The last time I broke up with somebody he had his head up another girl’s mock turtleneck, this is much worse. “The Guy Who hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” has his head up his own ass. I never get to break up with anybody but shockingly, I’m not entirely pleased about it AT ALL. I’m heartbroken. I have already dipped into the same exact chocolate milk I drank the last time I was heartbroken. Is this what it feels like to come full circle? For those of you that are mid-rotation, you should really stop. You should pluck and sniff each one of those roses your feet are gingerly trampling the fuck over because there is nothing but ripe, ripe manure on the other side. Ours was a relationship meant to last, I loved him with every fucking cell of me, even the tiny cells that are responsible for making your feet itch unpredictably. Though it was only a brief millisecond of love in the eternity that love is meant to last, it was probably the purest love I have had, it was love tailor made for him and somehow still, the inseam was too short. I’m so tired. I’m tired of threading needles to make love trousers for assholes, I know that sounds completely ridiculous but know that I am genuinely tired, I can feel the tiredness directly below my both my ribs, even though my heart is only on the left side. We declared text message war on each other today…him, me, and that guy Jesus, he’s always talking about. I think Jesus would have been pissed that he got dragged into this. Tomorrow he’s going to help Siouxsie Sioux move her drum kit from her parents house so she can sell it. She owes him a fairly hefty amount of cash which she does not have at the moment, as the salary of a Chili’s hostess is apparently less than desirable to most phone companies and landlords. Unfortunate. He asked me how I felt about his journey to his almost ex in-laws with his almost ex wife and I said that it kind of made me feel like a leftover sandwich crust, it did! She had been a prize winning bitch to him and I’ve been trying bake him prize-winning awesome pie since I met him, but I guess somehow, that pie fucking sucked. Yet somehow devoting his Saturday to her, felt more appropriate then doing something with me--MEN, another slice of wisdom- don’t submit to bitchiness, it makes the rest of us bitches think we have to be bitches in order to get your attention.-- I would like to note something else at this at this point because you all must be slightly astounded that this has happened to me again, I’m not ugly, I exfoliate, my mother gave me fantastic cheekbones and though my ass is small, it can fit nicely into the right pair of jeans yet still, my bony ass and bony cheeks tend to end up in the wrong hands. Am I an idiot? Probably. There has to be some explanation for my lack of expertise in the field of dude. Its not the ex fiancé that pisses me off, she must either be amazingly cool or amazingly manipulative to get somebody to love her that much, I just don’t understood how nobody with the right chromosomes and a decent attitude seems terribly interested in me. The break up is actually an awful story as silly as the above diatribe must read, I needed him last night and that need was ignored. I needed his friendship, compassion, and advice, and he didn’t have any for me. I felt slightly ruined at the time, I felt like I’d eaten my weight in cotton candy and then ridden on the “Tilt-A-Whirl”, and I knew immediately that was not a feeling people were ever meant to have, so I decided to walk away.
I got scared yesterday and I got hurt, the kind of hurt that only one person can only unscare and unhurt, I needed him and he didn’t come. As the clock moved into the morning time, I realized he was too late, what we had expired like the tub of very old sour cream in my refrigerator that I am terrified to open. So I decided to write him a letter. It was two and one third pages long and quite illegible, especially for his poor eyes which do not have 20/20 vision. I probably should have considered that he might have to squint, especially since his penmanship is beautiful, even the 8 year old scribble I saw at his mom’s house was better than mine, but I was too tired to keep the contents of that ripped spiral notebook page inside of me. It was a lump lodged halfway between my stomach and ticker, which might mean it came from my pancreas. Maybe my pancreas is busted? Maybe this wasn’t about him at all? Maybe my pancreas has a hole in it? Probably not, I believe the people of my family are known for their strong pancreases. Anyways, I grabbed a piece of paper and pen from my backseat, listened to “Secret Garden” by Bruce Springsteen about twenty six times, and wrote on top of my steering wheel, which at times, made my horn beep at the homeless cats walking by. “The Guy Who Hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” would have loved startling those furry bastards. I tried to say at least some of the right things with my pen, that I loved him very much and that he deserved somebody extraordinary, I also recall saying that I didn’t want to fall in love alone. I hope I did say that because it makes a lot of sense, that’s how I was feeling. Where did I go wrong? I think I wasn’t needy enough, I didn’t declare what I needed loud enough the way Siouxsie Sioux used to, but that’s not really something I believe in. I’m more of an asker than a demander, my voice is a bit quieter, but I get hurt just as loudly. There was an hour of need, and that hour passed without aid, in my car, in the rain with nothing but a petrified french fry on the ground for comfort, potatoes have eyes not ears, so I knew talking to it would yield disappointing results.
After I finished writing in the strange form of Canadian hieroglyphics I invented, I did something silly. Why I developed a sense of humor at this particular moment, I’ll never know, but I grabbed a canister of thyme and put it in the envelope with the letter. “Time”, is after all what he seemed to require, he has a lot of things to figure out, one day he won’t feel very good about letting his very sad girlfriend be very sad in her car without so much as calling, but right now he needs to focus on him. He also needed to know that he was worthy of the time and if I could actually give him a canister of time instead of thyme, then I would have, but they don’t sell it at the Shell Station. This might be the weirdest gift he’s ever received, its within the top eight weird gifts I’ve given, but it came from the right place or at least, a nice suburb of the right place. I had a fancy manila envelope in my car so I used that, it’s a bit more clinical looking than I would have liked, but it had an adhesive strip so I wouldn’t have to lick it, I had a runny nose and I didn’t want to get boogers on my big yellowish apology filled envelope. I sealed it tightly, stuffed in awkwardly into this mailbox and said goodbye in my head to his street, his mean neighbor who is constantly calling the police on chronic street parkers, and his nice neighbor who has a big golden dog. I kept wearing my nice clothes throughout my pony express journey, fully hoping he would call and I could say goodbye to him the way I wanted, with my arms around him neck, but he didn’t.
Afterwards I went directly home and proceeded to get all 117lbs of me drunk off beef jerky, I got so drunk in fact that I dreamed about ordering pizza. When I was nauseated, ashamed enough fall asleep, and wanted to start life over entirely directly because of the sore tummy and shame, I cried some slow moving tears and let exactly two whimpers escape. I didn’t find the peace I wanted, I just overdosed on dehydrated beef....alcoholics and substance abusers take note, excess totally doesn’t work save yourself the twelve steps and don’t start in the first place. After I ate an entire herd of cattle, I fell asleep in my uncomfortable borrowed shoes with my phone in my hand, curled into a very small ball of human being and feeling very young for the first time in ages. How can somebody who loves the best they can be so terrible at it? Maybe this is my broken pancreas’s fault? Maybe I ask too many rhetorical questions? I am going to miss him, I miss him at this very second, probably more than I should but he’s extra missable and this was an extra hard impossible decision. I was given no chance to mull it over, it was immediately an ultimatum perhaps from "The Guy WHo Hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms"' pal Jesus, that said " Do the right thing and give him time, or prepare to feel this shitty all the time" .
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Man of God
He got me a bible. No flowers. No small collection of chocolates filled with various forms of fruit gunk, the holy bible. It’s a nice looking bible, its small enough to fit in one of those impractical clutchy purses I’ve been carrying, which in truth I only carry in order to avoid public dancing scenarios, and its got a stylish leather cover but, I’m not a Christian, I’m not even halfway there, not even a Chris. I love that he’s got convictions that he can live by and hopefully, love by (maybe with the addition of some pre-marital shagging) I think everyone HAS to have some centre, I know everyone wants it, why do you think millions of women spend the hours of 7-8am pulling their hamstrings on yoga mats to the electronic sway of the fake babbling brook? Whether somebody finds peace in the lotus position, kneeling at an altar, or walking up and down a large, many staired structure in an orange robe, is up to them. Who the shit am I to tell ANYBODY what their personal concord with the universe is? I’m sure you think my relationship with “The guy Who Hates Non-Jungle Cats” is doomed now, and that there might be a vigilante army of believers outside my house fully loaded with rosaries, garlic cloves, and pitchforks right now, BUT I think it might be okay. See, if he’s a Christian he cannot not love me for my free formed spiritual education, that would just piss Jesus off... but then again, not all Christians seem to mind making JC shake his pretty head, especially that douche on the 700 Club who stole Bob Barker’s signature secular microphone. Besides, The bible and I do have some things in common,
1) Serpent-The Good Book, like me, is vehemently anti-serpent. Everytime I go to the zoo (which, sadly, is fairly often) I’m rather glad that the nature police locked up those snakes up for good, even if it is in a visually pleasing terrarium complete with a bilingual soundbite button to educate me on the adders value in my ecosystem. Guess what, soundbite? The snake has done jack shit for me, the snake squats under rocks in my garden, has terrifying babies and then LEAVES before I can bring by congratulatory cellophane balloons, AND snakes allow vermin come into my house to steal my apple jacks every winter despite the zoo’s claim that they are excellent hunters. Lastly, they just make me uneasy with all their coiling, striking, two headed Cobraconstrictaconda bullshit. I’m not exactly sure, but I believe the bible takes issue with the serpent because it trespassed in Eden, put something in Eve’s drink and all the sudden turned utopia into Cabo San Lucas, fair enough.
Dear Snakes, you’re gross,
Dear Jack Hannah, you’re full of lies
xo
S and the Bible
2) Facial Hair- The bible is not huge on grooming. Not a single location in the bible was restricted by a “No Shirt, No Shoes” policy, nor did employers frown upon things like excessive facial hair or lack of a post secondary education. I don’t even think I’ve seen the word PANTS once in whichever testament it is that I have, and as somebody who has been called to practice pantlessness daily (i'm pro dress), I find this to be a thrilling affirmation of my life choice. Bethlehem sounds a lot like Venice Beach, liberal and filled with sandals.
3) Proverbs 23:21 - Drunkenness causes poverty…aint that the bloody the truth. It also causes lewdness, breaking unholy manopausal vows, cheese pizza at 4 am, and waking up rank as a hobo’s left boot
All kindred spirituality aside, I’m no devotee. To quote Run DMC, “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts”, even the holy kind, especially the holy kind! If I’m gonna fear a spirit its going to the be the type that possesses my toaster and sends my appliances into a murderous poltergeist rage, not God/Jesus/Moses/Allah/Morgan Freeman. “The Guy Who Hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” is the god fearing variety of man, he’s probably more afraid of God’s wrath than the wrath of a homicidal blender, and I think that’s splendid. Not only does it mean he shalt not screw around me, but it also means that he’s thinking more about putting energy into loving the people around him than into an existential John Cusakian crisis like most guys I know. However, I’m mildly afraid he might prefer to love somebody who can recite psalms from memory and wears a cheap golden cross around her neck, I can’t even spell psalm, it took me four tries. Now, he wants to know what I believe, he asked, he wants to have a conversation about my view of the universe over a beer with a lime in it, just grab a brew and chit chat about the afterlife, eternal damnation, and god's plan…Thankfully, though I have through my life contemplated the Great Beyond (is that code name the oceans or the heavens?…I can’t recall but you know which one I mean) so I’m not entirely unprepared. I have broken it into a three stage Mickey Mouse Christmas Carol type model, a timeline of my beliefs and relationship with the God Man
PAST- HOLY COW
Growing up, I knew very little of Church despite the fact that my perpetually marching zealot of a gay aunt is a minister, I knew there were stained glass windows depicting slightly morbid “10 Commandments” stills, and I knew that local churches seemed to be secretly at war with one another over who had the largest, most powerful nativity scene. I was also made aware that there was a free cookie and Tang policy at most congregations…yum. I was in one vaguely religious ceremony. the preschool Christmas play. Sadly, I was cast as a Holstein cow in the manger. This consisted of wearing a white tracksuit and safety pinning so many construction paper spots on my body that I’m convinced I was fully magnetized. You want to fuck a kid up good and teach them a lesson in humility? Cast all of her four year old girl friends as Sugarplum fairies and make HER the cow. A roundhouse kick to the ego like that will put all four of their thespian stomachs in knots. Lesson One- Humbleness. Check. After my acting career was put out to pasture, my faith grew from two things 1) “Getting my ass kicked in elementary school by Kathy G. and her cronies” and 2)General feelings of strong compulsion. The only thing that terrified me more than Kathy G. from the ages of 6-23 was Grimace, Ronald McDonald’s number two dude, the one that looks like a large purple tumor. Kathy G. taught me about the kind of person I didn’t want to be, she smoked cigarettes, she drank, she dated older boys….weeellllll…. she was like me today, except really mean. She threw inflated basketballs at my head and knocked my teeth out on one occasion. I remember being disgusted by the bullying thing, and for a kid who wasn’t above licking the gymnasium floor in exchange for a fruit roll up, that’s a pretty defining life moment. The second where I knew I wanted to love other people instead of creating large dental bills for their parents will make the life flashing before my eyes image pastiche when I’m on my deathbed, its guaranteed. The second item is more pragmatic, I’ve always felt things mega strongly, even from a young age, whether its grief, or affection, or wanting a corndog so badly that I think my head might fall off. EVERYTHING. I’ve never wanted a corndog only 50%. Since a leaf, moose, and amoeba, don’t know the raw desperation that can exist for baseball park foods, I figure there’s got to be some sort of reason I can. Lesson Two-Purpose.Check
PRESENT-HOLY ROLLER
Present- I am at a place where I am comfortable enough in MY relationship with God to appreciate the beliefs of others. God lets me see other faiths without getting jealous and texting me all day. I’ll do Bar Mitzvahs, Yom Kippur, Christmas Dinner, I’d even hit up an Ashram if I had the chance…The Heavenly Daddykins and I are in a good place and he trusts me. SO, I went to church with “The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” a total of twice, I will call this a “running total” because I expect I will go again. At first, I was terrified, and to be completely honest it still does terrify me almost entirely. It shouldn’t, the place is practically constructed entirely out of hugs and residual cheek kiss slobber and the people are incredibly nice, but not suspiciously nice in the body snatchersish sense; they don’t have those intimidating wooden benches, and the pastor wears shorts of the cargo persuasion, self ripped directly below the knee. Church really isn’t that different than an episode of Oprah but instead of talking to Tyra Banks or Woody Harrelson, they talk to god. The audience members are selected speak through the mic and do the whole “My name is Bill and I drove here all the way from Cleveland because I love your work God, you’re my favorite deity” thing and at times, people even throw their hands up in the air like they’re reaching for an invisible Oreo cookie. I like church, I would say that I like it better than the public library and better than playing pick up basketball, but I don’t feel any closer to God, in fact, I kind of think he got a kick out of the fact that I was there based on the giant pointed index finger that popped out of the clouds and the muted angelic chuckling I heard from above during the service. This could prove to be a problem. It could prove to be a steaming pile of Holy Shit on the bottom of my sneaker. I don’t think God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit, Moses, Judy Garland or Allah would appreciate if I used them to impress a boy, and I also couldn’t pull it off having not graduated Sunday School at the top of my class. Plus, I happen to like the rapport the big dude and I have, I feel like we could host a morning show together, drink Sanka and make lighthearted jabs at eachother through clip on microphones…I bet God would wear fantastic neckties like Anderson Cooper does. I would ask him if he knew the Philadelphia Cream Cheese angel in the Biblical sense and then he could say something funny about knowing my mom in the Biblical sense. I can’t give up the possibility of winning an Emmy in the afterlife for a man who might not think God should be hosting morning shows at all.
FUTURE-HOLY SHIT
I’m not sure what I’ll believe next week, my faith in earthly men was sacrificed a long flipping time ago but still, I keep searching it out hoping that what once was lost will eventually be found again. I’ve certainly had relationships spontaneously combust when there was another woman involved, but never another man, especially the MAN. How can I compete with that?! God drives the entire universe and I drive a Honda CRV with badly tinted windows, he created everything (regrettably, even ice dancing, which I intend to ask him about later) and I can’t even create exactly 6 rotund blueberry muffins for the fella I’m crazy about .The Chief and I have always gotten on great, I’ve always thought that if he were my camp counselor I would make him a friendship bracelet out of that braided plastic thread kids love so much and we could keep in touch over the school year, but what if I’m delusional and he’s just been waiting around to hang up his whistle and ditch my annoying childish ass, what if he’s just been polite to me? At the moment, I feel like I’m the complete opposite of that Amazing Grace tune that churches like so much, I WAS found but NOW I’m lost and growing blinder by the second. I have theological AND romantic cataracts. I guess I just wait and hope Snoop Goddy Godd delivers a little reassurance.
What to do….at risk of sounding like Brian Wilson, I’m not going to end this section with a resounding “God Only Knows…” but be aware that I am singing the song in my head, perhaps in the wrong key. I adore “The Guy Who Hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” and I think there might be a dash of adoration on his end too, but neither one of us can just change our whole belief structure, only Madonna and Tom Cruise can pull that off. I love that he loves Jesus, its great for Jesus, you can never have too many fans, I just wish he loved what I believed because though it might not have a playbook that’s made its way into every motel bedside drawer in America, I know it by heart.
1) Serpent-The Good Book, like me, is vehemently anti-serpent. Everytime I go to the zoo (which, sadly, is fairly often) I’m rather glad that the nature police locked up those snakes up for good, even if it is in a visually pleasing terrarium complete with a bilingual soundbite button to educate me on the adders value in my ecosystem. Guess what, soundbite? The snake has done jack shit for me, the snake squats under rocks in my garden, has terrifying babies and then LEAVES before I can bring by congratulatory cellophane balloons, AND snakes allow vermin come into my house to steal my apple jacks every winter despite the zoo’s claim that they are excellent hunters. Lastly, they just make me uneasy with all their coiling, striking, two headed Cobraconstrictaconda bullshit. I’m not exactly sure, but I believe the bible takes issue with the serpent because it trespassed in Eden, put something in Eve’s drink and all the sudden turned utopia into Cabo San Lucas, fair enough.
Dear Snakes, you’re gross,
Dear Jack Hannah, you’re full of lies
xo
S and the Bible
2) Facial Hair- The bible is not huge on grooming. Not a single location in the bible was restricted by a “No Shirt, No Shoes” policy, nor did employers frown upon things like excessive facial hair or lack of a post secondary education. I don’t even think I’ve seen the word PANTS once in whichever testament it is that I have, and as somebody who has been called to practice pantlessness daily (i'm pro dress), I find this to be a thrilling affirmation of my life choice. Bethlehem sounds a lot like Venice Beach, liberal and filled with sandals.
3) Proverbs 23:21 - Drunkenness causes poverty…aint that the bloody the truth. It also causes lewdness, breaking unholy manopausal vows, cheese pizza at 4 am, and waking up rank as a hobo’s left boot
All kindred spirituality aside, I’m no devotee. To quote Run DMC, “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts”, even the holy kind, especially the holy kind! If I’m gonna fear a spirit its going to the be the type that possesses my toaster and sends my appliances into a murderous poltergeist rage, not God/Jesus/Moses/Allah/Morgan Freeman. “The Guy Who Hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” is the god fearing variety of man, he’s probably more afraid of God’s wrath than the wrath of a homicidal blender, and I think that’s splendid. Not only does it mean he shalt not screw around me, but it also means that he’s thinking more about putting energy into loving the people around him than into an existential John Cusakian crisis like most guys I know. However, I’m mildly afraid he might prefer to love somebody who can recite psalms from memory and wears a cheap golden cross around her neck, I can’t even spell psalm, it took me four tries. Now, he wants to know what I believe, he asked, he wants to have a conversation about my view of the universe over a beer with a lime in it, just grab a brew and chit chat about the afterlife, eternal damnation, and god's plan…Thankfully, though I have through my life contemplated the Great Beyond (is that code name the oceans or the heavens?…I can’t recall but you know which one I mean) so I’m not entirely unprepared. I have broken it into a three stage Mickey Mouse Christmas Carol type model, a timeline of my beliefs and relationship with the God Man
PAST- HOLY COW
Growing up, I knew very little of Church despite the fact that my perpetually marching zealot of a gay aunt is a minister, I knew there were stained glass windows depicting slightly morbid “10 Commandments” stills, and I knew that local churches seemed to be secretly at war with one another over who had the largest, most powerful nativity scene. I was also made aware that there was a free cookie and Tang policy at most congregations…yum. I was in one vaguely religious ceremony. the preschool Christmas play. Sadly, I was cast as a Holstein cow in the manger. This consisted of wearing a white tracksuit and safety pinning so many construction paper spots on my body that I’m convinced I was fully magnetized. You want to fuck a kid up good and teach them a lesson in humility? Cast all of her four year old girl friends as Sugarplum fairies and make HER the cow. A roundhouse kick to the ego like that will put all four of their thespian stomachs in knots. Lesson One- Humbleness. Check. After my acting career was put out to pasture, my faith grew from two things 1) “Getting my ass kicked in elementary school by Kathy G. and her cronies” and 2)General feelings of strong compulsion. The only thing that terrified me more than Kathy G. from the ages of 6-23 was Grimace, Ronald McDonald’s number two dude, the one that looks like a large purple tumor. Kathy G. taught me about the kind of person I didn’t want to be, she smoked cigarettes, she drank, she dated older boys….weeellllll…. she was like me today, except really mean. She threw inflated basketballs at my head and knocked my teeth out on one occasion. I remember being disgusted by the bullying thing, and for a kid who wasn’t above licking the gymnasium floor in exchange for a fruit roll up, that’s a pretty defining life moment. The second where I knew I wanted to love other people instead of creating large dental bills for their parents will make the life flashing before my eyes image pastiche when I’m on my deathbed, its guaranteed. The second item is more pragmatic, I’ve always felt things mega strongly, even from a young age, whether its grief, or affection, or wanting a corndog so badly that I think my head might fall off. EVERYTHING. I’ve never wanted a corndog only 50%. Since a leaf, moose, and amoeba, don’t know the raw desperation that can exist for baseball park foods, I figure there’s got to be some sort of reason I can. Lesson Two-Purpose.Check
PRESENT-HOLY ROLLER
Present- I am at a place where I am comfortable enough in MY relationship with God to appreciate the beliefs of others. God lets me see other faiths without getting jealous and texting me all day. I’ll do Bar Mitzvahs, Yom Kippur, Christmas Dinner, I’d even hit up an Ashram if I had the chance…The Heavenly Daddykins and I are in a good place and he trusts me. SO, I went to church with “The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” a total of twice, I will call this a “running total” because I expect I will go again. At first, I was terrified, and to be completely honest it still does terrify me almost entirely. It shouldn’t, the place is practically constructed entirely out of hugs and residual cheek kiss slobber and the people are incredibly nice, but not suspiciously nice in the body snatchersish sense; they don’t have those intimidating wooden benches, and the pastor wears shorts of the cargo persuasion, self ripped directly below the knee. Church really isn’t that different than an episode of Oprah but instead of talking to Tyra Banks or Woody Harrelson, they talk to god. The audience members are selected speak through the mic and do the whole “My name is Bill and I drove here all the way from Cleveland because I love your work God, you’re my favorite deity” thing and at times, people even throw their hands up in the air like they’re reaching for an invisible Oreo cookie. I like church, I would say that I like it better than the public library and better than playing pick up basketball, but I don’t feel any closer to God, in fact, I kind of think he got a kick out of the fact that I was there based on the giant pointed index finger that popped out of the clouds and the muted angelic chuckling I heard from above during the service. This could prove to be a problem. It could prove to be a steaming pile of Holy Shit on the bottom of my sneaker. I don’t think God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit, Moses, Judy Garland or Allah would appreciate if I used them to impress a boy, and I also couldn’t pull it off having not graduated Sunday School at the top of my class. Plus, I happen to like the rapport the big dude and I have, I feel like we could host a morning show together, drink Sanka and make lighthearted jabs at eachother through clip on microphones…I bet God would wear fantastic neckties like Anderson Cooper does. I would ask him if he knew the Philadelphia Cream Cheese angel in the Biblical sense and then he could say something funny about knowing my mom in the Biblical sense. I can’t give up the possibility of winning an Emmy in the afterlife for a man who might not think God should be hosting morning shows at all.
FUTURE-HOLY SHIT
I’m not sure what I’ll believe next week, my faith in earthly men was sacrificed a long flipping time ago but still, I keep searching it out hoping that what once was lost will eventually be found again. I’ve certainly had relationships spontaneously combust when there was another woman involved, but never another man, especially the MAN. How can I compete with that?! God drives the entire universe and I drive a Honda CRV with badly tinted windows, he created everything (regrettably, even ice dancing, which I intend to ask him about later) and I can’t even create exactly 6 rotund blueberry muffins for the fella I’m crazy about .The Chief and I have always gotten on great, I’ve always thought that if he were my camp counselor I would make him a friendship bracelet out of that braided plastic thread kids love so much and we could keep in touch over the school year, but what if I’m delusional and he’s just been waiting around to hang up his whistle and ditch my annoying childish ass, what if he’s just been polite to me? At the moment, I feel like I’m the complete opposite of that Amazing Grace tune that churches like so much, I WAS found but NOW I’m lost and growing blinder by the second. I have theological AND romantic cataracts. I guess I just wait and hope Snoop Goddy Godd delivers a little reassurance.
What to do….at risk of sounding like Brian Wilson, I’m not going to end this section with a resounding “God Only Knows…” but be aware that I am singing the song in my head, perhaps in the wrong key. I adore “The Guy Who Hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” and I think there might be a dash of adoration on his end too, but neither one of us can just change our whole belief structure, only Madonna and Tom Cruise can pull that off. I love that he loves Jesus, its great for Jesus, you can never have too many fans, I just wish he loved what I believed because though it might not have a playbook that’s made its way into every motel bedside drawer in America, I know it by heart.
ménage à trois
If my new relationship was family friendly television of the good ol’ days this is the point in the episode where a younger Cleaver boy would say “What am I? chopped liver?” and the fake audience would erupt into chuckles and prerecorded “gollys” with a pinch too much reverb on them. If I were the Beaver in this situation, which I ought to be considering my sex and Northern heritage, I would not go to the malt shop or ride bicycles or even sit and eat meatloaf with my model parents, I would hole myself up in my room and play internet scrabble with strangers from Finland. Sad fact- Last night, I turned to the internet, and I learned too much, it was like taking the wrong pill in the matrix. “ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” demoted me yesterday……on his myspace page. I realize that is probably within the top ten most idiotic things you have ever heard., and probably within the top four hundred idiotic things I have ever said The best thing about having an anonymous blog is that there is no way you can slap me in the mouth for being a child, unless of course you’ve been stalking me for months and reading over my shoulder, in which case: Thank you for your devotion , it is hard to come by, even if your commitment rests only in thrice weekly visits to the shrubbery outside my house for my hula hoping fitness hour. My state of Sherlockian moustache pulling confusion is much more complex and much less juvenile than it sounds, I not only have been exiled to the hinterland of the “Top Friends”, I have been demoted far below the ranking of the mean ex-fiancé, who I’m sure, he is still madly involve with and plans to have mean ex-babies with and live in a mean ex-gated community with a mean ex-three car garage. My love of Scooby Doo has instilled in me a deep love of deduction and tricked out paddy wagons, so naturally, instead of just allowing myself to be jilted by the fact that he declared my not-that importance in his life to mutual friends and millions of creepy strangers, I decided to investigate: I clicked on her profile in a fit of childishness/curiosity/rage/despair/boredom/peer pressure and discovered that “Things CAN always be worse” and “Dreams CAN’T come true”.
It seems as though the girl who was to be “Mrs. “ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” and I have nothing in common, apart from the appreciation for a certain comedy show that nobody hates. She is short and I am tall, she wears lots of make up, I do not (note- I might start if this is some heart snaring trick I was unaware of), she uses vaguely dark quotes that only half make sense grammatically, I have fantastic grammar and sense-making abilities despite the fact that I should have used a colon instead of comma to start that string of mildly shallow comparisons.... see what I mean
Let me provide a visual:
I am:
She is:
He might be something like this:
He is non-Labyrinth Bowie, someone who Siouxsie Sioux or Olivia Newton-John could feasibly date (My apologies to Iman, totally hypothetical, I promise) I have a little Siouxsie in me and I’m sure Siouxsie’s got some ONJ in her, though she’d probably never admit it. The Siouxs of the world are fans of the suggestive self photography that makes the internet so popular, whereas the Newton-Johns wear slips or cut off denim shorts under their skirts so nobody sees their bottom. So, GUYS, if you’re reading which would you prefer fishnet tights and pierced appendages or ponytails and summertime dresses? ……shit, I would probably go Sioux too (Rhyme-bo: First Blood). Sometimes its hard to be Olivia Newton-John.
Guess what else I learned from being completely pathetic and trolling the internet like a bored cop at a carnival? They’re still in contact, and not just the formalities, like the “Merry Christmases”, and “We should (but probably won’t) grab coffee”, I’m talking the “Man, you look like a smoking hot piece of something I’d like tap in that pervy self snapped photo…meeeeow, MEEEEEOW”. To be fair, the comment was more in the vein of “Lookin’ Great” but the private eye in me has decided the previously stated subtext is more accurate. My feelings are mixed on this discovery, but all the blended feelings are shitty ones that will eventually be baked at 350 degrees and emerge a steaming hot pile of “better luck next time”. If I wore less clothing and crawled on the floor of an apartment in front of my macbook I bet I’d be “Lookin’ Great” too, but I don’t, mostly because my self esteem does exist and it doesn’t need to be bolstered by 52 year old men from Wisconsin looking for a bedtime muse. I mean really, is it just me? Or does that shit gross anybody else out? Guess what No Lab-Bowie, an old man named Jimbo with a business card and professionally shined shoes offered to buy my fruit salad this morning, I’m pretty fucking cute too. I’m sorry that sounded a bit “irate” (NOTE- don’t use this word in scrabble, it makes you look smart but its only five points) but my feelings are a bit hurt, nobody meant to hurt them obviously, but they are, and since I have a blog, I’m going to let myself be steamed like a Miami drug lord’s linen pant suit......note:I hate resort wear.
Myspace left me with the sense that this girl is a little bit screwed up. Why? Myspace is like any other living space and if hers were a tiny apartment, there would be an open bottle of vicodin on the coffee table and some dirty laundry on the floor. Her page is good looking in all its teenage glory, with its pockets of contradictory poetic statements, her well thought out alias, and her large collection of photographs. She appears to be going through a phase in life we all go through, when we’re young, one that states truth and doesn’t seek it. I went through that phase, frankly, I kind of miss the lack of perspective. I’m sure she’s a nice girl, she probably wouldn’t have spoken a word to me if we were in the same high school math class, but a lot of people didn’t talk to me so I’ll let her off the hook. The bottom line, is that she appears to be in that confidently broken phase in life that begs for attention and tries to make vanity polite. Some men LOVE people in this phase and I fear that “ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” might be one of them, he might even have his own “Fix-a-Chick” repair shop that offers 15 minute affirmations and foot rubs. He’s a great guy, but maybe he doesn’t want someone who’ll give back to him. I am a giver, of presents, advice, of beer, and of my cursed flippin’ heart. If he likes a relationship that leaves him with that awful inside out feeling in the chest, I may not be the girl. Dear Men, I apologize that my parents did a fairly kick ass job of raising me, and that I have a job that I love, I really wish that when I had problems, I was more ashamed to talk about them, but sadly, I’m not that fucked up…yet.
“ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” seemed as though he was falling in really, really like with me and at the very least, in love with my nose, which he had declared perfect. My sniffer had some career highs pressed into his back, a more than familiar back, maybe even the back of my dreams, but sadly, a piece of ass seems to be worth more than a nose these days . My nose will soon move to Detroit where it will sniffle on the street and sell five dollar nuzzles to married men in towncars. As someone resolved never to fight for love but only in love, I suppose I should bow out, see my nose off on the five o clock Greyhound bus to Motor City, and carry on a noseless existence with a team of feral cats, at least the allergies won’t bother me at all. Leisa and Tommy think I should say something and I might, but even if I do, it won’t change the fact that I don’t own a single pair of fishnet stockings, or that his ex almost wife poses in her freetime, or that he might have a bit of a thing for fixing broken women, and it certainly won’t change the fact that my heart, despite its thousands of failures doesn’t need any new parts .
It seems as though the girl who was to be “Mrs. “ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” and I have nothing in common, apart from the appreciation for a certain comedy show that nobody hates. She is short and I am tall, she wears lots of make up, I do not (note- I might start if this is some heart snaring trick I was unaware of), she uses vaguely dark quotes that only half make sense grammatically, I have fantastic grammar and sense-making abilities despite the fact that I should have used a colon instead of comma to start that string of mildly shallow comparisons.... see what I mean
Let me provide a visual:
I am:
She is:
He might be something like this:
He is non-Labyrinth Bowie, someone who Siouxsie Sioux or Olivia Newton-John could feasibly date (My apologies to Iman, totally hypothetical, I promise) I have a little Siouxsie in me and I’m sure Siouxsie’s got some ONJ in her, though she’d probably never admit it. The Siouxs of the world are fans of the suggestive self photography that makes the internet so popular, whereas the Newton-Johns wear slips or cut off denim shorts under their skirts so nobody sees their bottom. So, GUYS, if you’re reading which would you prefer fishnet tights and pierced appendages or ponytails and summertime dresses? ……shit, I would probably go Sioux too (Rhyme-bo: First Blood). Sometimes its hard to be Olivia Newton-John.
Guess what else I learned from being completely pathetic and trolling the internet like a bored cop at a carnival? They’re still in contact, and not just the formalities, like the “Merry Christmases”, and “We should (but probably won’t) grab coffee”, I’m talking the “Man, you look like a smoking hot piece of something I’d like tap in that pervy self snapped photo…meeeeow, MEEEEEOW”. To be fair, the comment was more in the vein of “Lookin’ Great” but the private eye in me has decided the previously stated subtext is more accurate. My feelings are mixed on this discovery, but all the blended feelings are shitty ones that will eventually be baked at 350 degrees and emerge a steaming hot pile of “better luck next time”. If I wore less clothing and crawled on the floor of an apartment in front of my macbook I bet I’d be “Lookin’ Great” too, but I don’t, mostly because my self esteem does exist and it doesn’t need to be bolstered by 52 year old men from Wisconsin looking for a bedtime muse. I mean really, is it just me? Or does that shit gross anybody else out? Guess what No Lab-Bowie, an old man named Jimbo with a business card and professionally shined shoes offered to buy my fruit salad this morning, I’m pretty fucking cute too. I’m sorry that sounded a bit “irate” (NOTE- don’t use this word in scrabble, it makes you look smart but its only five points) but my feelings are a bit hurt, nobody meant to hurt them obviously, but they are, and since I have a blog, I’m going to let myself be steamed like a Miami drug lord’s linen pant suit......note:I hate resort wear.
Myspace left me with the sense that this girl is a little bit screwed up. Why? Myspace is like any other living space and if hers were a tiny apartment, there would be an open bottle of vicodin on the coffee table and some dirty laundry on the floor. Her page is good looking in all its teenage glory, with its pockets of contradictory poetic statements, her well thought out alias, and her large collection of photographs. She appears to be going through a phase in life we all go through, when we’re young, one that states truth and doesn’t seek it. I went through that phase, frankly, I kind of miss the lack of perspective. I’m sure she’s a nice girl, she probably wouldn’t have spoken a word to me if we were in the same high school math class, but a lot of people didn’t talk to me so I’ll let her off the hook. The bottom line, is that she appears to be in that confidently broken phase in life that begs for attention and tries to make vanity polite. Some men LOVE people in this phase and I fear that “ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” might be one of them, he might even have his own “Fix-a-Chick” repair shop that offers 15 minute affirmations and foot rubs. He’s a great guy, but maybe he doesn’t want someone who’ll give back to him. I am a giver, of presents, advice, of beer, and of my cursed flippin’ heart. If he likes a relationship that leaves him with that awful inside out feeling in the chest, I may not be the girl. Dear Men, I apologize that my parents did a fairly kick ass job of raising me, and that I have a job that I love, I really wish that when I had problems, I was more ashamed to talk about them, but sadly, I’m not that fucked up…yet.
“ The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” seemed as though he was falling in really, really like with me and at the very least, in love with my nose, which he had declared perfect. My sniffer had some career highs pressed into his back, a more than familiar back, maybe even the back of my dreams, but sadly, a piece of ass seems to be worth more than a nose these days . My nose will soon move to Detroit where it will sniffle on the street and sell five dollar nuzzles to married men in towncars. As someone resolved never to fight for love but only in love, I suppose I should bow out, see my nose off on the five o clock Greyhound bus to Motor City, and carry on a noseless existence with a team of feral cats, at least the allergies won’t bother me at all. Leisa and Tommy think I should say something and I might, but even if I do, it won’t change the fact that I don’t own a single pair of fishnet stockings, or that his ex almost wife poses in her freetime, or that he might have a bit of a thing for fixing broken women, and it certainly won’t change the fact that my heart, despite its thousands of failures doesn’t need any new parts .
Manumission
If ever this blog became a book, the little biography of the author under the black and white wallet size photograph would say-
S is a wildly successful human being. A Nobel prize winning dater, S was able to disprove the widely accepted theory that she is a complete and utter disaster through controversial research which challenged the worlds foremost scholars in the field of Romantic Chemistry. Turning down marriage proposals from Prince William, Prince Harry, Prince Charles, Prince, and Sarah Fergusan which spawned a record of one million white gloved duels in the house of Windsor, Briggs opted to devote herself entirely to “The Guy Who Hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms”, though at press time they had only been out on a few occasions. Her contended sighs have been rearranged and recorded by the London Philharmonic which will culminate in a two month run at Carnegie hall. They have been sampled in the current Justin Timberlake hit “Ahhhhhh”. Her favourite foods include crumpets, pickled things, and Orange Hi C and her hobbies include making her soulmate smile at full dimple capacity, and drawing mustaches on bathroom stall advertisements.
I have achieved the unachievable, the summit of Everest has got nothing on this, I have dated properly. Stop holding your applause, stop right now and just let me have it!!!! I wish I was a bacteria right now, that way, I could split myself in half and give myself a high five. The day to date ratio has been incredibly impressive (note- English for “Off the Hizzy”) and I somehow, have managed to not fuck anything up, not a single thing! I’m spilling less food on myself than average, my toe nail polish is staying put for once, and I appear to have rented Woody Allen’s brain. Seriously, I’m making funnies like Aunt Jemima makes pancakes. Conversation is seamless and smooth, as though my mouth were wearing a pair of Spanx or an alternative brand of control top pantyhose. I feel victorious right now which is a bit odd given the particular lack of star spangled glory romantic situations seem to produce but that is the honest feeling I have. even though there are hundreds of much better emotions I could be processing right now.The feeling of life altering success is not just mine though, its shared, its more of an oscar winning ensemble cast feeling where “The Guy Who hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” also gets bombarded by the press along with me and stuck on a People Magazine most important folks list. We are the Ben Hur of dating and have swept every nominatable (←take note Webster, this is a new word) category.
Best Supporting Dancer – There is nothing worse than dancing with somebody who is a much better dancer than you, they don’t lead, they dictate. I’ve been twirled, dipped, and lifted by all sorts of fools, and let me tell you there is nothing that terrifies me more than having an ostentatious stranger wearing a shit eating grin and shiny loafers extend his hand to me. Not a turn on. I am not Ginger Rogers, therefore I should not dance with Fred Astaires. “The Guy Who hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” moves just like me, which is unfortunate and perhaps embarrassing for him but excellent for our dancing purposes. On our first date, which by the way, was unabashedly datelike and was not covered in that ambiguous “Friendly Drink” cloud, we drank beers from the bottle at a near empty bar, discussed our distaste for all choreographed movements, that means YOU tai chi, and then he disappeared. When he returned, he brought with him a slow song and an extended hand, in the place of the shiteating grin was the nervous swagger of somebody trying to look smooth. We danced far enough away from the heavily waxed getting down slab of ground, to protect our fragile dancing integrity from the prying eyes of the college youth. We looked like a pair of baseball players shuffling above the plate, moving the dust with our toes and trying not to strike the fuck out…AGAIN. The music changed but we continued slowly shifting our weight over the invisible plate. It was perfect.
Best Skinimatography- All of Thomas Edisons’ future altering electric gadgets look like as sophisticated as lawn flamingos compared to the “hubba hubba” energy we emit. We have more electricity than an army of electric eels with light bulbs in their mouths, we are the Hoover fucking Dam. There is not a moment when I don’t want to touch him which will soon become annoying and will likely lead to a horrible reality tv type parting of ways….but what a way to go! The first kiss was mid slow dance, somewhere around the sixth song which was sang by somebody who sounded like Kylie Minogue imitating Beyonce. The kiss was outstanding . It made me love Beyonce for a second and think the word Bootylicious was more cute than annoying…I never thought I’d get there with that word. Right now, I couldn’t care if “The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away” lived six million miles away, he might as well be on Neptune right now (Pluto is a bit too far and seems rather lonely). His lips are perfectly crafted. I suspect they are made entirely of collagen, but I don’t care. We are like a Dr.Seuss book, the anti-Green Eggs and Ham, I would like him in a house, I would like him with a mouse, I would like him here or there, I would shag him anywhere. Especially if there was a vodka drink involved.
Best Animated Shorts- I thought pants shareability was the most important thing in a relationship….shareable trousers, trust, and lots of heavy petting… the unfailing trinity of perfection, right? WRONG, sharing shorts is what really brings a relationship to that next level. Like love, gastrointestinal activity is unpredictable and by inviting another person into your bottom wear, you are saying “I care…. no matter what you had for lunch today” If your bond can stand the test of baked bean burrito, you might as well save yourself some South African Diamonds and write “Just Married” on the bum of those jeans, your fate is set in stonewashed levis. Borrowing shorts is much more serious than borrowing pants. Somebody only lends you shorts for the following reasons: sports or sleep- both activities are dangerous and entail sufficient amounts of sweating, sports injury? Boom! Bloodstains! Bad Dream, perhaps about elliptical training? Night sweats! Shorts lending is selfless, its like organ donation or being a doctor without a border. You can imagine how touched I was on date number five when I found myself in a pair of just above the knee sporty shorts made of basketball jersey. He made me feel like a Chicago Bull and a natural woman at the same time. I still have the shorts at my house and I don’t intend on giving them back. EVER. They’re wearable memories and I have officially declared them mine. Some men end up losing their shirts lose over women, but the real good ones….they definitely lose their shorts
Now the challenge is not getting too wrapped up in it, in the emotional gltiz and glamour that is romantic stardom. Once you have a healthy supply of precious gems, hybrid vehicles, and mink stoles its hard to go back to buying underwear in packages of six and drinking generic bottles of table red. If I’m not careful I could end up like Lindsay Lohan, a critically panned, young, pretend lesbian with nothing to do but eat Kobe Beef sliders and defend the authenticity of my boobs. I think “the Guy Who Hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” might also be worried about turning into a Lohan too, or maybe a Feldman or a Haim. One day would could find ourselves washed up in small studio city apartments, hawking hoodia diet pills, and waiting to hear back from the producers of Celebrity Gymnastic Challenge, I guess eventual failure is the price of success, particularly of the romantic variety. In my dreams, I am constantly victorious, I might be the worlds leading producer of awesome dreams, its how I reconcile my complete inability to triumph over the trials and tribulations of my conscious side. I’ve won about three Latin Grammys, a booker prize, a WWF championship belt, and the Tour de France (Eat it, Lance)…..I plan to run for prime minister next week during REM so keep your fingers crossed. I’m supposed to be the dark horse with the weak leg when it comes to love, but somehow, I feel as though I’ve ended up in the winner’s circle at the Preakness with a big wreath of roses around my neck and a ninety four pound man on top of me (Ha! I love jokes). Its shocking based on the sad state of my track record, but I hope he keeps on believing in me and doesn’t get scared off by the laughing out loud, and hand grasping, and kissing on the face, the trappings of romance can easily cause a grown man to shit in his shorts, but I think together, we can do this.
S is a wildly successful human being. A Nobel prize winning dater, S was able to disprove the widely accepted theory that she is a complete and utter disaster through controversial research which challenged the worlds foremost scholars in the field of Romantic Chemistry. Turning down marriage proposals from Prince William, Prince Harry, Prince Charles, Prince, and Sarah Fergusan which spawned a record of one million white gloved duels in the house of Windsor, Briggs opted to devote herself entirely to “The Guy Who Hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms”, though at press time they had only been out on a few occasions. Her contended sighs have been rearranged and recorded by the London Philharmonic which will culminate in a two month run at Carnegie hall. They have been sampled in the current Justin Timberlake hit “Ahhhhhh”. Her favourite foods include crumpets, pickled things, and Orange Hi C and her hobbies include making her soulmate smile at full dimple capacity, and drawing mustaches on bathroom stall advertisements.
I have achieved the unachievable, the summit of Everest has got nothing on this, I have dated properly. Stop holding your applause, stop right now and just let me have it!!!! I wish I was a bacteria right now, that way, I could split myself in half and give myself a high five. The day to date ratio has been incredibly impressive (note- English for “Off the Hizzy”) and I somehow, have managed to not fuck anything up, not a single thing! I’m spilling less food on myself than average, my toe nail polish is staying put for once, and I appear to have rented Woody Allen’s brain. Seriously, I’m making funnies like Aunt Jemima makes pancakes. Conversation is seamless and smooth, as though my mouth were wearing a pair of Spanx or an alternative brand of control top pantyhose. I feel victorious right now which is a bit odd given the particular lack of star spangled glory romantic situations seem to produce but that is the honest feeling I have. even though there are hundreds of much better emotions I could be processing right now.The feeling of life altering success is not just mine though, its shared, its more of an oscar winning ensemble cast feeling where “The Guy Who hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” also gets bombarded by the press along with me and stuck on a People Magazine most important folks list. We are the Ben Hur of dating and have swept every nominatable (←take note Webster, this is a new word) category.
Best Supporting Dancer – There is nothing worse than dancing with somebody who is a much better dancer than you, they don’t lead, they dictate. I’ve been twirled, dipped, and lifted by all sorts of fools, and let me tell you there is nothing that terrifies me more than having an ostentatious stranger wearing a shit eating grin and shiny loafers extend his hand to me. Not a turn on. I am not Ginger Rogers, therefore I should not dance with Fred Astaires. “The Guy Who hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” moves just like me, which is unfortunate and perhaps embarrassing for him but excellent for our dancing purposes. On our first date, which by the way, was unabashedly datelike and was not covered in that ambiguous “Friendly Drink” cloud, we drank beers from the bottle at a near empty bar, discussed our distaste for all choreographed movements, that means YOU tai chi, and then he disappeared. When he returned, he brought with him a slow song and an extended hand, in the place of the shiteating grin was the nervous swagger of somebody trying to look smooth. We danced far enough away from the heavily waxed getting down slab of ground, to protect our fragile dancing integrity from the prying eyes of the college youth. We looked like a pair of baseball players shuffling above the plate, moving the dust with our toes and trying not to strike the fuck out…AGAIN. The music changed but we continued slowly shifting our weight over the invisible plate. It was perfect.
Best Skinimatography- All of Thomas Edisons’ future altering electric gadgets look like as sophisticated as lawn flamingos compared to the “hubba hubba” energy we emit. We have more electricity than an army of electric eels with light bulbs in their mouths, we are the Hoover fucking Dam. There is not a moment when I don’t want to touch him which will soon become annoying and will likely lead to a horrible reality tv type parting of ways….but what a way to go! The first kiss was mid slow dance, somewhere around the sixth song which was sang by somebody who sounded like Kylie Minogue imitating Beyonce. The kiss was outstanding . It made me love Beyonce for a second and think the word Bootylicious was more cute than annoying…I never thought I’d get there with that word. Right now, I couldn’t care if “The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away” lived six million miles away, he might as well be on Neptune right now (Pluto is a bit too far and seems rather lonely). His lips are perfectly crafted. I suspect they are made entirely of collagen, but I don’t care. We are like a Dr.Seuss book, the anti-Green Eggs and Ham, I would like him in a house, I would like him with a mouse, I would like him here or there, I would shag him anywhere. Especially if there was a vodka drink involved.
Best Animated Shorts- I thought pants shareability was the most important thing in a relationship….shareable trousers, trust, and lots of heavy petting… the unfailing trinity of perfection, right? WRONG, sharing shorts is what really brings a relationship to that next level. Like love, gastrointestinal activity is unpredictable and by inviting another person into your bottom wear, you are saying “I care…. no matter what you had for lunch today” If your bond can stand the test of baked bean burrito, you might as well save yourself some South African Diamonds and write “Just Married” on the bum of those jeans, your fate is set in stonewashed levis. Borrowing shorts is much more serious than borrowing pants. Somebody only lends you shorts for the following reasons: sports or sleep- both activities are dangerous and entail sufficient amounts of sweating, sports injury? Boom! Bloodstains! Bad Dream, perhaps about elliptical training? Night sweats! Shorts lending is selfless, its like organ donation or being a doctor without a border. You can imagine how touched I was on date number five when I found myself in a pair of just above the knee sporty shorts made of basketball jersey. He made me feel like a Chicago Bull and a natural woman at the same time. I still have the shorts at my house and I don’t intend on giving them back. EVER. They’re wearable memories and I have officially declared them mine. Some men end up losing their shirts lose over women, but the real good ones….they definitely lose their shorts
Now the challenge is not getting too wrapped up in it, in the emotional gltiz and glamour that is romantic stardom. Once you have a healthy supply of precious gems, hybrid vehicles, and mink stoles its hard to go back to buying underwear in packages of six and drinking generic bottles of table red. If I’m not careful I could end up like Lindsay Lohan, a critically panned, young, pretend lesbian with nothing to do but eat Kobe Beef sliders and defend the authenticity of my boobs. I think “the Guy Who Hates Non Jungle Cats and Mushrooms” might also be worried about turning into a Lohan too, or maybe a Feldman or a Haim. One day would could find ourselves washed up in small studio city apartments, hawking hoodia diet pills, and waiting to hear back from the producers of Celebrity Gymnastic Challenge, I guess eventual failure is the price of success, particularly of the romantic variety. In my dreams, I am constantly victorious, I might be the worlds leading producer of awesome dreams, its how I reconcile my complete inability to triumph over the trials and tribulations of my conscious side. I’ve won about three Latin Grammys, a booker prize, a WWF championship belt, and the Tour de France (Eat it, Lance)…..I plan to run for prime minister next week during REM so keep your fingers crossed. I’m supposed to be the dark horse with the weak leg when it comes to love, but somehow, I feel as though I’ve ended up in the winner’s circle at the Preakness with a big wreath of roses around my neck and a ninety four pound man on top of me (Ha! I love jokes). Its shocking based on the sad state of my track record, but I hope he keeps on believing in me and doesn’t get scared off by the laughing out loud, and hand grasping, and kissing on the face, the trappings of romance can easily cause a grown man to shit in his shorts, but I think together, we can do this.
Monday, August 11, 2008
MUFFIN MAN
FACT: I bought my yellow dress specifically because it looked like the dress of somebody much more important than me and I felt like important things would happen if I wore the dress diligently. It has quickly worked its way into high wardrobe rotation and I am convinced that I might even be "The Girl With the Yellow Dress" to those who forget my name. It is the green hat to my Yogi Bear, the strange superhero balaclava with no mouth-hole to my Spiderman, the magic Carpet to my Aladdin. I even give it preferential treatment come laundry day, it gets the gentle cycle and is only allowed to mingle with other yellow items of which, there are only three. In my Lifetime Movie, which will probably be a murder mystery depending on how many people this blog/book infuriates, the heroine, perhaps the plumper more serious Olsen sister (me), will be wearing a yellow dress in all of the Emmy montage scenes. When the movie grosses record profits, the dress will hang in a Hard Rock Café in somewhere like Tampa or Atlantic City. Is it evident? Is my love of mildly grandmatronly daffodil frocks clear? I hope so because I think the dress is starting to blush and it would not be nearly so outstanding in pink. Anyways, the important moment the dress and I had been waiting for, finally happened, it was a few nights ago on top of a pool table with no shoes on (remove mind from lower reaches of the gutter, even proverbial standing street water can give you scurvy) I met "THE DUDE", how do I know this? I fucking don't, and to be honest, I can't recall the last time I made a good decision, but I will say that my pupils are actually shaped like five pointed stars and even when I see two loaves of bread sitting extra close together in the fresh baked goods section, I want to start crying and feel a disturbing urge to hug blank faced grocery strangers. I had met "THE DUDE" a few times before but had only ever engaged in idle chit chat and we had never really looked eachother directly in the face before. Now, all I want to do is look him directly in the face. I wish he could take the place of Aunt Jemima, Mr. Clean, and Chef Boyardee on the of all my cupboarded household things, I'm sure it would enhance both my ravioli eating and counter cleansing experiences. The feeling I have right now, is the feeling I have been trying to avoid and while obviously, manopause has been thus far, a royal mother fucking failure, THIS is the feeling that is the most dangerous, it is inexplicable comfort and recklessness that leaves those morbidly obese Jerry Springer guests who are spellbound by Fritos unable to leave their homes without a crane, it is a veritable surrender. "The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms"( remember this moniker I hope o use it mre than once) may not be "The Guy Who Falls Madly In Love With the Girl in The Yellow Dress", but that's not the point, the point is that he has forever changed my standards in "Hubba Hubba-ness". I am at the moment, perhaps for the first time in my life, symptomatically female, my hibernating girl genes (which by the way, he wears---Girl genes, Girl jeans...HA! double entendre!--- potential for pants shareability is high) are bouncing around like 16 year old ravers circa 1992
Observe the effects he has had on me-
SIGNS OF Active XX Chromosome
1)He made me want to bake. He made me want to bake him exactly six rotund blueberry muffins. I cannot recall the last time I ate a muffin and I don't even know what his stance is on muffins or blueberries, but for some strange, perhaps chemically imbalanced reason, I wanted to bake fucking muffins and put them in one of those wicker baskets the blond bird in the "Sound of Music" is always carrying through meadows. I also wanted to pour him a tall cup of orange juice, watch him do a crossword puzzle or a bloody sudoku, or some other brain teaser, and just take in the muffin smells. If he likes to watch Matt Lauer in the morning, I would also like to watch Matt Lauer with him. I have never had such a strong desire to make a relative stranger breakfast before. Imagine, me in my Magic Carpet of a dress and some flame retardant mittens watching berry infused gunk rise in the oven, I'm not even comfortable with flippin' Toaster Strudels (Pop Tarts don't even need to be toasted, therefore they trump the Doughboy and his pastry almost every time. Soon the Doughboy will be bankrupt). True or False: am crazy to think I've met somebody worth hand washing pots and pans for. True, but I can't help it, I didn't ask for these strange culinary desires, there was a time when I thought I'd be more than happy to eat Hot Pockets for the rest of my life, that time is over and a part of me laments its loss because hot pockets are awesome, especially the breakfast ones. I was fairly sure that I was female before, I have all the hardware, but now, I am certain. I am woman, upstairs and downstairs, hear me roar and try my muffins.
2) I have Parisites. Never in my life have I had that intrinsic female longing for Paris. Personally, I think the Eiffel Tower looks like the kind of wrought iron lawn junk my ex-neighbour, Italian Angelo, would display proudly among his gnomes, pinwheels, Fauxman bird baths, and statuettes of saints who were canonized for not getting laid. It looks like something to putt through on miniature golf course, its officially GARISH. Paris is of course, supposed to be the most romantic city in the world but for some reason, accordion driven Les Miserables covers and over priced slabs of raw meat don't really turn me on. I went to Paris once when I was sixteen, got sick, and spent my days in a four person hostel room spying on the deranged ping pong players in the mental institution across the street. The only romance I got was reading "Message in A Bottle" three fucking times, it was the only book I could find in English without a shirtless man riding a prancing stallion on the cover. It was a miserable week I didn't even get to ride an omnibus or touristy amphibious vehicle. Paris turned its back on me, so I turned my back on Paris. C'est vraiment desolee. I was shocked when woke up the day after our encounter, which by the way included a sweet text message from "The Resourceful Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms" who had gotten my number from our mutual friend, and I was immediately desperate to skip on Eurotrash littered cobblestones, do that gondola thing in the Seine (I know that's in Venice but this is my dream, sorry Italy), and maybe do it in a hotel room, one not in view of the clinically insane. I even got internet drunk and checked prices the next day on cheaptickets.com. Contrary to the enticing advertisements, the tickets are not cheap. I should go to Delaware with this fella its probably much cheaper, and surely he could make Delaware into Paris for me, he is that beautiful. Little boys want to be astronauts and go to space, little girls want to stay little girls but taller and go to Paris….I've never really been behind either idea, you can get killed in space and accosted by mimes in Paris, but now I want to go to Paris quite desperately AND stare at space….what the fuck is wrong with me?
3) I like chocolate. Not only do I like chocolate all of the sudden, but I have discovered the glue that binds the late night clandestine female to chocolate relationship. The lady to cocoa marriage generally consists of making sure nobody is in the kitchen before stuffing half a Snickers bar in the side of your cheek, trying to swallow the evidence as soon as possible, and feeling mildly disgusted with yourself afterwards. The glorious epoxy is sexual frustration. At first I thought it was general self loathing that drove women to order flourless torte then complain about how much it is going to fuck up the diet, but its not, its just plain friskiness. Truthfully, I've never liked chocolate before now, were I in the Alps and had a choice between Swiss Cheese and Swiss Chocolate, I'd be making holes in that semi soft, sodium rich slab of fermented milk before you can say Emmentaler. Now, things have changed and it will probably make me fat and angry. After "The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms" had smiled at me enough times to convince my hormones that I was voraciously attracted to him, I felt an extreme need to self medicate, old school, the way Dr. Wonka intended. When we all left the pool hall and I let myself be mildly embarrassed by the fact that I had a somewhat Parisian merolt-stache and absolutely no bills at skilliards (I AM the most annoying person on the planet) I went home and consumed an entire bag of peanut butter cups while staring at the wall. An entire bag of Reece's cups is approximately equal to three chins. Catastrophe. Why. WHY?! WHY?! WHY Would I put the size of my ass on the line for foil wrapped Halloween treats?! Fear, confusion, slight humiliation, incredible excitement, and yes, randy-ness. It was a natural instinct and naturally, nature blows, if I were an ostrich this would be much simpler, (Note-I only compare myself to the ostrich because we have remarkably similar builds) I would just trot up to the cute Manstrich and ruffle my feathers a bit and get down, but I am not an ostrich, instead I am a chick, a non ostrich chick who probably looks a bit like a jacked up rhino after turning to calories for answers. Now, I am addicted to peanut butter cups and afraid I'll end up heartbroken on the lumpy brown couch drinking Chianti at noon yet AGAIN.
This stranger has turned me into a sentimental, slobbering pile of ballerina. I may as well just secure a lifetime rental of Dirty Dancing (there are no late fees anymore, thank you blockbuster) handcuff myself to the fattest summer issue of Cosmopolitan, and get a Yorkshire terrier named "Doily". I am certain that my influence did not turn "The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms" into an extra macho version of himself, he is probably neither in the woods chopping down trees, nor drinking a Budweiser and watching sports highlights, yet I, am fluffy. I am Fluffy the white cat of shrieking femininity. This is unfortunate. I am unfortunate, but I am also feel so flippin' lucky to have had the wind, sense, and diet control knocked out of me by somebody I can just tell, is extraordinary. I have been surprised, impressed, and allured by fellas, but never rendered completely and utterly female…… and hopeless. Now, I'm battling some sort of hormonal hangover, my heart is completely lusted out, it has pumped the keg dry and is sprawled on some figurative toilet seat wearing a "Kappa Kappa Shithead" sorority sweater, telling itself not too get so carried away ever again. The left and right side of my brain are shaking their index fingers and telling my ticker they're very disappointed but hearts will be hearts, and sure enough it'll be stumbling around wasted in the dark this time tomorrow.
Observe the effects he has had on me-
SIGNS OF Active XX Chromosome
1)He made me want to bake. He made me want to bake him exactly six rotund blueberry muffins. I cannot recall the last time I ate a muffin and I don't even know what his stance is on muffins or blueberries, but for some strange, perhaps chemically imbalanced reason, I wanted to bake fucking muffins and put them in one of those wicker baskets the blond bird in the "Sound of Music" is always carrying through meadows. I also wanted to pour him a tall cup of orange juice, watch him do a crossword puzzle or a bloody sudoku, or some other brain teaser, and just take in the muffin smells. If he likes to watch Matt Lauer in the morning, I would also like to watch Matt Lauer with him. I have never had such a strong desire to make a relative stranger breakfast before. Imagine, me in my Magic Carpet of a dress and some flame retardant mittens watching berry infused gunk rise in the oven, I'm not even comfortable with flippin' Toaster Strudels (Pop Tarts don't even need to be toasted, therefore they trump the Doughboy and his pastry almost every time. Soon the Doughboy will be bankrupt). True or False: am crazy to think I've met somebody worth hand washing pots and pans for. True, but I can't help it, I didn't ask for these strange culinary desires, there was a time when I thought I'd be more than happy to eat Hot Pockets for the rest of my life, that time is over and a part of me laments its loss because hot pockets are awesome, especially the breakfast ones. I was fairly sure that I was female before, I have all the hardware, but now, I am certain. I am woman, upstairs and downstairs, hear me roar and try my muffins.
2) I have Parisites. Never in my life have I had that intrinsic female longing for Paris. Personally, I think the Eiffel Tower looks like the kind of wrought iron lawn junk my ex-neighbour, Italian Angelo, would display proudly among his gnomes, pinwheels, Fauxman bird baths, and statuettes of saints who were canonized for not getting laid. It looks like something to putt through on miniature golf course, its officially GARISH. Paris is of course, supposed to be the most romantic city in the world but for some reason, accordion driven Les Miserables covers and over priced slabs of raw meat don't really turn me on. I went to Paris once when I was sixteen, got sick, and spent my days in a four person hostel room spying on the deranged ping pong players in the mental institution across the street. The only romance I got was reading "Message in A Bottle" three fucking times, it was the only book I could find in English without a shirtless man riding a prancing stallion on the cover. It was a miserable week I didn't even get to ride an omnibus or touristy amphibious vehicle. Paris turned its back on me, so I turned my back on Paris. C'est vraiment desolee. I was shocked when woke up the day after our encounter, which by the way included a sweet text message from "The Resourceful Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms" who had gotten my number from our mutual friend, and I was immediately desperate to skip on Eurotrash littered cobblestones, do that gondola thing in the Seine (I know that's in Venice but this is my dream, sorry Italy), and maybe do it in a hotel room, one not in view of the clinically insane. I even got internet drunk and checked prices the next day on cheaptickets.com. Contrary to the enticing advertisements, the tickets are not cheap. I should go to Delaware with this fella its probably much cheaper, and surely he could make Delaware into Paris for me, he is that beautiful. Little boys want to be astronauts and go to space, little girls want to stay little girls but taller and go to Paris….I've never really been behind either idea, you can get killed in space and accosted by mimes in Paris, but now I want to go to Paris quite desperately AND stare at space….what the fuck is wrong with me?
3) I like chocolate. Not only do I like chocolate all of the sudden, but I have discovered the glue that binds the late night clandestine female to chocolate relationship. The lady to cocoa marriage generally consists of making sure nobody is in the kitchen before stuffing half a Snickers bar in the side of your cheek, trying to swallow the evidence as soon as possible, and feeling mildly disgusted with yourself afterwards. The glorious epoxy is sexual frustration. At first I thought it was general self loathing that drove women to order flourless torte then complain about how much it is going to fuck up the diet, but its not, its just plain friskiness. Truthfully, I've never liked chocolate before now, were I in the Alps and had a choice between Swiss Cheese and Swiss Chocolate, I'd be making holes in that semi soft, sodium rich slab of fermented milk before you can say Emmentaler. Now, things have changed and it will probably make me fat and angry. After "The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms" had smiled at me enough times to convince my hormones that I was voraciously attracted to him, I felt an extreme need to self medicate, old school, the way Dr. Wonka intended. When we all left the pool hall and I let myself be mildly embarrassed by the fact that I had a somewhat Parisian merolt-stache and absolutely no bills at skilliards (I AM the most annoying person on the planet) I went home and consumed an entire bag of peanut butter cups while staring at the wall. An entire bag of Reece's cups is approximately equal to three chins. Catastrophe. Why. WHY?! WHY?! WHY Would I put the size of my ass on the line for foil wrapped Halloween treats?! Fear, confusion, slight humiliation, incredible excitement, and yes, randy-ness. It was a natural instinct and naturally, nature blows, if I were an ostrich this would be much simpler, (Note-I only compare myself to the ostrich because we have remarkably similar builds) I would just trot up to the cute Manstrich and ruffle my feathers a bit and get down, but I am not an ostrich, instead I am a chick, a non ostrich chick who probably looks a bit like a jacked up rhino after turning to calories for answers. Now, I am addicted to peanut butter cups and afraid I'll end up heartbroken on the lumpy brown couch drinking Chianti at noon yet AGAIN.
This stranger has turned me into a sentimental, slobbering pile of ballerina. I may as well just secure a lifetime rental of Dirty Dancing (there are no late fees anymore, thank you blockbuster) handcuff myself to the fattest summer issue of Cosmopolitan, and get a Yorkshire terrier named "Doily". I am certain that my influence did not turn "The Guy Who hates Non-Jungle Cats and Mushrooms" into an extra macho version of himself, he is probably neither in the woods chopping down trees, nor drinking a Budweiser and watching sports highlights, yet I, am fluffy. I am Fluffy the white cat of shrieking femininity. This is unfortunate. I am unfortunate, but I am also feel so flippin' lucky to have had the wind, sense, and diet control knocked out of me by somebody I can just tell, is extraordinary. I have been surprised, impressed, and allured by fellas, but never rendered completely and utterly female…… and hopeless. Now, I'm battling some sort of hormonal hangover, my heart is completely lusted out, it has pumped the keg dry and is sprawled on some figurative toilet seat wearing a "Kappa Kappa Shithead" sorority sweater, telling itself not too get so carried away ever again. The left and right side of my brain are shaking their index fingers and telling my ticker they're very disappointed but hearts will be hearts, and sure enough it'll be stumbling around wasted in the dark this time tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Menial
The state of South Dakota is basically a large principal’s office. Every room is painted some color of brown, Benjamin Moore would say the palette ranges from “Pot Roast” to “Meatloaf” completely ignoring the shades of brown that aren’t served Monday through Friday at office cafeterias. I enjoy the lower Dakota, but like lonely bricks of meatloaf under heat lamps, it makes me sad. My friend Julie got married this past weekend beneath a popcorn ceiling, in a carpeted church with 200 people wearing various unfortunate patterns of geometric shapes floating on top of each other and fighting for polyester space. Everybody dressed like Blossom. Less than one year ago, Julie lived in the south, most of the time on my rented couch in my rented apartment. She was cutthroat, she had a Blackberry full of important names, and a schedule filled with efficient lunches. She also happens to be one of the very sharpest knives in the drawer, and looks like a better dressed version of Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman. THis combination of IQ, T and A made certain coveted lunches very much, within her reach. She has mutated from the deadly corporate cleaver in the proverbial business drawer to June Cleaver, which is much better for her. I was really happy to be there, I danced to a Billy Joel song, the shower in my room at the Marriot Courtyard was large enough for about six handicapped people to have a Greek orgy in, and I thought my chest was going to explode when I hugged my long lost buddy. For some reason however, I also felt like throwing up a little bit the entire time. Julie, who less than a year ago, was falling asleep atop a pile of half crushed Miller Lite cans in my living room, had managed to find the love of her life while balancing her fancy job, a cross country move, and looking like a man’s illustration of a perfect leotard wearing woman, I on the other hand, have a blog, I have so much time that I spend hours writing about how much time I have, but I am still alone. I am sleeping with only my computer and my guitar ( Note- I tell people I’m sleeping with a guy called “Mac Gibson”….they think that’s a stupid joke too, so don’t feel bad) There is a reason for my failure and its no gypsy curse, I have concluded that my “vibes” suck. I am in possession of terrible vibes that escape from their viberglass insulated enclosure and ransack the world around me. Stupid vibes. Imagine if you were a lamb and all you wanted to do was hang out with some other likeminded lambs, maybe even get fluffed by a suitable ram. Imagine pulling this off if you bore a “striking” (this is a pun. no accident.) resemblance to a King cobra. So instead of attracting lambs and rams (and hams, strawberry jams, and trans ams..) I attract cobras and weirdos who stick me in hand woven baskets and expect me to dance to their terrible flute music like a snake. Why won't somebody take me to a meadow? Men tend to think I’m an entirely different person than I am, they tend to think I’m a flaming imbecile with the IQ of toilet brush. This became painfully evident to me at the carpeted celebration of my friend’s blessed union.
I got to South Dakota just in time for the rehearsal, I literally changed into my yellow dress, marveled over the fact that I had two queen sized beds and only one body, and was shuttled over to the church. Inside, I met “The Guy Who Plays Touchscreen Poker”, a not very distant relative of Jules. He was very nice, his shirt had lots of buttons and his blue jeans were from Italy. It was he, who was in charge of delivering me to the post practice roast beef and green bean extravaganza. He was quiet, almost to the point where I thought he was angry at me or an anti-Canadianist, until we got inside his incredibly clean BMW. Once he was comforted by the safety of his incredibly confident automobile, he wouldn’t shut up…about his self assured Beemer. If BMW was hiring any sales fraulein, I would be recruited tomorrow. I know things about run flat tires, GPS navigation systems, and suspension that I never, ever wanted to know. I know BMWs have an inline 6 cylinder engine, rear wheel drive, and 6 speed Steptronic with paddle shifters, how sad is that? I ride a bicycle with no shoes on most of the time, things like Bluetooth Wireless Communication don’t exactly turn my fucking crank. I should emphasize again, that he was very nice. If he sends me an email, I will send him an email back because I genuinely hope he will be doing lovely, even thought the things that make him feel lovely make me feel nothing. We hung out for the rest of night, linked only by our love of Jules and beer, and I got to hear all about how selling mini mansions makes you very rich and how girls who visit tanning bed like to steal money and pierce their belly buttons. I was sad by the recitation of facts and figures that he thought made up his person, I was even sad that he ran two miles a day, but I was most upset by the reality that I looked like the kind of person who gave rats ass about all that careless, kennel club-ish, information. Specs mean nothing to me, but my unfortunate runaway vibe suggested I was a real she-dick. He’d recently had a broken engagement so he was sad too, and after two hours of Touchscreen poker and Video Keno, he drunkenly confessed that he was smitten. He was not really, obviously. I suppose he thought I was a good investment of energy like buying plots of land, running two miles a day, or driving a German sedan the colour of a gun. I would be a shitty addition to his collection of stuff and that’s what I told him in a much nicer language. There was a good heart in there, even if he did have a tribal armband tattoo and knew where the oblique muscles were. I don’t think he understood why I wasn’t interested and I hope he doesn’t start running an extra mile because of it.
I wore an outfit to Julie’s wedding that had been rumpled by airplane travel, probably because I thought it practical to stuff all of my clothing into my laptop bag with my computer. It was a dumb idea. I would have been laughed at if I was not in a town where people were allowed to go in the shopping mall with neither shirts nor shoes because to be quite frank, I look like I’d been late night assaulted in a parking lot. Due to the fact that I looked like a victim on CSI I was surprised when ANOTHER renegade vibe escaped and returned with another unsuitable suitor. The wedding reception would have been a great place to meet somebody funny or a taxidermist because it was at the zoo and we were literally in a room surrounded by stuffed endangered species. There was a large stuffed walrus with scary plastic eyes staring at me while I ate my wild rice and very frosted cake. Sadly, I did not get to meet a witty taxidermist who would lighten the mood, instead, I met a man I have met at least sixty times in my life, a Jewish New Yorker. I love Jewish New Yorkers, they have ridiculous accents, every sentence spoken sounds like a retort in a heated argument, and they always know a bunch about Frank Sinatra and baseball teams. “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen” walked up to me and did not say hello, he said;
GreenKitchen- I like what you’re wearing
GK-Its vintage isn’t it?
Me-Actually, I bough--
GK-Boom! I knew it was vintage. From the forties?
Me- Well--
GK- I knew it was from the forties. I bet you live in a period home, a period home with modern lines.
Me- I don’t really know, its--
GK- You like antiquing (←statement , not a question) I love antiquing.
GK-What colour is your kitchen? Its green. Boom! Its avcado green
Me- I wouldn’t call it gree--
GK- See? You got kitchen a green. I’m good.
Apparently, I have a green kitchen somewhere.
I don’t, but I let him believe I did because I was getting a bit anxious. “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen” didn’t get to know people, he just KNEW people. He thought I was “real cute” and that I should move to Williamsburg, “maybe the east side” because "I look like like an eastside girl". I was trying to learn the differences between dead gazelles, gnus, and impalas as he was talking at my face, I needed something to do while he was thinking for the both of us. Eventually “The Guy who Plays Touchscreen Poker” rescued me, as even he could see that I had that “Gnu in headlights” look about me. . “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen” was probably a great dude, he probably yelled at the Yankees, and knew where to get a killer Rueben at 3am in Brooklyn, but he didn’t know shit about me OR the colour of my kitchen (Its somewhere between buttercup and creamed corn in case you were wondering) and the end of the day, he didn't care.
After the wedding reception was ended in favour of Jules wedding conception, the whole lot of us ended up a Harley Festival listening to a band that sounded like REO Speedwagon, me, The Guy who Plays Touchscreen Poker”, “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen”, a cousin from the quad city area, a cousin who was a recovering meth addict, and the former meth addicts’ 18 year old son ( a King Cobra in training) I didn’t sleep well when I got back to my two sizes too big room probably because all the newly constructed identities that had been made for me over the weekend were hogging the bedspace. I felt like I needed two Advil and a lobotomy to fix my shitty vibes. I at least needed a really distinctive haircut that had the words “I DON’T HAVE A GREEN KITCHEN OR DRIVE A CAR WITH LEATHER SEATS” shaved into the back. Unfortunately my head is not big enough to accommodate such a statement. I don’t think it was the state of South Dakota that made me sad, I think it was just my state of being in the state of South Dakota and THAT state was a state of distress (I just wanted to see how many states I could throw in there. Impressive) I makes sense that a great dude has not found me yet, its because my outside is making my inside look bad. I hope I will stop releasing idiot pheromones into the wilderness soon so I will not ever have to make polite conversation about Horsepower and paint chips ever again.
I got to South Dakota just in time for the rehearsal, I literally changed into my yellow dress, marveled over the fact that I had two queen sized beds and only one body, and was shuttled over to the church. Inside, I met “The Guy Who Plays Touchscreen Poker”, a not very distant relative of Jules. He was very nice, his shirt had lots of buttons and his blue jeans were from Italy. It was he, who was in charge of delivering me to the post practice roast beef and green bean extravaganza. He was quiet, almost to the point where I thought he was angry at me or an anti-Canadianist, until we got inside his incredibly clean BMW. Once he was comforted by the safety of his incredibly confident automobile, he wouldn’t shut up…about his self assured Beemer. If BMW was hiring any sales fraulein, I would be recruited tomorrow. I know things about run flat tires, GPS navigation systems, and suspension that I never, ever wanted to know. I know BMWs have an inline 6 cylinder engine, rear wheel drive, and 6 speed Steptronic with paddle shifters, how sad is that? I ride a bicycle with no shoes on most of the time, things like Bluetooth Wireless Communication don’t exactly turn my fucking crank. I should emphasize again, that he was very nice. If he sends me an email, I will send him an email back because I genuinely hope he will be doing lovely, even thought the things that make him feel lovely make me feel nothing. We hung out for the rest of night, linked only by our love of Jules and beer, and I got to hear all about how selling mini mansions makes you very rich and how girls who visit tanning bed like to steal money and pierce their belly buttons. I was sad by the recitation of facts and figures that he thought made up his person, I was even sad that he ran two miles a day, but I was most upset by the reality that I looked like the kind of person who gave rats ass about all that careless, kennel club-ish, information. Specs mean nothing to me, but my unfortunate runaway vibe suggested I was a real she-dick. He’d recently had a broken engagement so he was sad too, and after two hours of Touchscreen poker and Video Keno, he drunkenly confessed that he was smitten. He was not really, obviously. I suppose he thought I was a good investment of energy like buying plots of land, running two miles a day, or driving a German sedan the colour of a gun. I would be a shitty addition to his collection of stuff and that’s what I told him in a much nicer language. There was a good heart in there, even if he did have a tribal armband tattoo and knew where the oblique muscles were. I don’t think he understood why I wasn’t interested and I hope he doesn’t start running an extra mile because of it.
I wore an outfit to Julie’s wedding that had been rumpled by airplane travel, probably because I thought it practical to stuff all of my clothing into my laptop bag with my computer. It was a dumb idea. I would have been laughed at if I was not in a town where people were allowed to go in the shopping mall with neither shirts nor shoes because to be quite frank, I look like I’d been late night assaulted in a parking lot. Due to the fact that I looked like a victim on CSI I was surprised when ANOTHER renegade vibe escaped and returned with another unsuitable suitor. The wedding reception would have been a great place to meet somebody funny or a taxidermist because it was at the zoo and we were literally in a room surrounded by stuffed endangered species. There was a large stuffed walrus with scary plastic eyes staring at me while I ate my wild rice and very frosted cake. Sadly, I did not get to meet a witty taxidermist who would lighten the mood, instead, I met a man I have met at least sixty times in my life, a Jewish New Yorker. I love Jewish New Yorkers, they have ridiculous accents, every sentence spoken sounds like a retort in a heated argument, and they always know a bunch about Frank Sinatra and baseball teams. “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen” walked up to me and did not say hello, he said;
GreenKitchen- I like what you’re wearing
GK-Its vintage isn’t it?
Me-Actually, I bough--
GK-Boom! I knew it was vintage. From the forties?
Me- Well--
GK- I knew it was from the forties. I bet you live in a period home, a period home with modern lines.
Me- I don’t really know, its--
GK- You like antiquing (←statement , not a question) I love antiquing.
GK-What colour is your kitchen? Its green. Boom! Its avcado green
Me- I wouldn’t call it gree--
GK- See? You got kitchen a green. I’m good.
Apparently, I have a green kitchen somewhere.
I don’t, but I let him believe I did because I was getting a bit anxious. “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen” didn’t get to know people, he just KNEW people. He thought I was “real cute” and that I should move to Williamsburg, “maybe the east side” because "I look like like an eastside girl". I was trying to learn the differences between dead gazelles, gnus, and impalas as he was talking at my face, I needed something to do while he was thinking for the both of us. Eventually “The Guy who Plays Touchscreen Poker” rescued me, as even he could see that I had that “Gnu in headlights” look about me. . “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen” was probably a great dude, he probably yelled at the Yankees, and knew where to get a killer Rueben at 3am in Brooklyn, but he didn’t know shit about me OR the colour of my kitchen (Its somewhere between buttercup and creamed corn in case you were wondering) and the end of the day, he didn't care.
After the wedding reception was ended in favour of Jules wedding conception, the whole lot of us ended up a Harley Festival listening to a band that sounded like REO Speedwagon, me, The Guy who Plays Touchscreen Poker”, “The Guy Who Thinks I Have a Green Kitchen”, a cousin from the quad city area, a cousin who was a recovering meth addict, and the former meth addicts’ 18 year old son ( a King Cobra in training) I didn’t sleep well when I got back to my two sizes too big room probably because all the newly constructed identities that had been made for me over the weekend were hogging the bedspace. I felt like I needed two Advil and a lobotomy to fix my shitty vibes. I at least needed a really distinctive haircut that had the words “I DON’T HAVE A GREEN KITCHEN OR DRIVE A CAR WITH LEATHER SEATS” shaved into the back. Unfortunately my head is not big enough to accommodate such a statement. I don’t think it was the state of South Dakota that made me sad, I think it was just my state of being in the state of South Dakota and THAT state was a state of distress (I just wanted to see how many states I could throw in there. Impressive) I makes sense that a great dude has not found me yet, its because my outside is making my inside look bad. I hope I will stop releasing idiot pheromones into the wilderness soon so I will not ever have to make polite conversation about Horsepower and paint chips ever again.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Menace
I am about 67% certain that “The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away” drunk dialed me two nights ago. This is excellent news, the kind of excellent news that Neville Chamberlain would have proclaimed to the world before it was appropriate but only because he was so bloody well excited he could hardly keep his knickers on (← Sentence of an Anglophile) It is possible that he had been shot in the jugular by some sort of Zulu air rifle that contained some sort of Witch Doctorish sedative, or I suppose he could have accidentally recycled his telephone again and was stuck using a CB radio that made him sound like he was underwater and 1913 Miles Away, but given the fact that he had most certainly been drinking and to the best of my knowledge, has not made any Congolese enemies, I would bet the wool socks on my feet that he called me drunk. You would think he would be embarrassed and I would feel like I had some sort of an upper hand, but that’s horseshit, my hand still blows and I still think everything about his hand, game of choice, and poker face is wonderful and much better than mine. He could call me from Bordeaux, Fr., drinking a martini, in the midst of a moonshine bubble bath, and listening to the Champs’ 1958 classic “Tequila” if he wanted to, in fact I’d probably book an online flight, risking identity theft and possibly death, fly KLM to France making a horrible stopover in Amersterdam, rent a compact euromobile, and drive through Gascon on the wrong side of the road to deliver to him some Tylenol and the greasiest breakfast sandwich the world has known …NOT made with prophetic Ezekiel toast. I’m fairly certain that he would not be interested in driving in a car the size of a Labrador Retrievers’ house to come and see me in a stupor…. this, is unfortunate, but we’re just friends and friends don’t fly to Europe with fried eggs on toast for eachother, that’s dragon slaying caliber bravado. So, I just let him talk his 67% drunk talk and listened attentively to his beer recommendations and tales of eating forbidden poultry in the Lone Star state, and the lingering guilt of a vegetarian gone wild (he’d just returned from Texas). Its always difficult to tell if somebody is completely trashed in the age of mobile phones, they fade in and out and always seem to pick up phantom party noises even when somebody is in the Bank of America or the bathroom, so I try and not jump to that foolish place where girls feel special for getting a call from Captain Morgan’s first mate (←stupid girl thing, inflation of self esteem caused by something mildly demeaning..AWESOME) In this case, I don’t think I’m jumping any guns. Judging ones level of sobriety is simple based on the three “S” system of diagnosis, in this case, all three indicators were present
Salutation- Before I put my husky voice on and said “Hello” like an amateur sexy hotline operator, “ The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away sent a text message that said “WTF?” If you are 15, have braces, and your name is Kelly, this acronym means “What The Fuck?” If you’re name is not Kelly and you’re a yoga practicing democrat who just drinks like a 15 year old girl, it means “ I’m partying my face off”. I am not surprised that he has absorbed WTFs given his love of FYIs and PSes, but it did prove that he was saucy, especially since he also felt the need to translate the prepubescent term for me when he called, loudly exclaiming “What THE FUCK?!?!” to my left ear. His tone had a festive “ Its my birthday” jingle to it, which I found adorable because I am thoroughly pathetic. It made me shake my head out loud in front of one of my new favorite people, a mutual friend of ours, “The Guy Who Makes My Day” (I’m not sure why he does…but he always seems to) He reminds me of a much cooler version of myself, except taller and less accident prone. We were eating dinner when the drunk dial occurred and it was a bit awkward to process when our mouths were full of paella. The fact that he is a mutual friend means we are all in a platonic “Like Triangle” full of clandestine pints of beer and inside joke manufacturing. I think “They Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away” might have been a little jealous that we were hanging out. I think that’s why he used the offensive Tiger Beat-esque acronym and why he drove home with a buzz instead of staying at one of our places. I think his goat was got. I’m not sure whether he was pining for me, “The Guy Who Makes My Day”, or both of us separately but I’m going to assume it was me because my hair smells nice and I have boobs, whats not to like? I don’t know if any of my self serving theories are true, but logic is incredibly flexible when you want it to be. He has never used “WTF?” before therefore he must have been drunk….and secretly in love with me (begrudgingly kidding)
Sesame Streetage-
When a person gets right shitfaced the only skills they bother to remember are the ones they need to pass a field sobriety test. They are the same skills we learn at a young age from the tiny, inner city cul de sac known as Sesame Street. The SS folk (←I’m horrid) teach children under 8 to recite the alphabet, hop on one foot, memorize their home address and challenge developing physical coordination in both the “head, shoulders, knees and toes” and “stomach rubbing and head patting “ areas. Remaining focused on your bilingual abcs while a gigantic wholly mammoth beast called a Snuffalufagus is plodding across the television is not easy, were I not conditioned to the colorful Sesame street urchins which simulate the distractions of the real world from a very young age, I may never have learned my alphabet and spent my adult years racking up DUIs with Kiefer Sutherland and the dude from Lost Boys. The last time I got pulled over I sang “the Hokey Pokey” in perfect pitch, the police actually gave me EXTRA merit points on my record, so if I ever crash into a pole, the pole will get charged for recklessness and its license suspended, not me. Anyways, I knew my gas guzzling, rural dwelling friend had been drinking when he decided to show off his counting skills listing off the name and quantity of each beer he had consumed. It was clear that he had studied under Sesame Street’s violet vampire sage with an almost religious devotion. I’m sure that if he ever had the job of deciding whose face was stamped on postage stamps, the Count would start showing up on all sorts of envelopes. He’d probably shove my mug on a couple of stamps too, since I am after all, important enough to drunk dial. He’d probably get a kick out of seeing my face on small packages everywhere at the cost of 5 measly cents. He also demonstrated geographical savvy and was able to name the origin of each beer he drained, they were however, all Belgian so I guess it wasn’t horribly difficult. I suspect at the time of the call, his excited were still excited but encased behind a foggy aquarium wall of tipsynes, a look I have seen and enjoyed several times before. I’m not sure he would have made the podium in the Roadside Sobriety Games and I’m certain that if asked by an officer of the law, he could explain the directions to Sesame street, I was concerned, by his state, naturally. I should have offered my couch (HA!) but I didn’t, as soon as a man goes from Hoegaarden to kindergarten, he can only do two things: vomit and fuck, neither of which were on my agenda.
Sleepiness- I received the phone call at nine thirty. He was on his way home. Questionable.
The second shittiest thing about a mildly inebriated phone call is that it makes you feel special, not because you SHOULD feel special but because you want to and you’re so desperate you’ve seriously considered doing the Dominos guy because he was nice enough to bring your cheesy bread in 30 minutes or less like he promised. This is not winning a Pulitzer Prize but somehow being the drunk dialee makes you proud for a second, and that’s just sad. The first shittiest thing about the “DD” (← tribute acronym), is the moment where you realize you aren’t fucking special. You aren’t being reached out to, you’re just reachable, five hour and twelve minute Dutch layover reachable. Girls are always telling themselves exactly what they want to hear without hesitation regardless of whether its true or not. The only thing worse than being manipulated by a dude is being manipulated by yourself. I’m convinced that silent films died because the very idea of women being able to put whatever thoughts they liked into the head of an unfortunately moustached man in a bowler was sp terrifying to society that they had to call Mickey Mouse in to “take care of” the genre. I am one of these girls, sitting with my dumb computer inventing reasons for things not worthy of explanation, I should be doing laundry or drinking heavily and calling him back. Dunk dials are just the pits because they invite us to turn a possible misdial into the most romantic charlotte bronte-ish gesture ever if we so choose. I’m glad I haven’t yet shagged the Dominos guy, but I’m not convinced I’m done mentally shagging “The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away”, even though he doesn’t bring me cheesy bread in 30 minutes or less. I’m not convinced he’s done mentally shagging me either.
Salutation- Before I put my husky voice on and said “Hello” like an amateur sexy hotline operator, “ The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away sent a text message that said “WTF?” If you are 15, have braces, and your name is Kelly, this acronym means “What The Fuck?” If you’re name is not Kelly and you’re a yoga practicing democrat who just drinks like a 15 year old girl, it means “ I’m partying my face off”. I am not surprised that he has absorbed WTFs given his love of FYIs and PSes, but it did prove that he was saucy, especially since he also felt the need to translate the prepubescent term for me when he called, loudly exclaiming “What THE FUCK?!?!” to my left ear. His tone had a festive “ Its my birthday” jingle to it, which I found adorable because I am thoroughly pathetic. It made me shake my head out loud in front of one of my new favorite people, a mutual friend of ours, “The Guy Who Makes My Day” (I’m not sure why he does…but he always seems to) He reminds me of a much cooler version of myself, except taller and less accident prone. We were eating dinner when the drunk dial occurred and it was a bit awkward to process when our mouths were full of paella. The fact that he is a mutual friend means we are all in a platonic “Like Triangle” full of clandestine pints of beer and inside joke manufacturing. I think “They Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away” might have been a little jealous that we were hanging out. I think that’s why he used the offensive Tiger Beat-esque acronym and why he drove home with a buzz instead of staying at one of our places. I think his goat was got. I’m not sure whether he was pining for me, “The Guy Who Makes My Day”, or both of us separately but I’m going to assume it was me because my hair smells nice and I have boobs, whats not to like? I don’t know if any of my self serving theories are true, but logic is incredibly flexible when you want it to be. He has never used “WTF?” before therefore he must have been drunk….and secretly in love with me (begrudgingly kidding)
Sesame Streetage-
When a person gets right shitfaced the only skills they bother to remember are the ones they need to pass a field sobriety test. They are the same skills we learn at a young age from the tiny, inner city cul de sac known as Sesame Street. The SS folk (←I’m horrid) teach children under 8 to recite the alphabet, hop on one foot, memorize their home address and challenge developing physical coordination in both the “head, shoulders, knees and toes” and “stomach rubbing and head patting “ areas. Remaining focused on your bilingual abcs while a gigantic wholly mammoth beast called a Snuffalufagus is plodding across the television is not easy, were I not conditioned to the colorful Sesame street urchins which simulate the distractions of the real world from a very young age, I may never have learned my alphabet and spent my adult years racking up DUIs with Kiefer Sutherland and the dude from Lost Boys. The last time I got pulled over I sang “the Hokey Pokey” in perfect pitch, the police actually gave me EXTRA merit points on my record, so if I ever crash into a pole, the pole will get charged for recklessness and its license suspended, not me. Anyways, I knew my gas guzzling, rural dwelling friend had been drinking when he decided to show off his counting skills listing off the name and quantity of each beer he had consumed. It was clear that he had studied under Sesame Street’s violet vampire sage with an almost religious devotion. I’m sure that if he ever had the job of deciding whose face was stamped on postage stamps, the Count would start showing up on all sorts of envelopes. He’d probably shove my mug on a couple of stamps too, since I am after all, important enough to drunk dial. He’d probably get a kick out of seeing my face on small packages everywhere at the cost of 5 measly cents. He also demonstrated geographical savvy and was able to name the origin of each beer he drained, they were however, all Belgian so I guess it wasn’t horribly difficult. I suspect at the time of the call, his excited were still excited but encased behind a foggy aquarium wall of tipsynes, a look I have seen and enjoyed several times before. I’m not sure he would have made the podium in the Roadside Sobriety Games and I’m certain that if asked by an officer of the law, he could explain the directions to Sesame street, I was concerned, by his state, naturally. I should have offered my couch (HA!) but I didn’t, as soon as a man goes from Hoegaarden to kindergarten, he can only do two things: vomit and fuck, neither of which were on my agenda.
Sleepiness- I received the phone call at nine thirty. He was on his way home. Questionable.
The second shittiest thing about a mildly inebriated phone call is that it makes you feel special, not because you SHOULD feel special but because you want to and you’re so desperate you’ve seriously considered doing the Dominos guy because he was nice enough to bring your cheesy bread in 30 minutes or less like he promised. This is not winning a Pulitzer Prize but somehow being the drunk dialee makes you proud for a second, and that’s just sad. The first shittiest thing about the “DD” (← tribute acronym), is the moment where you realize you aren’t fucking special. You aren’t being reached out to, you’re just reachable, five hour and twelve minute Dutch layover reachable. Girls are always telling themselves exactly what they want to hear without hesitation regardless of whether its true or not. The only thing worse than being manipulated by a dude is being manipulated by yourself. I’m convinced that silent films died because the very idea of women being able to put whatever thoughts they liked into the head of an unfortunately moustached man in a bowler was sp terrifying to society that they had to call Mickey Mouse in to “take care of” the genre. I am one of these girls, sitting with my dumb computer inventing reasons for things not worthy of explanation, I should be doing laundry or drinking heavily and calling him back. Dunk dials are just the pits because they invite us to turn a possible misdial into the most romantic charlotte bronte-ish gesture ever if we so choose. I’m glad I haven’t yet shagged the Dominos guy, but I’m not convinced I’m done mentally shagging “The Guy Who Lives 19.13 Miles Away”, even though he doesn’t bring me cheesy bread in 30 minutes or less. I’m not convinced he’s done mentally shagging me either.
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