“Um…thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say about that.
“Yeah, they’re just like mine. Big and stuff. Don’t ever wax them or anything. Big eyebrows are great.”
Okay, now I’m getting a little freaked out. The woman leaves, but there I am with the truth unspooling around me like a dropped roll of Christmas ribbon. My sister and I both attract attention, but that attention is wildly different. Even if it was the same person complimenting us, at least she gets to filter it through her imagination. I get grizzly reality, no filter, no chaser.
I think I need to develop a drinking problem.
Totally her. She’s the only blond in the store.
Now if you’ve ever trolled around looking at the “I Saw You” section on any site or in any paper, you know that what you’re really looking for, although you might feign purely anthropological/sociological interest, is yourself. My sister happens to be one of those women who get noticed by the sort of person who writes these ads. Descriptions of her appear in papers and online like clockwork. It doesn’t matter if the guy is some bottom-feeding troglodyte because she’ll never know. She can just fantasize that it’s some independently wealthy Johnny Depp look-alike with a mysterious past who will ravish her daily until her brain explodes. Or maybe that’s what I would fantasize about.
Whatever.
I don’t ever see myself in those ads. It might be because I never leave the house.
But so not five minutes after I read her email, a woman comes up to my desk. She’s 45 or so, huge Einstein hair with bad red-brown dye job, chapped lips, crooked glasses, and an odor of fish food. Her wiry eyebrows jump all over her forehead like a couple of puffy squirrels.
“Hi,” I say and lean back out of her reach. I’ve been grabbed at by nutjobs before, and I’m not taking any chances.
“I just wanted to tell you that I love your eyebrows.” She leans heavily on the counter and flakes of dead skin from her lips fall to the marble surface. I recoil.
“Um…thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say about that.
“Yeah, they’re just like mine. Big and stuff. Don’t ever wax them or anything. Big eyebrows are great.”
Okay, now I’m getting a little freaked out. The woman leaves, but there I am with the truth unspooling around me like a dropped roll of Christmas ribbon. My sister and I both attract attention, but that attention is wildly different. Even if it was the same person complimenting us, at least she gets to filter it through her imagination. I get grizzly reality, no filter, no chaser.
I think I need to develop a drinking problem.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
My friends threaten only half-jokingly to back me into a corner and have a stress intervention on behalf of the part of me that is not tied to the library. It is now a very small part. I live with a library person, all my close friends are library people, I spend 11 hours a day getting to, working at, and getting home from the library, I book my readings at the library, I work on job applications that will bring me up to other levels at the library when I get home, and I go out for drinks to 'unwind' and end up talking about the library.
I dream of updated training materials and holds lists in which every item is found. My nightmares include co-workers scheduling me for 4am baking shifts at their fantasy restaurants with out telling me about it. I dream that my supervisor is observing me through psychic channels and is "watching" me while I shave my armpits in the shower.
I can't have a conversation that doesn't revolve, in some way, around some aspect of intellectual freedom or the obtuseness of the our main data base. I am considering organizing my cds by the dewey decimal system. 'Party Girl' watches like a coked up version of my actual life (minus the male strippers and all that falafel).
I own one of those librarian action figure dolls. I buy clothes based on how they will jibe with any future library situation I might be in. I buy only closed-toed shoes.
During yoga practice, I concentrate on thinking about anything other than books and how they get from one place to another. People send me pictures of libraries when they go on vacation. I started a blog to give short reviews of all the books I read, but couldn't keep up.
Do you have your library card with you?
I dream of updated training materials and holds lists in which every item is found. My nightmares include co-workers scheduling me for 4am baking shifts at their fantasy restaurants with out telling me about it. I dream that my supervisor is observing me through psychic channels and is "watching" me while I shave my armpits in the shower.
I can't have a conversation that doesn't revolve, in some way, around some aspect of intellectual freedom or the obtuseness of the our main data base. I am considering organizing my cds by the dewey decimal system. 'Party Girl' watches like a coked up version of my actual life (minus the male strippers and all that falafel).
I own one of those librarian action figure dolls. I buy clothes based on how they will jibe with any future library situation I might be in. I buy only closed-toed shoes.
During yoga practice, I concentrate on thinking about anything other than books and how they get from one place to another. People send me pictures of libraries when they go on vacation. I started a blog to give short reviews of all the books I read, but couldn't keep up.
Do you have your library card with you?
Sunday, July 30, 2006
I'm at the doctor's office with my mother, waiting for him to interpret my chest x-ray and tell me I have acute hypochondria, when it occurs to me that as long as I have my doctor's full attention, now would be the time to tell him about my gross deformity.
Wait, I would just like to share, for the record, that the reason my mother is accompanying me to the clinic is that I have just picked her up at the airport for her annual week-long visit, and the only same-day appointment I could get was adjacent to her arrival. I could have offered to drop her off at my house for a nap or an uninterrupted session of digging in my drawers, but she would have insisted on coming with me. Whenever there's an opportunity to go to a place where healing happens, you can bet she'll be calling shotgun.
Back to my deformity.
I'm in my jeans and one of those washed-a-million-times-and-looking-like-it gowns, sort of draped over my front like a paint smock on a preschooler. I couldn't figure out how to tie it in the back, so I'm just resting firmly against the upright exam table in a manner that I hope appears to be casual.
My doctor enters the room after giving me the courtesy knock, and proceeds to prescribe ibuprofen and rest for the stabbing pain in my chest. We have been here before, and I have the suspicion that he thinks I'm a little Nuts, but he keeps his personal opinion of my flourishing symptoms behind a mask of professional kindness that makes me want to cry onto his starchy white coat.
I know I'm one of those overbooked appointments, but I dive in anyway.
"Say, there's one more thing I wanted to ask you about."
He looks apprehensive, glances at the door, then composes himself and resettles in his rolling chair.
"I have this skin tag, well, a hideous deformity, really, and it's in A...delicate location. I'm always catching it with my razor and I was wondering if I should make an appointment to get it removed, or if that would be something you could just take care of right now?"
"I could take a look at it if you'd like. Where did you say it was?" He rolls toward me.
"Well, let me have just a second here..." I stand up and scramble to get my pants down to my knees to give him visual access to the sight. "Um, pardon me...it's right here on my inner thigh." I point to the location, right where my leg meets my body, and he immediately says: "Let me go get the liquid nitrogen and I can freeze it right now."
"Great."
He leaves the room and my pants are around my ankles and the gown is flapping open and my mother is in the waiting room reading the new issue of 'Health' and this is not cool.
I kick my jeans and underwear across the room, unsure of when my doctor will return, and try to tie my gown one more time, then realize that a far more awkward thing is I'm still wearing my shoes. My sense of aesthetics is wrestling with my practicality. (In case you don't know already, I have no sense of modesty.) I take the shoes off.
When the doctor reenters with what looks like a whipped cream canister, I look like the perfect patient. My bare legs knock against the table, and he asks me if I want to lean back. I accept.
I flip the gown up and basically flash him my nether parts. He looks unfazed, but gently brings the fabric back down and arranges it carefully.
"I'm just going to try to make this as respectful as possible, here."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to, uh..."
"That's alright, just lie back. I'm going to freeze it a few times and wait for it to thaw inbetween to make sure that the most tissue damage occurs. It'll fall off more quickly that way, and more completely as well."
"Okay."
I sink down, hear the compressed material hissing out of it's container, and feel something tiny with needly teeth biting at my nodule.
"Just let me know if it's too much for you."
"It's fine so far."
He stops, leans back and looks at it in a detached way, kind of how I look at a pile of bills or bird crap on my car. Well, that's interesting, how did that end up there?
He leans in again and the teeth dig in a little deeper. Stops. Waits for the thaw. Starts. Stops.
His gaze is intent, slightly frowning. I wonder what it is that has captured his attention, and I imagine that the slight layer of frost melting might be visually captivating so I ask: "Is is steaming?"
Finally, after years of him taking me seriously, although I like to be taken seriously where my bodily functions are concerned, he cracks. Laughter comes out of his bearded face for an instant, and he catches my eye, and I realize what I have said. I laugh too, and we have, together, in this ridiculous, intimate moment, made real contact.
He zaps it a few more times, gives me instructions to keep an eye on it, as well as take my ibuprofen, (like giving me homework, he knows I thrive with specific instructions, can't stand to be told to just wait things out), and bids me farewell as he leaves the exam room, his exterior rebuilt, professional demeanor restored.
But I know. I have seen him laugh.
My mother is sacked out on a loveseat in the waiting room when I join her.
She asks "What happened in there?" and I tell her that my doctor and I had a lot to talk about.
Wait, I would just like to share, for the record, that the reason my mother is accompanying me to the clinic is that I have just picked her up at the airport for her annual week-long visit, and the only same-day appointment I could get was adjacent to her arrival. I could have offered to drop her off at my house for a nap or an uninterrupted session of digging in my drawers, but she would have insisted on coming with me. Whenever there's an opportunity to go to a place where healing happens, you can bet she'll be calling shotgun.
Back to my deformity.
I'm in my jeans and one of those washed-a-million-times-and-looking-like-it gowns, sort of draped over my front like a paint smock on a preschooler. I couldn't figure out how to tie it in the back, so I'm just resting firmly against the upright exam table in a manner that I hope appears to be casual.
My doctor enters the room after giving me the courtesy knock, and proceeds to prescribe ibuprofen and rest for the stabbing pain in my chest. We have been here before, and I have the suspicion that he thinks I'm a little Nuts, but he keeps his personal opinion of my flourishing symptoms behind a mask of professional kindness that makes me want to cry onto his starchy white coat.
I know I'm one of those overbooked appointments, but I dive in anyway.
"Say, there's one more thing I wanted to ask you about."
He looks apprehensive, glances at the door, then composes himself and resettles in his rolling chair.
"I have this skin tag, well, a hideous deformity, really, and it's in A...delicate location. I'm always catching it with my razor and I was wondering if I should make an appointment to get it removed, or if that would be something you could just take care of right now?"
"I could take a look at it if you'd like. Where did you say it was?" He rolls toward me.
"Well, let me have just a second here..." I stand up and scramble to get my pants down to my knees to give him visual access to the sight. "Um, pardon me...it's right here on my inner thigh." I point to the location, right where my leg meets my body, and he immediately says: "Let me go get the liquid nitrogen and I can freeze it right now."
"Great."
He leaves the room and my pants are around my ankles and the gown is flapping open and my mother is in the waiting room reading the new issue of 'Health' and this is not cool.
I kick my jeans and underwear across the room, unsure of when my doctor will return, and try to tie my gown one more time, then realize that a far more awkward thing is I'm still wearing my shoes. My sense of aesthetics is wrestling with my practicality. (In case you don't know already, I have no sense of modesty.) I take the shoes off.
When the doctor reenters with what looks like a whipped cream canister, I look like the perfect patient. My bare legs knock against the table, and he asks me if I want to lean back. I accept.
I flip the gown up and basically flash him my nether parts. He looks unfazed, but gently brings the fabric back down and arranges it carefully.
"I'm just going to try to make this as respectful as possible, here."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to, uh..."
"That's alright, just lie back. I'm going to freeze it a few times and wait for it to thaw inbetween to make sure that the most tissue damage occurs. It'll fall off more quickly that way, and more completely as well."
"Okay."
I sink down, hear the compressed material hissing out of it's container, and feel something tiny with needly teeth biting at my nodule.
"Just let me know if it's too much for you."
"It's fine so far."
He stops, leans back and looks at it in a detached way, kind of how I look at a pile of bills or bird crap on my car. Well, that's interesting, how did that end up there?
He leans in again and the teeth dig in a little deeper. Stops. Waits for the thaw. Starts. Stops.
His gaze is intent, slightly frowning. I wonder what it is that has captured his attention, and I imagine that the slight layer of frost melting might be visually captivating so I ask: "Is is steaming?"
Finally, after years of him taking me seriously, although I like to be taken seriously where my bodily functions are concerned, he cracks. Laughter comes out of his bearded face for an instant, and he catches my eye, and I realize what I have said. I laugh too, and we have, together, in this ridiculous, intimate moment, made real contact.
He zaps it a few more times, gives me instructions to keep an eye on it, as well as take my ibuprofen, (like giving me homework, he knows I thrive with specific instructions, can't stand to be told to just wait things out), and bids me farewell as he leaves the exam room, his exterior rebuilt, professional demeanor restored.
But I know. I have seen him laugh.
My mother is sacked out on a loveseat in the waiting room when I join her.
She asks "What happened in there?" and I tell her that my doctor and I had a lot to talk about.
Monday, July 24, 2006
"I'm not going to spend any money. I'm just going to get a quick snack with Chris after work, maybe go for a walk, and then going home."
Yeah, right.
I spend most of a gift certificate at Reading Frenzy where I listen to an author (who is there to sign autographs but has no takers) talk to the counter person about how he screams "I am loyal only to Allah!" whenever he gets on a plane.
Yeah, right.
I have to walk right by Buffalo exchange to get to my car and I still have 15 minutes until Chris is done with work so I swing in, sure I won't be able to fall in love with anything in that short amount of time.
Yeah, right.
I walk out with a black cardigan with skull buttons and a green jacket that Chris would say looks "smart." I can't believe it though, since it is about 92 degrees outside and I am already in what some cultures would consider to be my underwear and here I am picking out long-sleeved clothes that I totally cannot bear the thought of actually wrapping my limbs in.
I pick Chris up at the library and the first thing that comes out of both of us in lieu of greeting is: "Sushi?"
And so I spend $50 all while telling myself that it's all necessary. Especially the sushi.
Yeah, right.
I spend most of a gift certificate at Reading Frenzy where I listen to an author (who is there to sign autographs but has no takers) talk to the counter person about how he screams "I am loyal only to Allah!" whenever he gets on a plane.
Yeah, right.
I have to walk right by Buffalo exchange to get to my car and I still have 15 minutes until Chris is done with work so I swing in, sure I won't be able to fall in love with anything in that short amount of time.
Yeah, right.
I walk out with a black cardigan with skull buttons and a green jacket that Chris would say looks "smart." I can't believe it though, since it is about 92 degrees outside and I am already in what some cultures would consider to be my underwear and here I am picking out long-sleeved clothes that I totally cannot bear the thought of actually wrapping my limbs in.
I pick Chris up at the library and the first thing that comes out of both of us in lieu of greeting is: "Sushi?"
And so I spend $50 all while telling myself that it's all necessary. Especially the sushi.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Kristi and I are in trouble. Not the kind where possessed pumas are chasing us on our bikes through a remote wooded area with no chance of us out-running them, or a serial killer pursuing us through a maze-like hallway in a 4 star hotel where all of the employees seem to be taking a mass break or anything, but still.
We can't find a screwdriver small enough to unscrew the last two screws on this picture frame to reorient the wire hanger. This is important because we want to put up this new print that her boyfriend bought before he gets back from getting coffee. He likes this print, but hasn't had time to frame it. We conspire to make his day. This is consuming all our energy, wrought from Subway's delicious Vegie Delights. (I prefer double mayo, Kristi likes double cheese.)
"I've only got this one screwdriver," she said, brandishing the oversized thing at me like a weapon in a street fighting movie.
I'm eye level with the frame, trying to figure out how someone twisted the screws in so tight that they almost touch the mat.
"Don't you have one of those little ones for fixing glasses?" I ask, picking up the picture and shaking it slightly, contemplating hitting it on the edges with a hammer, like you do when you need to get a new jar of pickles open.
"No."
"Oh."
I try a dime, a butter knife, a piece of plastic of unspecified origin, a few more attempts with the too-large screwdriver, and I'm ready to give up.
I blow away the metal shavings that are piling up from my stripping out the screw.
I hear Kristi pulling apart yet another drawer in the hopes of finding something adequate for our hardware needs.
Upon close examination, it appears that the screw no longer has any sort of ledge at all, well, perhaps just a small lip of ragged metal. I think about what it would feel like to have it shoved in my eye.
I get an idea. I pick up the original tool and try to fit the end of it in the sad opening. It fits, sort of. I press down and twist, oh so gently, and feel the victorious sensation of the metal giving way, physics on my side, the torque coaxing the stupid 1/4 inch piece of crap screw from it's cold steel embrace with the frame.
"Hey. I got it."
"What? How?"
"I damaged it to the point where the original screwdriver fit. Are we geniuses or what?"
Or what.
We can't find a screwdriver small enough to unscrew the last two screws on this picture frame to reorient the wire hanger. This is important because we want to put up this new print that her boyfriend bought before he gets back from getting coffee. He likes this print, but hasn't had time to frame it. We conspire to make his day. This is consuming all our energy, wrought from Subway's delicious Vegie Delights. (I prefer double mayo, Kristi likes double cheese.)
"I've only got this one screwdriver," she said, brandishing the oversized thing at me like a weapon in a street fighting movie.
I'm eye level with the frame, trying to figure out how someone twisted the screws in so tight that they almost touch the mat.
"Don't you have one of those little ones for fixing glasses?" I ask, picking up the picture and shaking it slightly, contemplating hitting it on the edges with a hammer, like you do when you need to get a new jar of pickles open.
"No."
"Oh."
I try a dime, a butter knife, a piece of plastic of unspecified origin, a few more attempts with the too-large screwdriver, and I'm ready to give up.
I blow away the metal shavings that are piling up from my stripping out the screw.
I hear Kristi pulling apart yet another drawer in the hopes of finding something adequate for our hardware needs.
Upon close examination, it appears that the screw no longer has any sort of ledge at all, well, perhaps just a small lip of ragged metal. I think about what it would feel like to have it shoved in my eye.
I get an idea. I pick up the original tool and try to fit the end of it in the sad opening. It fits, sort of. I press down and twist, oh so gently, and feel the victorious sensation of the metal giving way, physics on my side, the torque coaxing the stupid 1/4 inch piece of crap screw from it's cold steel embrace with the frame.
"Hey. I got it."
"What? How?"
"I damaged it to the point where the original screwdriver fit. Are we geniuses or what?"
Or what.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I tripped over the edge of the curb and went flying forward, legs pedalling, arms clutched tight to my bag. Don't want to let go of that bag. Happily , I caught the first wave of my fall with my elbow and my right palm, abrading the surface in several inch segments, but missing my skull almost completely. My hip took the second bounce, and before I stopped skidding across the sidewalk on the busy downtown corner, my body happened to roll face up, and I saw Chris looking frozen and horrified, hands out, mouth open.
For the record, he couldn't have stopped me if he tried. I would have taken him down with me. Unstoppable force.
Having ascertained that I hadn't knocked myself out completely, I asked Chris the most logical question that popped into my mind:
"Did anyone see my underwear?"
"All I saw was legs."
"Oh."
Next question: "Is there a hole in my sweater where I utilized it as landing gear?"
Answer: No, however, further inspection at the coffee shop led me to discover that I was, in fact, bleeding all over inside the sleeve of my new cashmere sweater.
After having Laura put aside her schedule changes to help me bind up my arm like King Tut, I felt the actual pain start to seep into my left side.
It's amazing how often I casually rest my elbow on the edge of tables, desks, and other flat surfaces. Wow.
The next morning in the shower, while trying to clean the rest of the cement particles out of the scab, I noticed that there were sweater fibers ground into the wound. Under the crusty layer of dried blood.
What do I do with that?
I dumped hydrogen peroxide on it, slapped a bunch of band-aids over the worst of it, and decided to not worry about it for now.
I'm sure the material will come off when I'm healed up. I think. Yuck.
For the record, he couldn't have stopped me if he tried. I would have taken him down with me. Unstoppable force.
Having ascertained that I hadn't knocked myself out completely, I asked Chris the most logical question that popped into my mind:
"Did anyone see my underwear?"
"All I saw was legs."
"Oh."
Next question: "Is there a hole in my sweater where I utilized it as landing gear?"
Answer: No, however, further inspection at the coffee shop led me to discover that I was, in fact, bleeding all over inside the sleeve of my new cashmere sweater.
After having Laura put aside her schedule changes to help me bind up my arm like King Tut, I felt the actual pain start to seep into my left side.
It's amazing how often I casually rest my elbow on the edge of tables, desks, and other flat surfaces. Wow.
The next morning in the shower, while trying to clean the rest of the cement particles out of the scab, I noticed that there were sweater fibers ground into the wound. Under the crusty layer of dried blood.
What do I do with that?
I dumped hydrogen peroxide on it, slapped a bunch of band-aids over the worst of it, and decided to not worry about it for now.
I'm sure the material will come off when I'm healed up. I think. Yuck.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Nothing funny has occurred in the past two weeks. Not that I can write about, anyway.
However, I have been to 2 birthday parties, ditched out on the 3rd, attended a swank housewarming party, found a bag in our hedge that was likely stolen in 2003(evidenced by the expired driver's license and the slug-dissolved cigarettes found within), consumed a drink with 'pureed kiwi' as the main ingredient (second to the vodka, of course), and bounced around during daylight hours at a lesbian dance party while my sister took my drink orders and did the server's tango through lots of touchy-feely grrrl reunions.
I basically drank alcohol for 10 nights in a row.
Now, after no days of reflection on my somewhat drunken behavior, I am about to take the bus home to greet my boyfriend's dad and step mom, who are here for a week of no air conditioning or cable, a cat that ejects all her hair the second you touch her, and us as their exciting Portland instigators.
I'll have to let you know how this goes.
However, I have been to 2 birthday parties, ditched out on the 3rd, attended a swank housewarming party, found a bag in our hedge that was likely stolen in 2003(evidenced by the expired driver's license and the slug-dissolved cigarettes found within), consumed a drink with 'pureed kiwi' as the main ingredient (second to the vodka, of course), and bounced around during daylight hours at a lesbian dance party while my sister took my drink orders and did the server's tango through lots of touchy-feely grrrl reunions.
I basically drank alcohol for 10 nights in a row.
Now, after no days of reflection on my somewhat drunken behavior, I am about to take the bus home to greet my boyfriend's dad and step mom, who are here for a week of no air conditioning or cable, a cat that ejects all her hair the second you touch her, and us as their exciting Portland instigators.
I'll have to let you know how this goes.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Neighbor girl invites me to her 'End of School' slumber party.
When I stop by to say hi, she and 5 other girls are in their pajamas, foam curlers in various states of coming unraveled, rolling around on the floor while playing a board game version of 'Truth or Dare.'
I wave to her grandma, who is draped on the couch at the edge of the room in a way that can only be described as 'melty.' Her arm is thrown over her face, the crook of her elbow sort of pulling her nose upward into a porcine-like grimace. The girls are shrieking every 3 seconds or so, taking great pains to humiliate each other in that special way that girls do. Every shout for 'truth' sends out invisible little girl feelers, bristling with palpable tension, waiting for someone to spill their actual beans, giving the group the upper hand. Soon all of these girls will learn what we all had to learn the hard way: to lie.
I remember riding the bus on the way to some class field trip in second grade, when a pretty, popular girl sat down next to me and grilled me for information on the boy of my pre-adolescent dreams. Keep in mind that I'm only like 8 at the time, and the thought of boys frankly turned my stomach, but so anyway I look around on the bus and pick the blond haired blue-eyed son of a semi-famous baseball player because I thought it would be safe, after all, everyone loved him, so it wouldn't brand me as a freak to pick the person that anyone would pick. All this only after I swear this girl to secrecy. She swears. Crosses her heart and hopes to die.
"Darren," I say, thinking I might have passed this social pop quiz.
But no.
She stands up on the seat, grabs the one in front of her and screams, "Angie loves Darren! Angie loves Darren!"
To my astonishment and horror, the whole bus starts in with her. I shrink down as close to the floor as I possibly can, and listen with a totally new level of understanding of the word 'coward' as a girl with Downs Syndrome named Angie starts yelling, "I do not! I do not!" and basically taking the heat off me for the entirety of the incident.
Christ.
But back at the slumber party: her grandma crapped out on the couch, her mom making about 50 hot dogs in the kitchen, as well as opening multiple bags of sugary snack food and gushing about John Travolta in 'Grease,' which they will be watching soon, if they can sit still long enough, and her brothers shipped out for the evening, I decide to beat a hasty retreat, but not before I congratulate myself on having lived through the stuff she's going through right now, and promising to look out for her as much as I can while we're neighbors.
As I read in a book not so long ago, "There is no worse training for adulthood than having been a child."
When I stop by to say hi, she and 5 other girls are in their pajamas, foam curlers in various states of coming unraveled, rolling around on the floor while playing a board game version of 'Truth or Dare.'
I wave to her grandma, who is draped on the couch at the edge of the room in a way that can only be described as 'melty.' Her arm is thrown over her face, the crook of her elbow sort of pulling her nose upward into a porcine-like grimace. The girls are shrieking every 3 seconds or so, taking great pains to humiliate each other in that special way that girls do. Every shout for 'truth' sends out invisible little girl feelers, bristling with palpable tension, waiting for someone to spill their actual beans, giving the group the upper hand. Soon all of these girls will learn what we all had to learn the hard way: to lie.
I remember riding the bus on the way to some class field trip in second grade, when a pretty, popular girl sat down next to me and grilled me for information on the boy of my pre-adolescent dreams. Keep in mind that I'm only like 8 at the time, and the thought of boys frankly turned my stomach, but so anyway I look around on the bus and pick the blond haired blue-eyed son of a semi-famous baseball player because I thought it would be safe, after all, everyone loved him, so it wouldn't brand me as a freak to pick the person that anyone would pick. All this only after I swear this girl to secrecy. She swears. Crosses her heart and hopes to die.
"Darren," I say, thinking I might have passed this social pop quiz.
But no.
She stands up on the seat, grabs the one in front of her and screams, "Angie loves Darren! Angie loves Darren!"
To my astonishment and horror, the whole bus starts in with her. I shrink down as close to the floor as I possibly can, and listen with a totally new level of understanding of the word 'coward' as a girl with Downs Syndrome named Angie starts yelling, "I do not! I do not!" and basically taking the heat off me for the entirety of the incident.
Christ.
But back at the slumber party: her grandma crapped out on the couch, her mom making about 50 hot dogs in the kitchen, as well as opening multiple bags of sugary snack food and gushing about John Travolta in 'Grease,' which they will be watching soon, if they can sit still long enough, and her brothers shipped out for the evening, I decide to beat a hasty retreat, but not before I congratulate myself on having lived through the stuff she's going through right now, and promising to look out for her as much as I can while we're neighbors.
As I read in a book not so long ago, "There is no worse training for adulthood than having been a child."
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