This post is going to be about poop.
Dookie. Shit. Crap. Number 2. Scat. Feces. Like I said, poop.
If you don't like to read about poop - go read a different blog today. Might I suggest one that caters to pussies who can't accept that we, all of us, mankind, have to dump-out on a regular basis or die.
Oh no. I've just made my first hypocriticism of the day. Guess what? I'm a pussy who can't accept that we all have to shit or die. So now you know the real subject of this post. It's about one of my hangups.
("Um, excuse me Ms. Uumellmahaye, which of your posts has not been about your hangups?" asks that pesky little lone reader o' mine. Well, while I'm being schizophrenic, I might as well play name-that-personality. This one, the pesky lone reader, shall be christened "Polly Purefart" for her tendency to float stinky little self-censorship in my general direction.)
Anyway, back to me. My number one hang up about number two is that I cannot do my business in public. By "in public," I don't mean "on stage" or that I want to go "do it in the road." I just mean sitting in a sterile stall in a public restroom when other people, male or female, are milling about in the same said restroom.
Why do they call it a "rest"room? I am not going to nap in there.
I recently tried to explain to my friend of 10+ years (who is also my co-worker) why I can't do it. Here's the best I could produce: I am afraid that my efforts on this front have the potential to be best-case: noisy, worst-case: odorous. I imagine someone will look under the stall, see my shoes, somehow associate my shoes with me, know that I am a foul and gassy beast, and then, I don't know, maybe think bad thoughts about me.
My friend of 10+ years, let's just call her Z.I., said, "when I'm in the bathroom and I hear farting and smell shit, I never look under the stall to see the shoes of the pooper. I just think, 'i gotta get out of here.'"
Z.I. is a wise, some would say "sage," woman. She is practical and earthy. I have always envied her these traits.
Reading over my shoulder, my husband informs me that when he hears or smells the evidence of a gaseous shit-bag in a public John, he feels challenged to one-up-man-shit as a form of squatter's rights. If he can somehow out-doo the pooer, he will get the person to turn tail and run so that he can have the can to himself.
This is evidence of a personality so well-endowed with Id that I am dumbstruck.
Unfortunately, I am neither logical nor hegemonic about my pooping. And today, I caught a whiff of just how stupid I am.
Before I tell you, let me first thank you for making it this far. I apologize for the scatalogical nature of this post. I feel like that fly character in Meet the Feebles right now. Even typing about this subject makes me feel dirty.
So. Today.
Background: If you have paid any attention to my posts thus far, you know that I have a few food allergies/intolerances. (Yes. That's me. If I had to find my personality in pop-culture, I would say I am a cross between Clementine from Endless Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Joyce from American Splendor.) Anyway, I have had amazing will-power as of late in the dairy-department. Today I picked up a fast-food lunch from Chipotle without caving in to the sour-cream and cheese that I love like crack-cocaine but know is rotting my insides like an insidious cancer.
30 minutes after eating my burrito-bowl (which just sounds like the name of a food from Idiocracy, doesn't it?), nature, that rabid telemarketer, began to call. I was talking to a coworker about how to deploy our on-line help system and despite the bone-chilling boringness of that subject, he seemed like he might never let me end the chat. My stomach roiled and rumbled and I started to bloat like a highland-bagpipe in the hands of my kilt-wearing red-headed Scot ancestors. I tried to end the conversation by turning my body sideways and stepping away, but then he asked an open-ended question (deft ploy) and I was forced to retreat. At one point, oddly enough, I had to press ham to prevent an expulsion and while I am 99.99 % sure I was successful, I smelled evidence of raspberries. Is it possible said co-worker was also stifling himself, and if so, what horrible synchronicity!
Finally, I was able to tear myself away without being rude. I stepped to my cubicle to grab my access card exactly as Z.I. ran to her cube and informed me that she had to go to the bathroom.
Were we all caught in the eye of a shit-storm? Was it some sort of post-lunch phenomenon?
Anyway, I felt caught between a rock and a hard-place. Should I follow her to the bathroom, inform her honestly of my intentions, laugh it off and then go for it? In a fantasy world, yes. (Well, actually, in my fantasy world, there isn't a biological need to shit. Or shave. Or pop zits. The rest of the physical annoyances associated with human life don't bother me, but I could lose those three.) In this world, I gave her a head start, hoping she had to pee, and then quickly walked to the lavatory, accompanied by an emerging turtle.
I made my way for the furthest stall. It's the handicapped one, and in my book, it is "door #2" or "the brown room." I think everyone should shit there. Not because of some animus toward the physically challenged, but because it is farthest away from the door, thus affording the most privacy and lebensraum.
Z.I. was stalling. There was a lot of rustling of clothes, like she'd worn some sort of special underthings that required origami-like precision to refashion. I started to sweat. Despite the fact that I have known this woman since the mid-nineties, have laughed and cried with her, attended both of her weddings, and have worked with her more times than either one of us can count, I could NOT bear the thought that she would hear me poop/see my shoes/think ill of me.
I considered just saying "hey, it's me, and you might want to get out of here soon" or "it's me. Don't look at my shoes" and then singing the National Anthem with my intestines. But then I thought, "what if it isn't Z.I.? What if it's a TOTAL STRANGER or worse yet, an ACQUAINTANCE?" So, I zipped it, inhaled, and prayed that she would skip the handwashing, despite all the OCD that would cause me later, so that I could have a moment alone with my bodily functions.
She flushed. I tried to eek out a prologue under cover of the flushing noise but I was too tightly wound to relax. She washed her hands (good girl!), maybe even lathering/lingering longer than normal. Finally, I heard the door and let go.
Ahhhh. Total silence. And, honestly, I think my shit smelled like roses ("like Guns and Roses" the husband would say.)
As I completed my affairs, someone else walked in and I worried that they would hear the sound of the toilet paper roll and rip, put 2 and 2 together and figure out that the number of wipes required meant poop and would think ill of me. But this worry was fleeting, and I flushed/washed/and high-tailed it outta there before my anyone could have fingered me.
So, that's it. If you made it this far, you are a real gem. I think this is some sort of self-sabotage because over the last two days, two friends have told me they have been reading my posts (one even said she liked them) and so maybe I'm testing the limits of your patience. Whatevs. It's a big step toward normalcy for me to write in such a ribald manner, despite my non-anonymity, and so I feel like toasting.
So, here's mud in your eye!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
A crack on the head is what you get for asking ...
I took a vacation. From everything that has been weighing on me. My two-in-one job, my other little job, my family, my pets, my town. I flew to Seattle and tried to relax.
Do you see the problem already?
Yeah, I tried. I tried to relax. I have to try now because I have recently forgotten how to relax without trying. And I have also forgotten how to be happy without restrictions.
Like I can feel sorta happy, BUT. But something. Like, but I'm drunk. Or, but I'm just vegging out watching the Wire. Or, but I was sleeping. Never, I'm experiencing total, unadulterated bliss.
So I tried to relax and feel bliss and I failed. But I still had fun. We saw the sights. (In Russian, the word for "to see the sights" sounds a little like dostapreemachatelnosty. It's a great word - so much sturm und drang for such a frivolous verb.) We ate "northwestern fare" and hiked in a ferny, mossy wood. We listened to grunge - if only because the radio stations there suck as much as they do in Austin and 15-year-old grunge is still better than most of the crap played on shitty radio nowadays. We waited for the bus next to the dilapitated old building where Nirvana recorded Bleach and took our picture on the Freemont troll. We saw fish tossed. We did the thing. And it was good.
But we had to come back.
Back to the job(s), the family, the town, and the realization that for me, at least, the ennui has little to do with being overworked and underlaid. It is something inside of me. And I know what it takes for me to be happy again, or at least occasionally so, and I have to take the reins and drive those doggies, rawhide.
I was so looking forward to a few days to contemplate that shit when I returned. A few days to relax, write, exercise, not worry, not work. And then I went and did a stupid thing.
I went tubing, which, in and of itself, is not a stupid thing. It can be an immensely dense thing, if you are drunk, which I wasn't. Or if you forget to apply sunscreen. Which I didn't. I did everything right. I forked over a few dolla's to the local Lion's Club and sat my ass down in a cool river for 40 minutes of mindless relaxation (as opposed to Sivasana, which is supposed to be mindful relaxation). My husband, my sister and I comprised the scant flotilla. We splashed each other (or rather, they splashed and I did not deign to retaliate for I find it distastefully childish) and floated and mused. I closed my eyes and let the eerie, calm motion occur without my navigatory intention. I opened my eyes and leaned my head back to joy in the shimmer of light between leaf-cover. I horrored at the site of a day-dwelling raccoon (rabid?) who swam across the water for cover from 3 circling hawks.
And I started to relax.
It was Wednesday. I knew I had that day and a full Thursday and Friday to revel in my freedom. (Saturday and Sunday didn't count, because a) I had to do some work for the little side-job and b) because I have those days "off" when I work at the real two-in-one job, too.)
Those days seemed like they would be long.
And then I decided to float over the rapid. Not the rapids, for that would imply there were many.
The one rapid. The lone rapid. It beckoned. I saw children floating over it unaccompanied by tubes. I saw my husband and sister eschewing the rapid for safer, calmer waters. I remembered times past, when I felt the brief danger, the quick fear, and the rush of conquering it as I sailed over the drop and over the eddy.
But not that day. No. This is what happened instead:
I had no actual fear. I saw the outcome and it was simple fun. I encouraged my tube in the direction of the rapid, for the waters around it were retarding my progress with tenaciously lax and lazy entropy. I approached and waited, internally impatient at the teenagers who cut in front of me. And then it was my turn.
In one/two seconds I went from a thawing 30-something who has finally achieved relaxation to a flailing, ass-over-tea-kettle nearly-drowning nellie.
I sailed over the crest of the rapid effortlessly and without tremor. But the eddy. Oh, the eddy. It exacted quick and deft revenge. It sucked my tube from under me and flipped me over 360 degrees. At 180, the back of my head thwacked against a lurking rock and send the fear of God through me. I actually had the thought, "is this how I'm going to die?" Followed by, "fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is the air? Have I passed out?" Two struggling seconds and then the air, the sun, discombobulated exuberance fueled by my fair-share of adrenaline.
A nice little boy noticed my plight and went after my tube. All I could think of to say to him was "I hit my head hard." He nodded.
I looked for Clint. I still felt like I was in danger until I could get my body next to his. When our eyes met across the river, I motioned to him that I'd hit my head. He made an empathetic face and then I shakily navigated the slippery rocks until I found a launching point well away from the now frightening rapid so that I could paddle across to safety.
48 plus hours later, and I've had a CT scan (no results yet) but no signs of real damage/concussion. No double-vision, no vomiting. I should thank my lucky stars. And yet. I know it was a threat from Geezus. Relax? You? That's not what I have in store for you, biatch. Just you wait and see.
Do you see the problem already?
Yeah, I tried. I tried to relax. I have to try now because I have recently forgotten how to relax without trying. And I have also forgotten how to be happy without restrictions.
Like I can feel sorta happy, BUT. But something. Like, but I'm drunk. Or, but I'm just vegging out watching the Wire. Or, but I was sleeping. Never, I'm experiencing total, unadulterated bliss.
So I tried to relax and feel bliss and I failed. But I still had fun. We saw the sights. (In Russian, the word for "to see the sights" sounds a little like dostapreemachatelnosty. It's a great word - so much sturm und drang for such a frivolous verb.) We ate "northwestern fare" and hiked in a ferny, mossy wood. We listened to grunge - if only because the radio stations there suck as much as they do in Austin and 15-year-old grunge is still better than most of the crap played on shitty radio nowadays. We waited for the bus next to the dilapitated old building where Nirvana recorded Bleach and took our picture on the Freemont troll. We saw fish tossed. We did the thing. And it was good.
But we had to come back.
Back to the job(s), the family, the town, and the realization that for me, at least, the ennui has little to do with being overworked and underlaid. It is something inside of me. And I know what it takes for me to be happy again, or at least occasionally so, and I have to take the reins and drive those doggies, rawhide.
I was so looking forward to a few days to contemplate that shit when I returned. A few days to relax, write, exercise, not worry, not work. And then I went and did a stupid thing.
I went tubing, which, in and of itself, is not a stupid thing. It can be an immensely dense thing, if you are drunk, which I wasn't. Or if you forget to apply sunscreen. Which I didn't. I did everything right. I forked over a few dolla's to the local Lion's Club and sat my ass down in a cool river for 40 minutes of mindless relaxation (as opposed to Sivasana, which is supposed to be mindful relaxation). My husband, my sister and I comprised the scant flotilla. We splashed each other (or rather, they splashed and I did not deign to retaliate for I find it distastefully childish) and floated and mused. I closed my eyes and let the eerie, calm motion occur without my navigatory intention. I opened my eyes and leaned my head back to joy in the shimmer of light between leaf-cover. I horrored at the site of a day-dwelling raccoon (rabid?) who swam across the water for cover from 3 circling hawks.
And I started to relax.
It was Wednesday. I knew I had that day and a full Thursday and Friday to revel in my freedom. (Saturday and Sunday didn't count, because a) I had to do some work for the little side-job and b) because I have those days "off" when I work at the real two-in-one job, too.)
Those days seemed like they would be long.
And then I decided to float over the rapid. Not the rapids, for that would imply there were many.
The one rapid. The lone rapid. It beckoned. I saw children floating over it unaccompanied by tubes. I saw my husband and sister eschewing the rapid for safer, calmer waters. I remembered times past, when I felt the brief danger, the quick fear, and the rush of conquering it as I sailed over the drop and over the eddy.
But not that day. No. This is what happened instead:
I had no actual fear. I saw the outcome and it was simple fun. I encouraged my tube in the direction of the rapid, for the waters around it were retarding my progress with tenaciously lax and lazy entropy. I approached and waited, internally impatient at the teenagers who cut in front of me. And then it was my turn.
In one/two seconds I went from a thawing 30-something who has finally achieved relaxation to a flailing, ass-over-tea-kettle nearly-drowning nellie.
I sailed over the crest of the rapid effortlessly and without tremor. But the eddy. Oh, the eddy. It exacted quick and deft revenge. It sucked my tube from under me and flipped me over 360 degrees. At 180, the back of my head thwacked against a lurking rock and send the fear of God through me. I actually had the thought, "is this how I'm going to die?" Followed by, "fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is the air? Have I passed out?" Two struggling seconds and then the air, the sun, discombobulated exuberance fueled by my fair-share of adrenaline.
A nice little boy noticed my plight and went after my tube. All I could think of to say to him was "I hit my head hard." He nodded.
I looked for Clint. I still felt like I was in danger until I could get my body next to his. When our eyes met across the river, I motioned to him that I'd hit my head. He made an empathetic face and then I shakily navigated the slippery rocks until I found a launching point well away from the now frightening rapid so that I could paddle across to safety.
48 plus hours later, and I've had a CT scan (no results yet) but no signs of real damage/concussion. No double-vision, no vomiting. I should thank my lucky stars. And yet. I know it was a threat from Geezus. Relax? You? That's not what I have in store for you, biatch. Just you wait and see.
Friday, June 01, 2007
the day I held aloft my magic sword
I won free-cell twice in a row. That warrants a second post.
My life has come to this?
Wait, why am I hatin'? I'm almost forty. If I want to play cyber-solitaire and drink too much red wine on a Friday night, I've earned that right.
While we're on the subject of what my life has come to - let me say something about the old life-line. I think mine forks at about age 60. Does that mean I will vote Republican in the year 2031?
My life has come to this?
Wait, why am I hatin'? I'm almost forty. If I want to play cyber-solitaire and drink too much red wine on a Friday night, I've earned that right.
While we're on the subject of what my life has come to - let me say something about the old life-line. I think mine forks at about age 60. Does that mean I will vote Republican in the year 2031?
there's a monster at the end of this book ...
I want to live without fear. I want to dive in, to embrace life, to take risks. I know that is the way to a life worth living. I know this deeply, like it was written onto my DNA.
And yet.
What if? What if I die? What if I kill someone else, either accidentally, or gasp, purposefully when I change into Mr. Hyde?
What if I'm driving on a twisty mountain road, in awe of the natural beauty that surrounds me, and then, suddenly, on the other side of the tunnel I see the canyon floor, 1000 feet below me (and my poor unsuspecting passengers). This time, instead of pulling over, hands trembling, red-facedly admitting that I'm struck with vertigo - what if this time I cannot stop myself and I point the nose of the car at the tiny, metal guardrail - our government's nod toward protecting drivers - built to a spec that never imagined the height of an H2 or even an Escalade or the power of their engines?
What if I rub my eye and get an infection that rots out my eyeball?
What if I have diabetes?
What if I eat something, anything, that I didn't know I was deathly allergic to?
What if someone breaks into my house and rapes me? What if I like it? What if he murders me for being a horrible slut?
What if I get pulled over and I have a panic attack because I'm afraid of being arrested, but the rookie isn't familiar with panic disorder and thinks I'm on drugs and arrests me? What if my cellmate shivs me?
What if that couple reading the Bible in the airport before they board the same plane I'm taking are religious terrorists who want judgement day to come and have decided to hurry it along?
What if I left the stove on and one of my pets knocks over a candle I also carelessly left lit and then they frantically paw at the door as the flames engulf them?
What if I left the dolmas out in the car and my sister ate one and got food poisoning and nearly died?
What if none of this happens but I spend my life paralyzed by stupid fear?
What if I decide to say "fuck you" to all the checking the stove and planning things and worrying and then one day, a rapist leaves my stove on, rubs my eye with his bible and then drives off the mountainside, a trail of rotten dolmas exploding out of the car when it crashes on the canyon floor?
And yet.
What if? What if I die? What if I kill someone else, either accidentally, or gasp, purposefully when I change into Mr. Hyde?
What if I'm driving on a twisty mountain road, in awe of the natural beauty that surrounds me, and then, suddenly, on the other side of the tunnel I see the canyon floor, 1000 feet below me (and my poor unsuspecting passengers). This time, instead of pulling over, hands trembling, red-facedly admitting that I'm struck with vertigo - what if this time I cannot stop myself and I point the nose of the car at the tiny, metal guardrail - our government's nod toward protecting drivers - built to a spec that never imagined the height of an H2 or even an Escalade or the power of their engines?
What if I rub my eye and get an infection that rots out my eyeball?
What if I have diabetes?
What if I eat something, anything, that I didn't know I was deathly allergic to?
What if someone breaks into my house and rapes me? What if I like it? What if he murders me for being a horrible slut?
What if I get pulled over and I have a panic attack because I'm afraid of being arrested, but the rookie isn't familiar with panic disorder and thinks I'm on drugs and arrests me? What if my cellmate shivs me?
What if that couple reading the Bible in the airport before they board the same plane I'm taking are religious terrorists who want judgement day to come and have decided to hurry it along?
What if I left the stove on and one of my pets knocks over a candle I also carelessly left lit and then they frantically paw at the door as the flames engulf them?
What if I left the dolmas out in the car and my sister ate one and got food poisoning and nearly died?
What if none of this happens but I spend my life paralyzed by stupid fear?
What if I decide to say "fuck you" to all the checking the stove and planning things and worrying and then one day, a rapist leaves my stove on, rubs my eye with his bible and then drives off the mountainside, a trail of rotten dolmas exploding out of the car when it crashes on the canyon floor?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
reasons to love the cybernet
I hate almost all of commercial cyberspace.
Call me a pinko-commie-tree-hugger, but before the Web came a long, I hated advertisements (with very rare exceptions and I'm not talking about "where's the beef" or spuds mackenzie) and I hated telemarketers and people who say, "excuse me ma'am, would you like to apply for an American Airlines Platinum card to receive free miles?" Back then, though, I could avoid most ads, by not watching television.
But now, I sort of live and breathe the tedious beta version of the Metaverse and am bombarded by inline ads (skin crawls just saying it), banners, interstitial ads, and spam. I can't get away from it. It makes me angry. It makes me hate and seethe.
And then I bump up against a site that is truly entertaining, engaging, utilitarian, or just funny, and it makes it all better.
This post is an ode to the sites I love. I'm going to name a couple here. I was hoping that if anyone actually reads this post, they could post a reply with a couple of their favorites. I'm not talking about things like Google or IMDB, which we all know and love, but those little sites you bumped into and felt like you found something made just for you. Like the time I turned a corner in Portland, Oregon and found a closet-sized video arcade that specialized in 80s video games (and not just the ubiquitous Ms. PacMan or Galaga) and Asian candies and snacks. I hung out for about 2 hours playing Tempest and eating Pocky Sticks.
The Weight Watcher's Cards circa 1970
http://www.candyboots.com/wwcards.html
I can visit this site every 24 months and laugh myself sick even though the content never changes. Maybe it is the ceramic animals? Maybe because I did weight watchers, not in the 70s mind you, but the nutrition/recommended meals still had this strange sort of internal logic unto itself that wasn't entirely gourmand-friendly.
The Kook's Museum
http://www.pacifier.com/~dkossy/kooksmus.html
I think MV's bro found this first, back in like '94, but I think I love it more than he did. Whenever I feel crazy, I go read the writing s of one Francis E. Dec (Esquire), where he exposes "the worldwide deadly Communist Gangster Computer God," and I feel much, much saner. It's all relative baby.
The Hamster Dance
http://www.webhamster.com/
It's the music I think. Such a classic waste of space and time. It makes me positively gleeful. Like go-sing-in-an-actual-glee-club-gleeful.
http://buyblue.org/
I was sitting at work one day wondering in what small ways I can live with more integrity and I received an e-mail with a link to this site. Now I know when I spend money that goes to the Republicans. I haven't made much headway on the integrity thing, but it's useful to know that it isn't only for reasons of taste that one should eschew shopping at Victoria's Secret.
Call me a pinko-commie-tree-hugger, but before the Web came a long, I hated advertisements (with very rare exceptions and I'm not talking about "where's the beef" or spuds mackenzie) and I hated telemarketers and people who say, "excuse me ma'am, would you like to apply for an American Airlines Platinum card to receive free miles?" Back then, though, I could avoid most ads, by not watching television.
But now, I sort of live and breathe the tedious beta version of the Metaverse and am bombarded by inline ads (skin crawls just saying it), banners, interstitial ads, and spam. I can't get away from it. It makes me angry. It makes me hate and seethe.
And then I bump up against a site that is truly entertaining, engaging, utilitarian, or just funny, and it makes it all better.
This post is an ode to the sites I love. I'm going to name a couple here. I was hoping that if anyone actually reads this post, they could post a reply with a couple of their favorites. I'm not talking about things like Google or IMDB, which we all know and love, but those little sites you bumped into and felt like you found something made just for you. Like the time I turned a corner in Portland, Oregon and found a closet-sized video arcade that specialized in 80s video games (and not just the ubiquitous Ms. PacMan or Galaga) and Asian candies and snacks. I hung out for about 2 hours playing Tempest and eating Pocky Sticks.
The Weight Watcher's Cards circa 1970
http://www.candyboots.com/wwcards.html
I can visit this site every 24 months and laugh myself sick even though the content never changes. Maybe it is the ceramic animals? Maybe because I did weight watchers, not in the 70s mind you, but the nutrition/recommended meals still had this strange sort of internal logic unto itself that wasn't entirely gourmand-friendly.
The Kook's Museum
http://www.pacifier.com/~dkossy/kooksmus.html
I think MV's bro found this first, back in like '94, but I think I love it more than he did. Whenever I feel crazy, I go read the writing s of one Francis E. Dec (Esquire), where he exposes "the worldwide deadly Communist Gangster Computer God," and I feel much, much saner. It's all relative baby.
The Hamster Dance
http://www.webhamster.com/
It's the music I think. Such a classic waste of space and time. It makes me positively gleeful. Like go-sing-in-an-actual-glee-club-gleeful.
http://buyblue.org/
I was sitting at work one day wondering in what small ways I can live with more integrity and I received an e-mail with a link to this site. Now I know when I spend money that goes to the Republicans. I haven't made much headway on the integrity thing, but it's useful to know that it isn't only for reasons of taste that one should eschew shopping at Victoria's Secret.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
a promise made is a debt unpaid
It's been awhile. What have I been up to? Oh Geezus, I have no clue. Working too much, worrying a lot, other things that start with wor.
What's up with the title of this post? Well, this post is about things I'm going to start doing right. That is, in exchange for a little Geezus power. Who is Geezus you ask? I have a faint recollection that my friend Curriculae Vitamin (not her real name) told me a story about a little girl who pronounced "Jesus" like geese-us, but in my spelling, you still say it with a "juh" sound and a "you" sound. Like Gee, Zeus. Geezus is akin to the Great Sneaker (my father's lord-in-heaven who helped him pass tests in college despite his regular bleary-eyed hangovers) or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (except Geezus is real!).
Newsflash, my brothers: Geezus likes a bargain.
You know, a bargain. Like when you are in big trouble and you say, "Geezus, if you get me out of this pinch, I promise to do everything right." Geezus thinks for a minute and weighs it's options (Geezuz is asexual, duh!). I help this mortal morsel in this instant and he or she forever more does the things I like? That's a bargain!
So, in this instance it's me offering Geezus a bargain. In exchange for something that should be relatively easy for it to accomplish (giving me robust health until I'm 95 and then a quick, painless death and a rocking funeral full of friends and family who loved me dearly), I will do the following things:
For the next 6 months
[This is an aside, but let me state for the record, I have converted to atheism. Sort of. I mean I think there are things out there that are still mysterious. Like man's desire for magic to be real. Just the desire is like fairy dust for me. It means we're mostly still children. The problem is that our belief in all the beautiful made-up shit usually comes from a innate desire for someone to take care of us and remove all the pain, ugliness, and annoyance from our lives. Nothing will take away pain, ugliness, and annoyance (nunca babies). Pain is what is eternal and omnipresent. Nothing will ever take it away - except maybe hard work and positive mental attitude. Anyway, the long and short of it is that it was a lot easier to believe in god when I was a kid.]
But I wish I did right now. Because I'm down in the mouth, blue, anxious, born under a bad sign, with a furrowed brow. My chest pains have gotten worse (I keep telling myself it's just indigestion and anxiety) and I feel like a fucking failure at 37. If I have some stupid heart disease (from smoking and eating butter like it was going out of style) and I die soon, the regret I feel could leave a crater in the earth the size of Detroit. Hey, maybe that explains Detroit?
So, I made an apperntment with a cardiologist. In a week. Knowing doctors, he'll then tell me I need 12 tests (that cost 4000 bucks) and it will be a month before I know if my ticker is OK. Until then, I promise to do those things in bullets above. The dairy thing because I'm supposedly "intolerant" of dairy (despite cheese being my favorite substance on earth, especially the Spanish goat cheese I ate with J and N in NYC a couple of weeks ago, oh Geezus!) and maybe that is causing some fucked up chest pains? The exercise because I'm a lard ass right now and if I have heart disease, the first thing they'll tell me is to slim down. And the writing because this is what I want to do with my life and if it is going to be short or long, I better start doing it.
Geezus ain't coming, my babies. It's like a copy of Hey Love. You gotta get your own.
What's up with the title of this post? Well, this post is about things I'm going to start doing right. That is, in exchange for a little Geezus power. Who is Geezus you ask? I have a faint recollection that my friend Curriculae Vitamin (not her real name) told me a story about a little girl who pronounced "Jesus" like geese-us, but in my spelling, you still say it with a "juh" sound and a "you" sound. Like Gee, Zeus. Geezus is akin to the Great Sneaker (my father's lord-in-heaven who helped him pass tests in college despite his regular bleary-eyed hangovers) or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (except Geezus is real!).
Newsflash, my brothers: Geezus likes a bargain.
You know, a bargain. Like when you are in big trouble and you say, "Geezus, if you get me out of this pinch, I promise to do everything right." Geezus thinks for a minute and weighs it's options (Geezuz is asexual, duh!). I help this mortal morsel in this instant and he or she forever more does the things I like? That's a bargain!
So, in this instance it's me offering Geezus a bargain. In exchange for something that should be relatively easy for it to accomplish (giving me robust health until I'm 95 and then a quick, painless death and a rocking funeral full of friends and family who loved me dearly), I will do the following things:
For the next 6 months
- Stop eating all dairy to see if it helps me. (You may not be acquainted with the fact that Geezus hates dairy. Yeah, he's no fun at all.)
- Exercise every day unless I have lost a limb or have the flu. (Geezus is a lot like Jack Palance doing pushups at the Oscars. He likes fitness, hates the fatties.)
- Write every day, even if it's only this worthless blog.
[This is an aside, but let me state for the record, I have converted to atheism. Sort of. I mean I think there are things out there that are still mysterious. Like man's desire for magic to be real. Just the desire is like fairy dust for me. It means we're mostly still children. The problem is that our belief in all the beautiful made-up shit usually comes from a innate desire for someone to take care of us and remove all the pain, ugliness, and annoyance from our lives. Nothing will take away pain, ugliness, and annoyance (nunca babies). Pain is what is eternal and omnipresent. Nothing will ever take it away - except maybe hard work and positive mental attitude. Anyway, the long and short of it is that it was a lot easier to believe in god when I was a kid.]
But I wish I did right now. Because I'm down in the mouth, blue, anxious, born under a bad sign, with a furrowed brow. My chest pains have gotten worse (I keep telling myself it's just indigestion and anxiety) and I feel like a fucking failure at 37. If I have some stupid heart disease (from smoking and eating butter like it was going out of style) and I die soon, the regret I feel could leave a crater in the earth the size of Detroit. Hey, maybe that explains Detroit?
So, I made an apperntment with a cardiologist. In a week. Knowing doctors, he'll then tell me I need 12 tests (that cost 4000 bucks) and it will be a month before I know if my ticker is OK. Until then, I promise to do those things in bullets above. The dairy thing because I'm supposedly "intolerant" of dairy (despite cheese being my favorite substance on earth, especially the Spanish goat cheese I ate with J and N in NYC a couple of weeks ago, oh Geezus!) and maybe that is causing some fucked up chest pains? The exercise because I'm a lard ass right now and if I have heart disease, the first thing they'll tell me is to slim down. And the writing because this is what I want to do with my life and if it is going to be short or long, I better start doing it.
Geezus ain't coming, my babies. It's like a copy of Hey Love. You gotta get your own.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
skinning cats
There are so many ways to die. Lets count them together, shall we:
Well, I count 5. Maybe that's not so many.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh wait, there are THE DREADED BANAL ROADS TO MORTALITY. These are the ways I am most afraid of dying.
Choking on food. This fear, coupled with my natural inclination to binge-y-ness, increases the chance that I will die while masticating wildly. Numerous are the times I've stuck my finger down my own throat (no, I am no purger, mind you) to grab what I thought might be my death sentence. I am also prepared to give myself the Heimlich Maneuver if need be.
Obviously, dying this way is a close kin of dying of embarrassment.
Anaphalactic Shock. I have no earthly idea how to spell this. But I like that my attempt is reminiscent of galactic. Which also reminds me of the word galvanic. None of this is related, but I used to know a man named Bob Galvin. He was a bit too self-important for me to like him, but I wish I'd known the word Galvanic back then. Anyway, I recently ate "something nasty in the woodshed" or maybe it was just shellfish, and my tongue swelled (swoll?) and my face puffed and I ran as fast as my four legs could take me to the local ER. I would hate to die this way. I love food. For food to kill me is the kind of irony reserved, I hoped, for real assholes.
I hope I am not an asshole in denial.
Dying of something I've already been accused of hypochondria about. Sometimes I have chest pains. "And sometimes I have the menstrual pains real hard."
So, when I do die, how do I want to go? In a blaze of fucking glory, of course. I haven't quite worked out the particulars, because sky-diving and war make me nervous, and I can't think of other ways to die in an actual blaze of glory otherwise. Ooh, I know, I want to save someone's life and by doing so, meet my glorious demise, certain if there is an afterlife to be absolved of all my sins (I think this post alone has been proof of gluttony, pride, and anger) and welcomed into heaven with open arms. Hopefully they have improved things since the time Twain documented in Letters to the Earth. No one likes a lot of blasted harps and no sex.
- Old Age (which really means, Cancer or Heart Disease)
- Fright (this is a slow death)
- Embarrassment (oh, the horror)
- Snake Bite (romantic)
- Loneliness (just remember to "shine your teeth till meaningless" and you'll avoid this one)
Well, I count 5. Maybe that's not so many.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh wait, there are THE DREADED BANAL ROADS TO MORTALITY. These are the ways I am most afraid of dying.
Choking on food. This fear, coupled with my natural inclination to binge-y-ness, increases the chance that I will die while masticating wildly. Numerous are the times I've stuck my finger down my own throat (no, I am no purger, mind you) to grab what I thought might be my death sentence. I am also prepared to give myself the Heimlich Maneuver if need be.
Obviously, dying this way is a close kin of dying of embarrassment.
Anaphalactic Shock. I have no earthly idea how to spell this. But I like that my attempt is reminiscent of galactic. Which also reminds me of the word galvanic. None of this is related, but I used to know a man named Bob Galvin. He was a bit too self-important for me to like him, but I wish I'd known the word Galvanic back then. Anyway, I recently ate "something nasty in the woodshed" or maybe it was just shellfish, and my tongue swelled (swoll?) and my face puffed and I ran as fast as my four legs could take me to the local ER. I would hate to die this way. I love food. For food to kill me is the kind of irony reserved, I hoped, for real assholes.
I hope I am not an asshole in denial.
Dying of something I've already been accused of hypochondria about. Sometimes I have chest pains. "And sometimes I have the menstrual pains real hard."
(God, I'm quoting a lot in this post. I think I better go back in and add actual quotation marks before one of my thousands of devoted readers gets the wrong idea and thinks I'm witty. No, no, my lackeys, let me promise you this. I am but a tick on the back of true wit. I burrow my head into its flesh and live off its blood until I give it Lyme disease or it burns me off with a match. It is a sour, indolent life, but someone has to live it.)Anyway, back to dying of something I've already blah blah blah. I go to doctors. That's part of my shtick. There's a Woodie Allen-ness to it, and by that I mean a sad and pathetic, self-referential, mother-obsessed, and tired. I tell them I have a pain here or there and they give me tests and say, "yeah, well, there's a little something, but don't worry about it. That will cost you $300 dollars." To which I always reply, "thank God I'm bourgeoisie white-collar trash, because I would not be able to afford your glorious bedside manner and inattention without shweet insurance and a tech job salary." To which they say, "True dat. Fork over the money, playa."
So, when I do die, how do I want to go? In a blaze of fucking glory, of course. I haven't quite worked out the particulars, because sky-diving and war make me nervous, and I can't think of other ways to die in an actual blaze of glory otherwise. Ooh, I know, I want to save someone's life and by doing so, meet my glorious demise, certain if there is an afterlife to be absolved of all my sins (I think this post alone has been proof of gluttony, pride, and anger) and welcomed into heaven with open arms. Hopefully they have improved things since the time Twain documented in Letters to the Earth. No one likes a lot of blasted harps and no sex.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Neither normal nor abnormal
I've been working way too much and forgetting to post to this blog at all. I have had thoughts I wanted to share with my devoted readers (ha!), but then I forgot them, too. Anyway, here's a few headlines from my recent life, in no particular order:
- Doctor's Office Says Results of Stress Test Neither Normal nor Abnormal. I Say, What's New?
- Enchantment by Corinne Bailey Rae, on Headphones, Prevents Woman from Setting Office On Fire
- Paranoid Iguana on Key Biscayne Interrupts Lazy Reading of Sunday Times; Causes Chuckle
- Germ Container (Miami Airport) Holds Austin Couple Hostage for 8 Hours. (Hey, fuck you American Airlines!)
Friday, October 27, 2006
The family needs closure
This just in: Rich People Have No Business Eating at McDonalds.
I would like to hear from any of you who care to comment on this story. Do you feel bad for the rich people who ate the rat salad? Do you believe their story? Do you think they just "need closure" or that they just "need 1.7 million dollars?"
Myself, I would hate to eat rat salad. But, it could be worse. You could drive home looking forward to the moment when you can devour the iceberg lettuce, grade-B chicken, and (oddly enough) Newman's Own Caesar salad dressing, and then, after a few bites, find Rush Limbaugh on its back with its mouth opened in your plastic carton. Now that would be worth suing over.
I would like to hear from any of you who care to comment on this story. Do you feel bad for the rich people who ate the rat salad? Do you believe their story? Do you think they just "need closure" or that they just "need 1.7 million dollars?"
Myself, I would hate to eat rat salad. But, it could be worse. You could drive home looking forward to the moment when you can devour the iceberg lettuce, grade-B chicken, and (oddly enough) Newman's Own Caesar salad dressing, and then, after a few bites, find Rush Limbaugh on its back with its mouth opened in your plastic carton. Now that would be worth suing over.
Monday, October 23, 2006
what is dead put its arm round you also
The themes for today are death and god.
First thing this morning, I overheard a coworker asking another to sign a card for someone we used to work with whose mother died. For those of you who don't know me, the words "mother died," have special significance, because, yeah, you guessed it, my mother died.
Look, I realize that everyone who is lucky enough not to die young is burdened with the loss of the woman who brought them into this world, and I doubt it is ever a pleasant experience, even if your mother was a junkie hooker who beat you with extension cords and died peacefully in her sleep after winning the lottery and fucking Clive Owen. But some ways that mothers die are worse than others ("and some girls mothers are bigger than other girls mothers"). Mine blew her brains out. So in most death-of-a-relative face-offs, I win. But my coworker's Mom died of cancer. CANCER. Cancer always wins.
Goodbye Sweet Ms. H
And speaking of cancer. I received an e-mail from a friend today informing the world that her sweet little doggie died on Sunday. She had cancer, too. And it was fast. She first told us about her pup's diagnosis only a few months ago at most. And I saw her a few weeks ago and the worst Ms. H had was a little cough. Cancer!
There's a reason that there is a saying that something grows "like a cancer." Because cancer grows fast, and unlike the pride you have when you measure your kid (unless she suffers from giantism) against the door frame and mark the progress she is making with a pencil, the date, and her name, or the joy you feel when you're 85 and you still know of one sure fire way to make wrinkles disappear, no one except the most sociopathic genetic researcher feels pride or joy when they see cancer grow. Cancer is, for lack of a better word, evil.
When I was 15, I looked around at my friends and did this tally. Of the girls I counted as my closest friends, all but one had lost her mother to breast cancer. My mother was still alive then, and I thought, "why am I so lucky?" My morose little brain thought something like this, "I have never experienced pain or loss, and so I will probably die young." That was my idea of balance. I felt that I deserved some pain and loss because I recognized that it was endemic to being human.
I feel like stopping now and eating the meal my husband is cooking, and looking at him and into him and reaching out for him, holding his arm/his skin/his body and holding it tighter (burning the experience of having him in my life onto me like a brand that can never be washed away by death, mine or his, or anyones) and if I could, consuming him, the moment, this house we're in, our pets, our friends, and all of the life we get to have because I want the pleasant feelings that come with a shot in the arm or a bag of tater tots and a chocolate shake. And it makes me understand communion and what Jesus might have been trying to satisfy for his friends as he ate with them for a final time and told them to eat and drink him. Which brings me to god, the second theme of this post.
By the way, the title of this post is a quote, from a poem written by Paul Celan. It's called Zahle die Mandeln, and I think you should read it. Come on, click here, I've made it easy for you and it's even in English.
First thing this morning, I overheard a coworker asking another to sign a card for someone we used to work with whose mother died. For those of you who don't know me, the words "mother died," have special significance, because, yeah, you guessed it, my mother died.
Look, I realize that everyone who is lucky enough not to die young is burdened with the loss of the woman who brought them into this world, and I doubt it is ever a pleasant experience, even if your mother was a junkie hooker who beat you with extension cords and died peacefully in her sleep after winning the lottery and fucking Clive Owen. But some ways that mothers die are worse than others ("and some girls mothers are bigger than other girls mothers"). Mine blew her brains out. So in most death-of-a-relative face-offs, I win. But my coworker's Mom died of cancer. CANCER. Cancer always wins.
Goodbye Sweet Ms. H
And speaking of cancer. I received an e-mail from a friend today informing the world that her sweet little doggie died on Sunday. She had cancer, too. And it was fast. She first told us about her pup's diagnosis only a few months ago at most. And I saw her a few weeks ago and the worst Ms. H had was a little cough. Cancer!
There's a reason that there is a saying that something grows "like a cancer." Because cancer grows fast, and unlike the pride you have when you measure your kid (unless she suffers from giantism) against the door frame and mark the progress she is making with a pencil, the date, and her name, or the joy you feel when you're 85 and you still know of one sure fire way to make wrinkles disappear, no one except the most sociopathic genetic researcher feels pride or joy when they see cancer grow. Cancer is, for lack of a better word, evil.
When I was 15, I looked around at my friends and did this tally. Of the girls I counted as my closest friends, all but one had lost her mother to breast cancer. My mother was still alive then, and I thought, "why am I so lucky?" My morose little brain thought something like this, "I have never experienced pain or loss, and so I will probably die young." That was my idea of balance. I felt that I deserved some pain and loss because I recognized that it was endemic to being human.
I feel like stopping now and eating the meal my husband is cooking, and looking at him and into him and reaching out for him, holding his arm/his skin/his body and holding it tighter (burning the experience of having him in my life onto me like a brand that can never be washed away by death, mine or his, or anyones) and if I could, consuming him, the moment, this house we're in, our pets, our friends, and all of the life we get to have because I want the pleasant feelings that come with a shot in the arm or a bag of tater tots and a chocolate shake. And it makes me understand communion and what Jesus might have been trying to satisfy for his friends as he ate with them for a final time and told them to eat and drink him. Which brings me to god, the second theme of this post.
By the way, the title of this post is a quote, from a poem written by Paul Celan. It's called Zahle die Mandeln, and I think you should read it. Come on, click here, I've made it easy for you and it's even in English.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Weltschmerz
weltschmerz \VELT-shmairts\ noun, often capitalized
*1 : a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state
Isn't that a great word?
Sadly, some other schmuck already took it on blogspot, AND on livejournal. So for now, I'll keep this one.
I want to apologize to the mythical reader for my last post. Of course I don't hate you -- I barely know ye!
And even if I do know you, and if I did hate you at that moment, there's a thin line between love and hate and I probably love you now. Fickle me pink.
I don't know what to do on a blog. I read a friend of mine's blog and it's so focused and full of art. I'm jealous of him because he moved to Norway. I don't want to move to Norway, but I'm still jealous. Partly because I think that to have a blog will require me to do things/think things worth blogging about. That's good, in a way, because I spend so much time on auto-kcuffing-pilot that it might wake me up. Ach!
*1 : a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state
Isn't that a great word?
Sadly, some other schmuck already took it on blogspot, AND on livejournal. So for now, I'll keep this one.
I want to apologize to the mythical reader for my last post. Of course I don't hate you -- I barely know ye!
And even if I do know you, and if I did hate you at that moment, there's a thin line between love and hate and I probably love you now. Fickle me pink.
I don't know what to do on a blog. I read a friend of mine's blog and it's so focused and full of art. I'm jealous of him because he moved to Norway. I don't want to move to Norway, but I'm still jealous. Partly because I think that to have a blog will require me to do things/think things worth blogging about. That's good, in a way, because I spend so much time on auto-kcuffing-pilot that it might wake me up. Ach!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Top 10 List
Things Ihate:
Myself
Blogs
America
My Job
Debt
My Parents
The Internet
This Post
The Reader of this Post
Everything Else
Myself
Blogs
America
My Job
Debt
My Parents
The Internet
This Post
The Reader of this Post
Everything Else
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Oh the pressure
The first post.
Like the opening sentence of a great novel, the first post should be a clue, an enticement, maybe even the mirror image of the coda!
If this first post will be anything remotely like the first sentence of a great novel, ipso facto this blog would have to be like a great novel, right?
Did I use "ipso facto" correctly?
Shit. I messed it up already. I feel like Grover.
That reminds me of my sister-in-law, who, when she was a tot in the 80s, thought the lyrics to Madonna's Dress You Up were "all over your Grover" instead of "all over your body."
Like the opening sentence of a great novel, the first post should be a clue, an enticement, maybe even the mirror image of the coda!
If this first post will be anything remotely like the first sentence of a great novel, ipso facto this blog would have to be like a great novel, right?
Did I use "ipso facto" correctly?
Shit. I messed it up already. I feel like Grover.
That reminds me of my sister-in-law, who, when she was a tot in the 80s, thought the lyrics to Madonna's Dress You Up were "all over your Grover" instead of "all over your body."
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