I received the most disturbing call ever. There I was, minding my own business, when my son's father called. The conversation made no sense to me then, and makes less sense to me now.
SS: Did Oren call you? (lots of background noise) Me: No. What's up? ...hello? SS: He didn't call you and tell you about the *muffled noise*? Me: What? I can't hear you. SS: Did he tell -- about -- th -- stra? Me: You're breaking up, what? SS: --ORCHESTRA? Me: What? SS: OREN JOINED THE ORCHESTRA AT SCHOOL. Me: .... SS: He wanted to play the violin, but they were out of those, so we got a viola. Me: ....a WHAT?! I'm sorry, WHO? SS: Here, talk to him. Oren: Hey, Mom. Me: Hi buddy. So... the ORCHESTRA? And... the VIOLA? ...really? Oren: Yeah. Me: So you've always wanted to play the viola? I didn't even realize you were aware of the viola. The only thing Mom is sure of is that the viola is NOT a violin, but it walks and talks like one. Oren: Pretty much. Me: You really want to play that? Oren: I don't know, but I've always wanted to be in orchestra.
To which I wanted to reply, HAVE WE MET?
It's like I woke up today and realized I have an overachieving Asian child. To me, children who play the viola (THE VIOLA) should also be doing calculus for fun and making me breakfast. Thanks to Wikipedia, I have found out that the viola is basically the middle note of the string section; it's used to round out the harmony, and add richness and depth to the music. I think that's a lovely description--and if an adorable, 9-year old Chinese girl was playing it for me, I might actually weep from joy. But when I think about my goofy, brown, 10-year old halfbreed playing the viola, it just makes me weep. From unbelievable laughter. And the strange pride that comes from discovering your child is a person for the very first time.
If I had to assign an instrument to Oren, the viola would make the bottom of the list, right next to the flute, piccolo, and ALL string instruments; Oren seems like more of a--I hate to say it--tuba kid, or even percussion of some sort. Maybe the keyboard, but I don't think the $38 Casio I have in mind gets a lot of stage time in the orchestra. So the viola threw me off--WAY off. I was kind of in shock. I called my mother four times. I thought the sky was falling.
Of course I think it's amazing--that HE'S amazing for even coming up with this shit! the fucking VIOLA!--but I was just so surprised. Oren could have called up and said MOM I'M GAY AND ADDICTED TO INHALANTS, and I would have been all DUDE I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF BLOGGING, CAN I CALL YOU BACK and then I would have forgotten. But THIS? The ORCHESTRA? Around this time last year he was playing football, albeit begrudgingly. (Favorite football convo I had with him: "Hey Oren, how's football?" Answer: "Daddy likes it!") Maybe he's finally jumping into the Nerd category with both feet; I hope so. I mean, he is a little computer geek who looks up to the ultimate computer geek (the Esq). I'd much rather that than some fey, Abercrombie-wearing, Jeep-driving, backwards cap-sporting douchebag football player. Not to be too specific.
In other sky-falling news, Snotty has a new hairdo. It's kind of like Katie Holmes' old haircut (old=3 months ago), the one she had before she and Tom Cruise started looking like creepy twins. LIKE THEY WEREN'T CREEPING US OUT ALREADY. The Esq's sister (KJ) and I got our hair done yesterday at the Bellevue Gene Juarez (something I said I would never do, which is a testament to how accurate this sentence is: everything I say I will never do is done within six minutes after public declaration), and then had dinner at Joey's (another something I said I would never do--I rest my case) which was pretty good; I will be going back for the gorgonzola toast, for sure. When it arrived, the toast was the shape of a cake-slice and the size of a Buick; I felt like we were at Claim Jumper's. After the first tentative bite, however, I was inclined to take that toast to the ladies' room and rub it all over my body--I just couldn't find a little Mexican spectator to stand by the door.
The last time I was in Bellevue, LIKE FOR REALS, was when my viola-loving offspring was still chillaxing in utero. There's no need to go there, really. Unless you want to spend a ton of money and feel shiny for a few hours; now I understand why Bellevue exists. I had a lot of fun with KJ, though, and if you're looking for a killer haircut, JAKE at Bellevue Gene Juarez was the NIT to my SHIZ.
Anyways, I have bangs. BANGS (Me 3-months ago: I WILL NEVER EVER GET BANGS). I'll need to become a Flat Iron Warrior in order to keep this haircut viable. Will upload pics later on, but right now, I have a date with my mother, my two nephews, and the Seattle Science Center. Viva la science!
I think it was Juliana who said to me, "You always have the best poop stories." She was right; my poop stories are generally thoughtful, visual, and filled with random details that other poop storytellers might leave out. Not me. I spin my poop stories like an old woman spins yarn in a fairytale: forever, and for no reason. But the poop story I am about to tell you has a twist this time, and the name of that twist is The Esquire.
Snotty begins:
We were at U-Village, shopping for a gift, when I suddenly needed to use the little girls' room. Normally I stay away from public restrooms, but the U-Village pit stops had already been vetted by Yours Truly nine months earlier; we left the candy shoppe and headed toward the bathroom next to Pallino's.
I handed the Esq my bags, because I thought he was going to wait in the hallway, but he decided he needed to go, so we split the bags up. I walked into the Ladies' room and saw that my preferred stall was taken (the handicrapper--what, I always use that one... it's not like I physically PUSH a wheelchair-bound person out of my way to use it) and that the stall was littered with shopping bags and a giant green purse riddled with large gold grommets. I entered my stall, sat down, and then... nothing. Not a drop. Total silence. I realized I was holding my breath, and I wondered why the bathroom was completely absent of sound. How I wish that silence had gone on forever.
Suddenly, out of the next stall comes the sound of someone dying; it was like that scene in Ghostbusters where the jerk releases all of the ghosts into the city, and the city goes batshit crazy--evil beings, tortured souls, and anthropomorphic marshmallow men unleashed their creepy agendas upon the people of New York, and a portal to the Other World was opened. The dying woman in the handicapped stall? Her asshole was that portal. It was that scene in Dumb and Dumber, only worse, because I was trapped there by my own performance-wary bladder. Trapped and holding onto my roll of toilet paper, trying not to cry from laughter and sympathy. Edging my shoes away from her stall, so she wouldn't see them and therefore be able to identify me around U-Village. As though that was her first concern.
If there was ever a scenario where monkeys might fly out of one's butt, this was it, this was the one. The poor woman must have had Habanero peppers, lutefisk, head cheese, steel wool, and anti-freeze for lunch; that's how bad it sounded. I finally willed myself to pee--through a stern pep talk and a little shaking (hey, guys do it!)--and thought, I should just leave and wash my hands somewhere else. This woman has enough to deal with right now, she doesn't need more of an audience. But my own germy phobia got the best of me, and so I washed my hands as quickly as possible. The sound of her ass-tastic performance followed me out the door and into the hallway; I was mortified, for her and for me.
I looked around for the Esq, who was standing in the corner, smirking; I thought he, too, had heard the unmistakable sound of her defeated a-hole, but he just shook his head and we went outside. As always, I started telling him my story on the sidewalk, and he just nodded and laughed; I was animated as ever, but it wasn't making much of a dent. That's when the Esq began his own bathroom tale of drama and woe.
The Esq continues our story:
I didn't actually use my bathroom, because there were people fucking in it. Of course I have an intellectual awareness that this goes on, but never had I witnessed it firsthand. And I've been in plenty of sketchy bathrooms -- believe you me. This was a quite public and well-maintained bathroom in a very busy shopping center, and seemingly an odd choice of venue.
Nonetheless, immediately upon entry I noted with some confusion that there were two pairs of shoes (facing the same direction) in the nearest stall, which was a-rockin'. It seemed odd not to use the aforementioned (much more spacious) handicrapper for such a purpose. I briefly considered if someone choking on the pot was in fact being rescued via Heimlich manuever, or if someone was just making an incredible commotion trying to change into another pair of shoes. Discarding all of these as supremely unlikely, I found myself too distracted to pee. I made a tight circle, said "Pardon me" to the little Mexican spectator lurking by the door, and beat a hasty retreat.
Snotty finishes:
Well, he wins. Obviously. I just love how there were two dudes a-rockin' in a stall not some ten feet from the children's play area, and that some little Mexican dude was standing in as a witness. How thoughtful of him. When the Esq repeated his tale to me, my shrieking "WHAT?!" was probably heard throughout the entire Village of U.
When I got home, I unloaded my purchases; in the bottom of one bag was the toilet paper roll I had been clutching in the bathroom stall. Somehow, in all of the diarrhea madness, I had managed to steal the roll; in my mad dash from bathroom to sink to hallway, I forgot to put the roll down, and instead chose to steal it as a papery reminder of how close I came to death that day. A souvenir, if you will.
Also, if I ever start a band, it's totally going to be called Defeated A-Hole.
We were driving home from a birthday meet-up last night when this Monster Truck roared past us on the freeway. It was the size of King Kong and the color of anger, no joke. I was in the middle of a sentence when it sped by, and promptly forgot what we were talking about.
Me: WHOA! Esq: That's a pretty big truck. Me: And a very small penis. Esq: But look at all of the room the truck has instead! Me: What does that have to do with the price of eggs? Esq: What if you needed to transport a grand piano? I couldn't do that with my penis.
I need a graphic designer/web page rehabilitator (is this a word?)/Jack or Jill-of-all-things-HTML to help me with my website. Obama screamed CHANGE and I am taking that to heart quite literally; I want to change the blog. Not the content--of which there is none, I've just tricked you people into loyalty on the merits of my finely-crafted bullshit--but EVERYTHING ELSE. I know exactly what I want, but do not possess the programming talents to make it a reality (I'm all about the basic HTML and NO FLASH; Flash-animated webpages are to Snotty as strobe lights are to PTSD). I would prefer someone who can at least give me an overview of what they're doing, so if they die the day after completing the webpage, I can at least hold my own until finding a suitable replacement. It's time to take this website for a spin. If you know someone--or you are that someone--email me (getbent@sn0tty.com) so we can talk branding and compensation. I hope you like being paid in cupcakes--or if you've always wanted to sleep with an adorable lawyer under the age of 30, I might be able to work something out.
Pleasure last:
More importantly, if you haven't tried out the Sarah Palin Name Generator, I suggest you go right now. Just type in your first name, and you will get YOUR Palin family name (or, the weird name she might have picked for you, had you been unfortunately born into her family). My name was Block Lionel Palin. Justin was Stag Tonnage Palin. My son, Oren, was Goalie Sanka Palin. Sarah's children have names like Trig, Track, Bristol, Willow, and Piper; it's like the shows Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer met up with Northern Exposure and had a Wiccan baby. I entered the name 'Track' into the name generator, and what I got was: Meat Notgay Palin. Bristol was Strangle Thicket Palin. And Sarah herself was Claw Washout Palin. That would be a good nickname for her: The Claw. In related and yet totally unrelated news, I saw that some of my Facebook friends joined the 'I have more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin' group, and that made me LOL. And then I joined.
And an extra added bonus:
And thanks to Manthony for somehow finding my new favorite page on the dubya-dubya-dubya: FUCKED-UP BARBIE JEWELRY, YES YES YESSSSS. I told the Esq I would accept a creepy Ken doll ring as an engagement ring someday, only because 1) THEY ROCK, and 2) it would certainly be original. With a capital 'O', as in OH MY GOD THAT RING FUCKING RULES, YOU WEIRDO.
Today we're going to reach into the ol' mailbag and answer some fan mail... I thought you guys might appreciate such an offering. All names have been changed to protect the somewhat-innocent. And yes, these are real letters--I've been getting a lot lately (that's not said in a Snotty tone, that's said in an unbelievable one--WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!). So without further ado, bring on the adoring fans!
******************** (Sent to me through Gmail)
Dear Snotty,
I am a writer, mother and Christian. I read your blog because I think it is funny beyond words and has a fresh perspective. I am conflicted, however, due to what I think are your anti-Christian views. Not all Christians will try to convert you, not all Christians are hypocrites. Most of the Christians I know are fun-loving people who have problems just like everyone else. We are just people. We're even people who love Obama and your blog! So before I write you off forever (just kidding), can you shed more light on your views, especially now that you have a spiritual perspective (from your retreat, which I thought sounded lovely). I am a big fan but hope, deep down, that your anti-Christian rants are just another product of your imaginative writing. Has there ever been a religion that spoke to you? I'm just wondering, and I know it's a personal question.
Sincerely,
Kris Kristofferson
********************
Dear Kris Kristofferson,
1. You knew it was a personal question, and yet you asked it anyways. You're right, Christians aren't hypocritical. 2. "Funny beyond words"? But... those are words.... did you say you were a writer? 3. Out of the 134 words you wrote, the word 'Christian' appeared SIX TIMES. 4. Non-Christians don't describe other non-Christians as 'fun-loving', like, ever. I'd never noticed until now. 5. I'm not anti-Christian, I'm anti-dogma. The Christians are just easier to pick on because there are more of you, and they get enraged when I'm all JESUS WAS A ZOMBIE and then they send me sweet fanmail imploring me to declare myself spiritually so that they can feel better about reading a blog where the word FUCK appears 189 times a day.
I think you hope, deep down, that I'm a Christian, or at the very least, a supporter of Christian people or Christian values. Hey, people can do whatever they want. But for me to be a Christian supporter or be excited about Christian values? That's called 'wishful thinking' in my world; it's the kind of thinking that 2,000 wishes couldn't make true, not for love or money or bacon. I'm not a Christian. But I can have goodwill towards men and all that, even though that's more of a Christmas thing.
Thank you for your mail, though. But this blog isn't about my spiritual views or your Christian insecurities, although HOW I WISH IT WERE. However, when I find a religion that isn't attached to some fucked-up bullshit story passed down through the ages to keep people fearful and compliant--when I find a religion that isn't based around my open heart and equally open wallet--WHEN I FIND A RELIGION THAT ISN'T RUN LIKE A BUSINESS BYMEN, FOR MEN, AND IN DEFERENCE TO MEN--then I will join up and rejoice in the Lord, who I'm hoping is the perfect balance between the sacred male and sacred feminine: you know, a transsexual.
It would be pretty boss if I turned out to be God, though, and I just never knew it. I'd be smiting the shit out of people. Yes, even you. I'm just giving you a hard time, really, but please know that I appreciate your letter, and just for shits and giggles, Buddhism is the only religion that ever spoke to me--the best part about Buddhism being: no one has ever tried to convert me into it. Well, that and the whole Nirvana thing.
Anyways, I implore you to check out www.joyfulchristianwife.blogspot.com for spiritual declarations and teachings; come back here for the fart jokes.
And truly, thank you for your letter; I'm sorry I can't be more... Christianly. Vote Obama!
-Snotty
******************** (Sent to me on Myspace):
Snotty,
I can't tell if you are naughty or nice, and I would really like to know. Also, I love your eyes, well just the one in your blog photo lol
Santa
********************
Dear Santa,
Living off the fat of my milk and cookies has made you soft, at least when it comes to punctuation. You love my eyes, 'well just the one in my blog photo'? And then you laughed out loud? Are you drunk?
I'm one of those girls who walks and talks dirty, but who is actually pretty nice (read: pushover) in real life. People think I wear the pants in this family. I thought I did, too. But I was so. very. wrong.
You brought me a computer last year--this year I want world peace Miley Cyrus to perish in a horrifying accident. Then I want world peace.
-Snotty
********************
(Sent to me on Yelp, this is just email excerpts, but it is definitely my favorite):
Ok, so fine. I'm admitting it. I lurk. I'm a lurker. And I lurk you.
Anyway, I became addicted to your writing. Reading your blog is part of my daily doings. So much so, I had some quick explaining to do to my husband the other day when I saw your "Esq" walking up the street (as we were driving by) - I reacted like you do when you see someone famous - and my husband asked "do you know that guy?". Well - no - but yeah, kinda.
So now - you show up on Yelp - where I used to live. I think - is this a sign? -do I come out of lurking and say "Hi Marika, I think you're a really amazing writer and your kid is a gem, and yeah, I feel just like you do on (insert topic)."
I've been reading your blog for quite some time now and am thrilled to see you writing on Yelp. I enjoy your POV on life and look forward to reading more from you!
Sincerely,
Crazy Yelp Lady
*******************
Dear Crazy Yelp Lady,
THAT is how you write a fan letter, the kind that doesn't get a Snotty response. I am glad that we are Yelp friends now, and hope you will be equally entertained by me on Yelp as I push for my goal of being crowned Elite within the next six months. Everyone else should be reading my reviews, too. *stares at everyone else*
Thank you for the nice letter--you will always get published here if you mention my sweetheart or how awesome I am at any given moment. Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Viva la fanmail!
Photo: Will the real Ben Bernanke please stand up?
Burn After Reading: go see this movie so we can talk about it and I can figure out if I really liked it. I didn't NOT like it, which is probably the worst way to describe something ever; if the Esq ever says "Well I don't NOT like you", I will say "Well I'm not going to NOT kick you in the weiner"--then I will proceed to NOT-NOT set our house on fire.
I can count on one hand the Brad Pitt films I've enjoyed: Fight Club, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Ocean's Eleven, Snatch, and Se7en. Had I seen Babel or The Mexican, I'm sure I would have liked them, too, but I'm over it now. Burn After Reading might not have been the best Coen brothers film, but it certainly was the funniest character Brad Pitt has ever played. I always wondered if he could play really, really dumb, without being retarded. Turns out he can; I felt he stole the show, even thought his part was somewhat minor. I laughed out loud every time he was onscreen, and not just because he looked like a giant douche-y douchebag.
I never got that whole BRAD PITT IS THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE thing... yeah, I guess he's all right, but a tad bit on the Ken doll side. Truthfully, I think Angelina makes him look more interesting, physically. I also think he's getting better looking with age, lucky bastard. I always wondered... if women across the country are fantasizing about Brad Pitt while having sex with their partners, who is Angelina Jolie fantasizing about? I would hope it would be someone like Boris Yeltsin or Roseanne Barr, just to make the world more balanced, but she probably just looks into a mirror.
I totally stole this video from Heather over at dooce.com, but since she ganked it from Metafilter, it's really just a pyramid scheme of blog theft (although I prefer to think of it as the Circle of Life--Elton John's circle, if you were wondering). This is the type of video that makes you wonder, 'Am I on acid?' After you've figured out that you're not--it's only Wednesday, after all, and acid is more of a 3-day weekend type of thing--you'll have to watch it again. As Heather pointed out, you will either love it or hate it, but she introduced it more eloquently than me. Than I. Than me. Than I. Basically, hers was better.
The actor reminds me of my little brother, Sam, for some reason, which is awesome and unfortunate at the very same time. Not physically, mind you--my little brother doesn't hail from Fraggle Rock like this strangefellow--but the turn of phrase (charming!) and the over-acting (delightful!) reminded me of Sammywhammy. And so I have to post it, and then laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh... even though sometimes I get it, and sometimes I don't. But I DO keep repeating the phrases I NEED YOUR TEETH FOR MY LONELY HEARTS' CLUB BAND, SPENCER and YOU RAMBUNCTIOUS LITTLE INFANT. I wish I had written this deplorable and fantastical "screenplay". It's brilliant. A tall drink of water, if you will. Enjoy, or not.
Thank God I took pictures of this unnatural occurrence before it left the park yesterday. Robin and I went for a walk around Ravenna Park, and ended up across the street from our place at Cowen Park, wondering what the hell was going on. Port-A-Potties get sleepy, just like you and me, but apparently they sleep in the park, just like the homeless.
Also, some of my retreat photos are posted there, too.
I've only been gone 8 hours, and already I've cheated on you; I've fallen in love with Breitenbush, and I will not be coming back. Today I heard my mother say the F-word and the P-word; normally I would write those words out completely, but ladies don't say words like that, and my mother is a lady. That being said, she DID say them out loud, and this place fucking rocks.
It's hard for me to describe Breitenbush. Words that come to mind are: liberating, comfy, bizarre, open, happy, challenging, natural, raw, and cocooned. Other words might be HIPPIE COMMUNE and WHAT AM I DOING HERE. But I like it--I felt grounded the minute I saw the place. You know how I was rambling on the other day about how I needed a change? This feels like a good jumpstart.
The group is being led by Julie, who is, for all intended purposes, our spiritual guide. She's like a hybrid between Glenda the Good Witch and Yoda, but she looks a bit like Merriweather, one of Sleeping Beauty's fairy godmothers; I expect her to start levitating tomorrow. It only took 49 minutes before she implored us to TREASURE OURSELVES, but everything else she talked about was very useful, without being cheesy or disingenuous. Not that treasuring myself isn't genuine, it just sounded kind of masturbatory. Maybe I'll treasure myself later.
I'm really enjoying hanging out with my extended family. It's easy to find things to talk about since I'm generally trying to avoid talking about how naked we are. YES, I DID IT. Luckily, we hit the spiral tubs after the evening meditation, so my first foray into public nudity was only witnessed by those in the dark. It was really nice to be naked, staring up at the stars, and not really caring. I also quite fancied how buoyant my hooters are in water; I wish they resided closer to my chin all of the time.
As for the meditation, nothing brings on Restless Leg Syndrome like sitting still in the middle of the woods. My mind is like a cross between a pinball machine and four Pomeranians: in constant motion and totally annoying. The spinning mind never ends.
Dinner was not disappointing: the spanakopita hit the spot, although I thought it might have been better with a bong hit and 28 slices of bacon. I'm tired from the drive and everyone else has passed out. I'm sleeping in a bunk bed with Mom, and so excited for my massage tomorrow; even though I'm sleeping in a tiny twin bed, it still feels empty without you. I hope you're lonely and miserable without me; by the time I get back, there'd better be a Widow's Walk built in to the outside of our apartment building, and you'd better be walking it. In a black Victorian dress. SOBBING.
XO
DAY TWO
Dear J,
Today during morning meditation, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Learning how to be quiet and still is hard; it would be easier for me to grow my own penis, simply with the powers of my mind. But I've had brief flashes of stillness--minutes, really--where I've felt... calm, like being in the eye of a storm. See, this place really IS transforming; I'm using crappy metaphors already.
After meditating, I felt like hugging my mom, and we just sat like that for a long time. The last time that happened was right before heading off to rehab; I guess when I'm ready to surrender to something, my mom acts as a gateway. A weeping, loved-up, emotional, 61-year old gateway. Your favorite kind. And can I just say, with the conviction of a thousand white, middle-to-upper class hippies: FUCK WRITING MANUALLY. I feel like I'm 13 again: writing furiously in my journal, feeling very confused, and resisting everything. Which is great, because 13 was so much fun the first time around.
Women use a lot of Oprah Jargon here--LIBERALLY--but this is the right setting for it. Although one woman said she was dropping a plum line down from her third eye, and I spent the next 30 minutes feeling around for my own third eye. I finally found it in my handbag, along with that pair of socks you've been looking for; everything gets lost in there.
I've braved the tubs twice already today (IN BROAD, CELLULITE-LOVING DAYLIGHT), once before my massage and once after. The spiral tubs are pretty cool; there are 4 hot springs tubs of varying degrees--Warm, Hot, Really Hot, and Oh My God Are You Fucking Kidding Me Hot--and one cold tub that rips your nipples off the minute you get in. Being naked isn't an issue anymore; there's a brief psychological breath I take right before stripping, but everyone is naked--BIRTHDAY SUITS GALORE. And WOW, what suits! Big, small, young, old, and nary a Heidi Klum in sight. It helps that there are no supermodels here. I say that like there IS a silent meditation retreat where supermodels gather to wander around naked together; if Hell exists, surely that must be mine.
My massage was 90 minutes long and totally boss. This itty-bitty, teeny-weeny thing walks up to me and talk-whispers to me in a voice like Tinkerbell; I thought, how in God's name is this 12-year old going to work me over? She looks about as powerful as a half-stick of Nag Champa. We went upstairs to her room, which was AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME, and she proceeded to prove me wrong. Much like Nag Champa, the massage was overpowering and long-lasting; in other words, perfect (even though I hate that incense more than anything on Earth). The big rushing river outside was our soundtrack, and my body felt very present and awake. Speaking of 'present', I will continue to talk like a vegan self-help brochure for the next two weeks. Happy Early Birthday.
I daresay my massage therapist--whose name I can't remember, but it was probably something like Falling Rain or Wisdom--opened up my elusive third eye, and probably my third nipple, too. I feel unbroken again.
Breitenbush is run by the river people, or that's what I call them. They live across the river, off the grid, and they help keep the retreat running, in the real spirit of community. I saw a chalkboard where the river people signed up for duties; the few names I saw were Mark, Treya, and Amber Jade. I seriously can't imagine being named something like that. I mean, who would name their kid Mark?
Tonight, after dinner, we did another 45-minute meditation, and I was a MEDITATING CHAMPION. I was all NEENER NEENER to the other newbies, which just shows how far I've come in the goodwill department. It only felt like 15 minutes had passed, probably because I fell asleep. (Not really! I was just in the zone.) I've noticed that I hate being silent--or maybe the better word is 'quiet'--because it's harder to avoid the things I've been desperately trying to avoid. With all of the things that I am "supposed" to be worrying about right now, it's very hard to clear my mind of them when I'm just sitting still. Definitely a learning experience.
I'm off to bed, so I can keep reading this book The Dance of the Dissident Daughter; it's the true account of Sue Monk Kidd's journey into spirituality (from her Southern Baptist roots)--it's the spiritual equivalent of YOU GO, GIRL. Mom loaned it to me and I was all EWW SPIRITUAL JOURNEYS EWW, but then Julie mentioned it in her dharma talk tonight and I thought, what the hell. It's just like in high school, when my mom would say, take a coat outside, it's cold! And I was like, whatever biatch. And then my boyfriend would say, it really is cold outside, you might want to wear one. And I'd be all, Oh really? Well if you say so! Everyone ignores their parents; I majored in it.
Since it's an all-women retreat, the men's bathrooms/showers are open to everyone. Mom and I went to take a shower, and while washing my hair I said, "This is a blog." Mom asked, what is? Me: "So I was in the Men's restroom at a silent meditation retreat, showering with my mother...." She agreed.
I was on the bottom bunk last night, but tonight I moved to the top; if you've made it to 62-years old, you deserve the bottom bunk. Also, I was freezing last night and Mom was too warm, so the switch seemed like a win/win. That being said, bunk beds are not for plus-size people, thank you very much.
I'm laughing a lot here. That's good. I miss you!
DAY THREE
Dear J,
Today I dipped into the cold pool five times! The cold one is called The Awakening Pool (isn't that lovely?), but I call it The Holy Fucking Shit Pool. What, this place is pretty holy. My old friend, Sara (and daughter of India, who you've met), showed up with her six-week old baby, Reese, and AWWWWWWW OOOOOOOH EEEEEEEEEE. It made me want five just like her! She looked so...edible. Baby love is a wonderful thing. I was amazed at how instinctual it was for all of the women in our group to lose their shit over a wee bebe, and I was no different. Don't worry, though, I'm still on the life-long No More Babies Ever track; I'd rather have herpes, or a dog. Maybe just the dog.
The Holy Fucking Shit Pool works only if you do the other tubs first--even the Oh My God Are You Fucking Kidding Me Pool--because you have to raise your internal temperature high enough for your brain to melt. After it melts the first time, you have to dial it back a little bit so you have something left to think with. I haven't been able to grow that penis yet, but when I do, I can quit thinking with my brain and switch to thinking with my penis, just like you--then I can melt my brain all I want. Once in the cold pool, you have to sit very still, so that you can watch your heart beat out of your chest. Literally. I was all, GAH I NEED THAT! and pushed it back in. The space around me--about an inch off of my skin--became a strangely warm cocoon, so if I didn't move, it was delightful. When I did move, it felt like ten thousand little people stabbing me with ice picks. Wait, do they want to be called 'little people', or do they want to be called 'midgets'? I can never remember.
At one point, I wrapped myself in a towel, and walked out into the field that fell in between the tubs and the river; there were flowers and river rocks and tall grass in the field. I sat on a platform in the sun and thought, never in my life did I think I would be doing this. Never in my life did I think I could be comfortable in my body in front of other people. Never in my life have I felt so free! India and my mom brought everybody these neat dragonflies back from Southeast Asia, made out of some kind of hard material, acrylic maybe; they brought them to us because of how spiritual dragonflies can be. I remembered a dragonfly story told to me by a Native American dude, and I'm going to try and remember it in order to illustrate a point:
Dragonfly used to be Dragon, covered in beautiful shimmering scales, and possessing a deep inner strength. He could change form at will, and lit the darkness with his fiery breath. One day, Coyote tricked the Dragon into changing form forever, and into believing he was actually tiny Dragonfly. Dragon got caught in the illusion of his own making and caught up in someone else's influence, just as we can find ourselves forever mistaking our facades for who we really are; we forget that we, too, can change form at will, and wield great inner powers.
I was sitting in the sun, reflecting upon this story, and feeling really good. I decided the dragonflies hovering around me were a good sign, that they were supporting the New Me. Then I stood up, and realized I had somehow SAT ON A FUCKING DRAGONFLY, killing it in the process--those dragonflies were probably getting ready to attack me, so they could save their fallen soldier. I'm sure I have amazing inner strength, but it's nothing compared to the power of my ass.
I've been having a great time kicking it with Lista, another 'cousin', who is like my soul twin or something. I don't know if it's because we have the same fucked-up issues or what, but most likely. Her mother, however, brought Diet Coke to the retreat, and every time she's imbibing, I want to French kiss her just to get a small taste of that which I have forsaken. If I had to choose between a cold Diet Coke and amazing sex, I would probably choose amazing sex with a Diet Coke. My relationship with Diet Coke started way before you and me, so don't be jealous.
Tonight after meditation, we had a Kali fire, and made an offering to Kali, goddess of death, destruction, and transformation. We asked her to help us transform something--each person got up in front of 50+ people and talked a little bit about their offering--and then threw it in the fire. It was pretty weird (though very cool).
Kali liked my offering, which was a small house I made out of paper. After talking this afternoon with Mom and Emily, I realized that I've never felt like I deserved a home. Not, like, OWNING a home (although if Kali would like to send me a 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom house, fine by me)--but a home, and everything good that can come with it. I have never moved anywhere and actually unpacked everything, EVER, because my relationships have always been so chaotic and impermanent. I have never cleaned and organized and made my home MY HOME, because I felt it would be pulled out from under me. It also doesn't help that I've been essentially homeless (I say this with much gratitude to Kim and Autumn, who let me couchsurf for 3452389472 years), making the term 'home' feel like something alien, something that other people deserved. When we started talking about whipping our apartment into shape, I was excited because I thought--finally, I can feel like I live somewhere. And so I began the process, and it was very therapeutic. Then I started thinking about it as OUR HOME in CAPITAL LETTERS, and I stopped. Because I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop with you. I keep waiting for you to be someone that you're not. Namely my ex-husband.
I made my offering; I asked for transformation, and threw our house in the fire--so that we could build a new one, together, and so that I could have a space for me to be ME. And I've cried and cried and cried and cried (and cried and cried and cried and cried), hoping that I can get past this shit, so that I can quit being uncomfortable with how happy we are. Leave it to me to say Fuck You to happiness. It's the same old story.
Anyways, this letter is much longer, but filled with more purpose, methinks. My brain is going a million miles a minute. I'm exhausted from all of the stuff we're doing here, even though we're also doing nothing. Doing nothing is a lot of work. I hope I can sleep tonight, but if I can't, I will just think of you and hope that you're having fun with Joshy.
I meatloaf you!
DAY FOUR
Dear J,
I get to see you today! I got exactly one hour and 45 minutes of sleep last night; that melted brain was spinning all night long, thankfully about good things. I've almost forgotten what you look like, but my memory tells me you look like Johnny Depp. If, when I see you, that isn't a reality, don't be disappointed when I'm all WHAT THE FUCK, MAN. It's difficult when a fantasy dies. Just bear with me.
I'm wondering what you've been a-blogging about. If I know you, I'll bet you only blogged for 1-2 days and made it really cerebral, but I'm betting I'll love it, even if no one else does. Today is the final day, and I feel so different. I really like meditation, which didn't ever appeal to me before (is this a sign of maturity?--doubtful), and revealing myself to whoever, whenever (physically, emotionally, what-have-you) was easy once I asked myself, WHO FUCKING CARES?! My one and only pep talk--the one I had with myself--consisted of: MARIKA, TAKE THE GIANT STICK OUT OF YOUR ASS AND GET THE FUCK OVER IT. And so I did. It was easier to show up and participate. Do I feel transformed? Yep. Do I feel a little silly for it? A little, because HELLO--I never saw a Vipassana retreat in my future, especially a semi-silent naked one. But the main point is: I feel better. I feel like the best version of myself. And I also feel like my relationship with Mom is 900 billion times greater, something my old friends will consider very interesting (and a long time coming).
I talked to my roommates (wonderful women, all--Mom, Emily, and Pat) about how I've never identified myself as a woman before. I heard a lot of talk here about "The Sacred Feminine" and was like, ENOUGH WITH THE HIPPIE BUZZ WORDS ALREADY, but I find I'm in agreement. It's not a common practice to teach your daughters what it means to be a woman, how powerful it can be, or how to harness your female energy into something that's fucking epic--and Mom said, "Well of course you don't identify with being a woman, because I never did, either." How could she teach me something that wasn't taught to her? I only identify with being an employee, a parent, a girlfriend, a daughter--and if I was being really honest, I would probably say I identify with being a bad employee, an absent parent, a shitty girlfriend, and a screw-up daughter. I've lived with these labels all of my life, but never once thought about being a woman. That is so odd to me. Maybe I should stop trying to grow a penis with my mind. Just a thought.
As I said to Julie, this has been the best weekend of my life, because I feel freed from pain I've been carrying around for years upon years upon years. That doesn't mean there's no work to do, only that I can finally work on something else, and then move on to the next thing.
The only thing I hated about this weekend was being attacked by these tiny little mosquitos that my mom calls Noscia's (*this is spelled wrong, but I can't find them on Google*), but I call them Asshole Motherfuckers. I was eaten alive by them--I counted how many little bites I have, and I'm into the mid-twenties, and still finding more. I've been branded by Breitenbush in more ways than one. I'm free, and I'm itchy. I'll bet that's a turn-on.
Of all the labels I enjoy the most, I love being your shitty girlfriend. :) And I can't wait to see you, so I can tell you this heartwarming tale of love and acceptance, all the while ripping your clothes off.
Blogging is not nearly as easy as you make it seem. You seemed to snicker inwardly when you asked if I was just going to wing it -- and rightly so. I see you taking notes on your cell phone, like an eccentric scientist dictating ideas. You must have a good two or three dozen saved up in case of writer's block. The ones that see the light of day are inevitably hilarious, and never fail to connect with the reader.
But I do not habitually record my questionable flashes of brilliance; and as described earlier am in a constant state of blogger's block. My persuasive writing style stands in unfortunately stark contrast to your hysterical vignettes, which are evocative, amusing, and always make me look like I had something to say. In short, I miss your blog almost as much as I miss you. I am sure I also speak for your legions of fans who are stuck with me for another day. I should apologize to them too; I've been an altogether lackluster substitute so far. Instead I'll just have to dazzle them with the most amazing entry ever tomorrow, after I return from a family thing. If only I had those notes from your cell phone.
Over the next four days, I leave my blog in your ninja-like hands. I have a thousand instructions a la Monica Geller that I am not going to bother you with, because you don't need the added pressure and I know you can figure out the blogsphere on your own. The kinds of instructions I am not going to leave you include unhelpful things like 'Make sure your blog posts are longer than a sentence' and 'Redesign the entire blog'. I am also not going to remind you to do the dishes or drop off your dry cleaning, because you are always on top of it. If, during your leisurely weekend alone, you find yourself cleaning, organizing, and painting the inside of our home, I would not be okay with that, unless Adrian helped pick out the paint and then yeah, sure, go ahead.
I will be writing you letters--to be posted when I get back--the entire time I am on this retreat which, as I hear more about it, sounds like a silent meditation retreat complete with our own spiritual leader. I look forward to meeting this woman since she's a friend of my mom's, and was hoping she would have some crazy ass shaman name that means 'triumphant' in Sanskrit, but apparently her Earthly name is "Julie". I'm excited to see all the girls, and for my massage tomorrow (as you know I need one badly, with my 80-year old hips), but I'm also still wary. I hate the unknown.
As I battle my demons, physical and spiritual, I hope you have lots of fun without me. Sorry I made such a mess before I left; I'm not very good at packing. Also, I forgot that bag of toiletries, so when you see me next, I will be a stinky, unwashed, frizzy-haired pile of morning breath... sexypants! (Mom and I are going to stop at the store, don't worry--also, how did I forget the toiletries but manage to bring the MAKEUP? Who am I trying to impress in the middle of fucking NOWHERE? Maybe my new spirit guide.) I cannot believe that I will have no internet access and no cell phone coverage; to me, that's like living in a fucking cult. In Utah. On Mars.
I miss you already, but with me being home all the time, I know it will be nice to have some Boy Time (sounds gay--but Man Time didn't sound any better...Dude Time?). Two requests: No skanky hookers in the apartment (how many times do we need to have this conversation?), and say at least once today, "NEVER FORGET". You know, for 9/11. Or so you don't forget all of the things that I did not remind you of in this letter. Either way.
You have permission to tell stories about me that make me look bad, but since there aren't any, I guess you'll just have to stick with the truth. Sometimes I wish I could eat you, just to retain your awesome powers, but feel like I might regret something like that later on. Thank you for taking care of the blog, which is my next favorite thing after you.
I just saw an article that began with: "Thousands of people gathered Tuesday to remember a Skagit Valley sheriff's deputy who was killed in last week's shooting rampage." I basically yawned and moved on. Remember when a 'shooting rampage' was cause for alarm? Remember when it shocked you to the core, leading you to say things like, "How could this have happened?" and "What is this world coming to?" Like everyone else, I was glued to the telly when Columbine went down; I was also checking online reports during that whole Virginia Tech nightmare. But I didn't get the feeling I cared about those kids, I just got an adrenaline rush from the sensational journalistic reporting; much like 9/11, I had to finally turn off all media, because it was taking over my life. I wasn't getting new information, I was just re-living the adrenaline rush over and over again, and finding new things to cry about, until it finally meant nothing. Until tragedy was actually meaningless to me. So now, kids with guns are... meh. Old news. You shot up your high school and killed 4 people? Well enjoy your two minutes in the spotlight, because that six-year old over there is going to bring an Uzi to his kindergarten next week and fuck. shit. up. Tragic and unthinkable...but also becoming quite predictable in the news cycle.
So if the gun-wielding, classmate-killing children can't cause a blip on the radar, how can a 'shooting rampage' make any impact? Remember when the phrase SHOOTING RAMPAGE would have made front-page news? Now it's like, oh honey look, there was a shooting rampage last week, please pass me the Real Estate section and stop reading Marmaduke. The fact that it said "last week"--as in, last week's shooting rampage--meant more to me than the rampage itself; it should have said HORRIFYING TRAGEDY BEFALLS DEPUTY IN THE LINE OF DUTY DURING SHOOTING RAMPAGE. But no, it just said "last week's shooting rampage", because it looked just like the one from the week before, and then the week before that. It meant that this is a common occurrence, no big deal. This shit happens all the time, so I don't even bother being surprised anymore. Yeah, it sucks--lives lost and all that--but welcome to our world today. I know that people care, and I know that I am one of those people. It's just getting harder to drum up emotions for crimes and tragedies and accidents that seem to be stuck on the Repeat button. It saddens me, how de-sensitized I've become to the ugliest side of humanity.
"What's a prime number?" This godforsaken question was asked of me on my first day back at tutoring for 826Seattle. Although the little girl was ten, adorable, and very intent on learning, I wanted to say DAMN BITCH WHY YOU GOTTA BE ALL UP IN MY GRILL. I came here to volunteer and make a difference in my community, not teach you about imaginary made-up numbers! Isn't that what volunteering is all about?
Allow me to share with you the intellectual thought process I went through to answer this simple question:
Prime number, prime number... FUCK, it has something to do with...numbers...that are in their prime. Of course they're in their fucking prime, idiot. Okay, being in your prime sounds lonely to me; someone at the top of their game, surrounded by no one. An elitist, maybe. So, a prime number is lonely. One is the loneliest number, or so the song will have you believe, so it's probably depressed, going inward. OH MY GOD, I'M A PRIME NUMBER. No, no, keep on track. An internal journey of one. A fucking Army of One. I hated that fucking slogan. STAY FOCUSED!--one one one one one...OH! A prime number is probably only divisible by ONE...and then... maybe... I guess also the number...itself?--since it's the only other number around? Is this even feasible? This sounds like something a real adult might say. This sounds barely legitimate, but I'm okay with that. Let me test the waters, since I've just been sitting here staring at this piece of paper for, um.... going on five minutes. Okay, here goes:
"Diana, what do YOU think a prime number is?" Classic bait-and-switch, my parents and therapists favored this approach, too. "Um, I think it's a number that is divisible by one and then by itself but nothing else." She looked at me expectantly. I nodded, trying to look wise and serene like Siddartha, or Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. What, you thought I was going to PRAISE her? Hello, everyone knows what a prime number is.
Diana: "I'm confused!" Me: "Tell me about it." Diana: "I'm confused!" Me: "I didn't mean that literally."
This is the perfect example of why I cannot pass a math class: it's not that I don't arrive at the answer, it's the amount of time and energy one must put into remembering something that a fourth grader already knows. Her next question: "So what's a composite number?" My answer: JESUS, WHY DON'T YOU JUST ASK ME HOW MUCH I WEIGH. Look, I'm a writer--I don't want numbers in my life unless they're piling up in my bank account.
Every kid I worked with today had a horrific amount of math to do; I soldiered through it like an Army of One, actually. I wish I could just give these kids some real life answers to their standard, homogenized questions. What's a noun? You're a noun. What is 3x(2x + 4)? It's a pile of shit that will get you nowhere, so let's get to work on your Myspace page; how else do you expect to meet anyone?
I have an old client from the spa who comes in for tutoring--that's right, a nine-year old client who used to see me for regular pedicures. It's weird, because she totally knows me, and her mom totally knows me, but we pretend like we're strangers. She's a precocious little person; her vocabulary is enormous and she's what old people would call 'whip-smart'. Much like at the spa, everything about her annoys me, but I don't know why. Probably because she reminds me of my adventures in underpaid indentured servitude.
When her mom came in to pick her up, she was wearing an ill-fitting top with an unflattering skirt; they walked behind me as the little girl was saying, "That outfit looks good, I'm glad you wore it." The mom said, "Thanks!" as the little girl continued, "...even thought it's way too tight on you." Out of the mouths of babes. If someone was that honest with me, especially a nine-year old, I would throw her off a bridge wearing concrete boots, and film it so the memory could last a lifetime.
The day went well. Met another tutor for coffee beforehand WHICH IS WHY I'S ALL JITTERY AN' SHIT (I'm not a coffee drinker), and now I'm watching over the 826 store--the Greenwood Space Travel Supply Co.--until this writer's workshop is over. I love volunteering here; I get three hours of fun with the kiddos, and three hours of uninterrupted blogging time. Win/win. Plus, I get to tell people that I'm a tutor--more specifically, A MATH TUTOR--and then they're like OOOH YOU MUST BE HELLA SMART, GIRL and I'm all, WORD.
I'm supposed to be preparing for my vacation; I leave from Seattle to Gig Harbor on Wednesday evening, and then leave for Oregon with my mom the next morning. My friend asked me, "Does it really count as a vacation if your mother is going?" To which I replied, "It's a silent vegetarian retreat at a hot springs where everyone goes skinny-dipping; my mother is the least of my worries." She looked sorry for me, which made me want to beat her about the face with my silent vegetarianism; unfortunately, I'm neither silent nor vegetarian, so I suspect this vacation will be good for the blog. Or, as your dad might put it, good for building character. With no internet or phone connection on-site, it had better be. I'll be writing IN A NOTEBOOK. With an actual PEN. Like, MANUALLY. I'm guessing my handwriting will look like I'm shaky from bacon withdrawal, but it's really the lack of heroin I'm concerned about. Actually, I'm concerned about them equally.
I'm looking forward to a stack of books, the hot springs, someone else making all of my meals, hanging with my mom, and writing in a notebook like a goddamn hippie. I thought about taking the laptop, but it's an old one; it only inspires me to go out and buy a newer, lighter one. If I know myself, I'll probably write in Snotty abbreviations that will be hell on Earth to translate later on, but so be it. I also look forward to wandering around aimlessly--personally and not just professionally--and having one of those moments where you pick up a pinecone and discover the meaning of life, or whatever. What, it happens. Usually you have to be stoned out of your mind, but it happens: you find meaning in something unexpected. You're like DUDE I HAVE THE MUNCHIES and then suddenly you're holding a milk carton in one hand and a fork in the other, screaming I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS! (Or something equally embarrassing, like GOD APPEARED TO ME ON A PIECE OF TOAST, LET ME SHOW YOU, OH I ATE IT.) If God had the ability to show himself through any means necessary, do you really think a piece of toast would be the most effective viewing medium? Why not a television, one with great reception? That way everyone would believe, no question. But toast... toast is divine only with eggs and bacon, and not with the power of Christ, amen.
On a different note, I am now addicted to Yelp. I don't know if there are 12-step programs out there for Yelp, but I cannot stop writing reviews (well, three so far and three in the works). I like that I can say pretty much whatever I want, within reason. And since I go out a lot--for food, drink, shows, shopping--it's a nice place for me to sum up my experiences. Some people would say YOU SHOULD BLOG ABOUT IT but those people don't understand my addiction to social networking sites (hello Myspace, Facebook, Livejournal, Friendster, Reddit, Xanga, Vox, Okcupid, etc etc). My actual social life just can't compare to the one I'm virtually having online. My Yelp reviews can be seen here, too, so no worries; just look to your right and there they are, for all the world to see.
I will be absent from the blog from Thursday to Sunday, but never fear! You'll have four whole days of Guest Blogging from my one and only, so if you ever wanted to shoot the shit with Smarty McSmarterson, this is your chance. I have no idea what the Esq will be writing about, only that he'll post once a day and it will be grammatically perfect. I daresay he'll use a semi-colon or two... enthralling! And don't go easy on him in the Comments, guys, this one can take a beating and give it right back, making you wish you had never been born. It's one of his most endearing traits.
I have now been home and not working for 20 days, but it feels like a thousand. I feel like a housewife reject. As a housewife, there are myriad things to do around the house like cleaning and organizing and cocaine, but that's for normal housewives. I'm a reject, as in 'my house rejects my half-assed efforts at cleaning and organization', or 'I reject all things housewifey and here's my middle finger for emphasis'. I'm trying, but motivation isn't a big factor in a day that has no schedule or boundaries; I woke up today when you were having lunch, is what I'm trying to say. I opened my eyes at the exact same moment you were wishing you could go home. Now I'm trying to figure out what to eat for lunch, but the thought process is making me sleepy; I might need to take a nap in order to make a real decision. Or maybe I need a household staff--they could help me make a decision, and then, quite literally, make my food for me. It's good to be solution-oriented.
I guess what women do at home is raise children, otherwise what else would they do? That doesn't sound very appealing to me. I'm too tired right now for procreation, a nine-month gestational period, and a lifetime of MOM CAN I PLEASE HAVE SOME MONEY I WILL TOTALLY PAY YOU BACK. It's hard enough having a part-time kid already. Something people won't tell you before having children is that children are disappointing, but only if you're a control freak like me. They generally oppose everything you enjoy, which makes sense, but no one told me it was going to be EVERYTHING.
Whether it's music, fashion, design, humor, literature, politics, favorite color, food, sneaker brand, or bed time expectations, my son rejects pretty much everything I like, simply because I like it. I'm sure this is just karma coming home to roost, but it's somewhat disappointing. Even if you're childless, surely you can understand wanting to share your favorite things with a child: your childhood beach cabin, holiday traditions, your favorite record, the best way to eat a Reese's. Being a very opinionated control freak, myself, I want to share those things with my son, but he's not having it. Granted, he'll probably grow into Indian food, strangely-colored hair dye, and a better taste in music (all things I want for him), but I'd like him to grow into those things now, thanks. Of course I accept and love him for who he is, and who he is going to become, but does he have to listen to Godsmack? Does he have to prefer stale pizza over Thai food? Will he ever stop loving the Almighty Whoopie Cushion? (Answer: no.) Wait, go back.... SERIOUSLY?! GODSMACK?! I blame his father for his musical tastes--if you can call Creed and Nickelback 'musical', or music at all--although truthfully, I blame him for everything. The cultural revolution happening in South Tacoma, where my son lives, is pretty much non-existent, so I guess I blame Tacoma. Or maybe Canada. All I know is, anyone who doesn't like Thai food is dead to me, so I hope he jumps on the bandwagon soon.
Anyways, I don't really mind the rejected housewife thing, but I resent that in just 20 short days, I'm already thinking like them. I go stir crazy all day long, starting or finishing projects, singing along to the Ipod or talking to myself--then the Esq gets home and I pounce on him, begging for adult conversation and following him around like a neglected dog. And even though I try to avoid the attitude of 'I just slaved away all day for you and need some validation', that's the exact attitude I adopt. Of course he wants to relax, chill on the computer, take some Me Time after his daily grind, but by the time he gets home, I'm all YOU DON'T NEED ANYTHING BUT ME, JUST ME, NOTHING ELSE, HERE IS A HAMMER, SEE HOW IT CONNECTS WITH YOUR MONITOR NICELY, NO NEED TO THANK ME. This is why I need a job, even something part-time: to save me--and the people around me--from myself.
I feel like I'm in a Blue Velvet scene. Pabst! Blue Ribbon!
I'm either gaining weight or gaining insight, never anything in between.
Of course I like this office chair; it's a Donald Trump brand! Moral of the story: don't sit in the $400 chair first.
I have the bladder of a child. It's like a deflated balloon. I don't pee with gusto anymore, I pee in stages, like a senior citizen.
I like jukeboxes. They give you the ability to deejay your night out on the town.
I feel like Vera Donovan today.
Phoebe: I'm kind of a magnet. Me: For lesbians? Phoebe: And kittens!
I feel like I just slayed three monsters.
Josh: You should be shot in the head and pushed in a hole!
Phoebe: I've been really sleep mask curious lately.
(I was strapping the Esq's computer monitor into the backseat of the car, when this toothless old black dude walks up.)
Old man: That's one o' them...that's one o' them muffuckin' compOOter monitors. Me: Sure is. Old man: Never in my lifetime have I seen someone chauffeurin' it around. Me: I don't really think of it as "chauffeuring". Old man: Well I don't know what you think it is. Me: How about "not-chauffeuring"?
Josh: I don't like the French, or French things. Me: I like cheese! Josh: Yeah, AMERICAN cheese. I don't want something that a bunch of Frenchman have ejaculated together into some custard bowl or whatever and then called it 'cheese'. Me: Oh my God, where are you getting your cheese?!
She told me I was a computer super star and I told her Excel could eat me. And so ended my career as an admin assistant.
I'm just looking for a way to be the best version of me, without doing any work or having any insights or going to any rehabs.
What's the point in being friends with them if they don't laugh at your jokes?
Why does Black Cherry soda sound better than Cherry soda?
Stop making me laugh, I'm still trying to hate you.
Me: Mommy is trying to have some space right now. Son: Are you at the end of your rope? Me: You're at the end of my rope, actually.
Friday night was Whoreleen's birthday party, which resulted in a new way of eating for me: in the presence of labia. 'Labia' is probably one of my least favorite words, thanks to Wikipedia; after reading up on the proper scientific terminology, I don't even feel comfortable with my own anymore. 'Labia minoraare two longitudinal cutaneous folds, that may vary widely in size from woman to woman. They are situated between the labia majora, and extending from the clitoris obliquely downward, lateralward, and backward on either side of the vulval vestibule; in the virgin the posterior ends of thelabia minora are usually joined across the middle line by a fold of skin, named the frenulum labiorum pudendi, or fourchette.
Let's get a show of hands here--ladies, raise your hand if you knew there was a vestibule in your vagina? How is a clitoris "obliquely" anything? How many men have whispered in your ear sweet nothings about your longitudinal cutaneous folds? Who here knew that their labia had a major and minor, like a celestial object or a third-year college student? And what the hell is a fourchette? It sounds like a dangerous game of Foursquare and swordplay, or a fattening French treat involving bread, cheese, and me. The only problem being, I don't want bread or cheese having anything to do with my lady parts; that is a humiliating trip to the Rite-Aid pharmacy just waiting to happen.
Anyways, labia with my food isn't exactly ideal, but Friday night the food was To Die For and the labia was somewhat hidden, which is generally how I prefer my private parts to be when eating. Whoreleen's talented culinary friends made vegan sushi and served it on a very quiet, very naked human platter named Naked Sushi Girl (I didn't get her name--I was too busy blinding her with my camera flash like a Japanese tourist at Disneyland). It was a lot of fun, and completely unexpected. My favorite part of the evening was taking a ton of photos, guerilla-style, which I posted last night on my PhotoBlog. At least I was dressed.
Act Two: THE COMPETITION
After organizing the bejeezus out of the apartment yesterday, the Esq took me out for dinner, which felt like a reward for all of my hard (unpaid) work. We ended up at our favorite Indian restaurant, Taste of India, and ordered enough food to feed every member of Overeater's Anonymous. (Someone once told me that OA's motto was: you can put the tiger in the cage, but you still have to let it out three times a day to eat. My motto: you can put the tiger in the cage, but it would be easier just to eat it. Mmm, tiger.)
While waiting for our bounty, we were treated to the shrieking, honking sound of a woman sitting next to us; she had no volume control (which I'm familiar with, so I usually let it slide), no boundaries, and nothing interesting to say. But that didn't stop her from boring the shit out of everyone around her. She was one of those women, the kind that ages like everybody else but doesn't know it; I'd guess she was in her late fifties, but she acted and dressed like she was 19. She spoke like she was reading from a script written for a desperately optimistic drag queen, or a newly-divorced soccer mom who thinks she's in her prime: "HEY GIRLFRIEND! WHAT'S UP, HOTTIE! SOMEONE'S LOOKING LIKE A ROCK STAR! OHHH BABY! YOU LOOK FABULOUS! OH NO, SHE DI'INT! LET'S GET A COSMOPOLITAN, JUST LIKE ON SEX & THE CITY! TALK TO THE HAND! YOU GO, GIRLFRIEND!" And then she would probably do something like snap her fingers with attitude--a little white-lady Z formation to brighten up your day. The woman was screaming out questions to her friends that sounded like statements, which made no sense to me. "ISN'T THIS WINE DIVINE. CAN'T YOU JUST TASTE THE BUTTER. YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME ON THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT, RIGHT." The absence of question marks could be heard around the restaurant.
Favorite overheard conversation:
Loudmouth: DID I TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED TO MY TELEVISION. Loudmouth: SO I'M SITTING THERE WATCHING...what was I watching... THE PARENT TRAP! Snotty: *giggle* Loudmouth: ...AND SUDDENLY THE PICTURE GOES BLACK! AND IT'S A FAIRLY NEW VIDEO, BUT I'VE WATCHED IT ABOUT 4 OR 5 TIMES.... Snotty: *snort*
I'll bet it was the Lindsay Lohan remake of The Parent Trap. I'd put money on it. We ordered a big bowl of Mulligatawny soup, Paneer and Garlic Nan, two huge entrees, and dessert. And for the first time ever, we made it through the entire meal. Usually I come home with Second Dinner, something to re-create the experience two hours later when I've made some room, but this time we killed it; that dinner was vanquished like Voldemort. The baklava was okay, I couldn't remember trying it before; it tasted like a warm, artificial block of nuts and filo dough (which is another name for 'flakey buttery traitor'). I'm a big fan of filo, but I find that whatever the filo is encasing--Greek or Indian innards--I want to scrape it out and replace with other stuff, or replace the dessert completely. Case in point: I bit into the baklava last night, and immediately thought, 'this would taste so much better if it were chocolate mousse or a million dollars.'
Act Three: THE TASTE OF EVOLUTION
We played Spore last night. If you don't know what Spore is, then you live under a rock on Mars, or in the northern incestuous corner of a red state like Idaho. It's an epic game that takes over your life and begs you to quit showering, but it's worth it.
I started out as a unicellular organism, and was able to create a little planet of my own, which I named after the underwhelming pop tart Miley Cyrus (her name is a totally planetary); as I continue to evolve to different levels, I evolve physically, as well--changing shape, adding defenses, shifting colors and getting crapped on by bigger creatures. It's a lot like high school, really. At some point, since I'm still a newbie, I'll evolve into an actual animal and hit land before you know it, but I worry because my little guy--named after Morrissey--is an herbivore; I don't want him to get stomped on by some meat-eating asshole. Welcome to natural selection, Morrissey. Natural selection says you taste gooood. Morrissey has been swimming around with his flailing flagella, scarfing down plants and trying to avoid hungry-looking fish, but he's been eaten twice already. Damn you, Darwin! Morrissey has to eat, so he can grow up and rule planet Miley Cyrus, otherwise our universe is doomed! (I wonder if Real Morrissey even knows who Miley Cyrus is; he probably had eye surgery that makes people like her invisible to him. Hey, that's how Morrissey rolls.)
So in this case I was the dinner, and, by the look of my spotted blue body, I was tasty in a bacteria al dente kind of way. Who doesn't like bacteria on their food, especially the rapidly-evolving type? Other than me, I mean.
Photo: Never gonna give you up/Never gonna let you down.
You will all be amused to know that I sat at my computer for 10 minutes, doing nothing but stare at this site and wonder how I could make my webpage look exactly like it. If anyone has any ideas, please let me know. And no, it's not a Rick Astley video, I Rickrolled you guys last week.
One thing I really like about my boyfriend's family is they play board games. My family used to play board games--Shoots & Ladders, Candyland, Clue, Jenga, Trivial Pursuit (and on truly ambitious evenings: Mousetrap)--but playing a board game has specific pace requirements (SLOW) that my family can't realistically meet. We don't leisurely hang out very much, we just stop in and catch up; a board game could take up to two hours, which sounds unnecessarily luxurious. Also, I think my parents have a Wii now, which is the only gaming console I believe to be inhabited by very tiny, very intelligent people (how else does the damned thing work?!). Everyone has one except me--it's the Cool Table in high school all over again. I'm going to shake my fist at Nintendo the next time we drive past the campus--that'll show 'em (...show 'em my fist, anyway). Actually, I'm just going to shake my fist at Cory, who lives downstairs; he works at Nintendo, and that's more of a direct blow to The Man. I'm all about simple solutions.
We play a lot of Apples to Apples with the Esq's family; it's THE GAME OF HILARIOUS COMPARISONS! The rules are simple: there's a rotating Judge holding an Adjective Card (ex: DELICIOUS!), and you have a hand of Noun Cards (ex: apple pie, Johnny Depp, babies--all prime examples of something 'delicious')--you choose the card that will convey the most 'deliciousness' to that particular judge. If I was the judge, and you chose 'babies', you would have won the green card. Everyone takes turns being the judge, and the point is to win a certain amount of green cards. There's an immigration joke in me somewhere that's dying to get out, thanks to all the green card talk, but I just don't have the energy today. My lack of enthusiastic racism concerns and frightens me.
Even though there are hundreds of cards, we all have our favorite Noun Cards; mine are usually a bit on the genocidal side of things. My favorite cards: AIDS, The End of the World, Adolf Hitler, and his wife Oprah Winfrey, The Challenger Explosion, The Internet, and 9/11. My favorite second-stringers are Canada, Babies, and Mormons, all used in a hideously negative fashion, which is my favorite fashion to wear.
We were at the Red Balloon Company on Capital Hill, goofing around, when I found the Games section; it was in the corner. I stood there in amazement, eyes adjusting to the sunlight pouring in from the big picture window. I curiously read each game title, writing each one down in my notepad, and all I could think of was, what the fuck is this crazy ass bullshit?
My Favorites:
DRAGONOLOGY
In this board game, based on the New York Times best-selling book Dragonology: The Complete Book of Dragons, you will travel the world by AIR, LAND, SEA (and BOARD) gathering knowledge of nine different species of dragons, using ancient spells and-- you know what? This sounds like science class at the Renaissance Fair, which makes me think of math, and I don't want to do Renaissance math, or dragon math, or any math at all. I am never playing this game.
SOLITAIRE FRENZY: For Up to SIX Players!
Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary describes the word 'solitary' (from which the game Solitaire was probably named) as:
1. Being, living, or going alone or without companions. 2. Unfrequented, desolate. 3. Taken, passed, or performed without companions. 4. Being at once single and isolated.
Taking Solitaire and adding five unwanted cohorts on top of the 'roid-raging word FRENZY is unrealistic, and doesn't sound like 'going it alone'; there is no 'aye' in TEAM, because Solitaire is for pirates, and pirates play alone. Everyone in the world has played Solitaire at one time or another, whether you were avoiding homework or in a drunken blackout; all you wanted to do was relax, veg out, get some peace and quiet. In this new and improved game, frenzied relaxation is easy to achieve when you're emptying the Bone Pile and stomping your opponent with a Racing Demon, or with the obscenely-named Double Swinging Door Nertz. It's just hard for me to imagine playing late-night Solitaire in my kitchen, looking up at 3 A.M. and thinking, this game could only get better if I had five frenzied friends here with me. I just don't see it.
RUBIK'S SUDOKU
That's right, folks, everybody's favorite reminder of childhood failure, the Rubik's Cube, is teaming up with everyone's favorite modern math game--Sudoku! As a child, I saw that cube for what it really was: man's inhumanity to man. I could solve that thing in five minutes flat, but only because I practiced really hard at cheating. I even had a surefire way of removing the stickers cleanly, and putting them back on with the precision of a brain surgeon. But a brain surgeon that did not make me.
What is Sudoku? Can anyone really tell me? It's a math game? *SNORE* It's a logic-based number placement puzzle? *SNORE* The Japanese predictably love it? *SNORE* With such an interesting objective (was there one?), and a fun-loving attitude (MATH: IT'S FOR EVERYONE!), a game like this could only be improved if an equally frustrating game were its' whorish gay lover. What, you don't think Sudoku is gay? Really?
CAREERS: The classic game of fame, fortune, and happiness!
I'm scared of the child who marches into Toys 'R' Us and demands this game. I wish games had a more realistic bent to them. How about CAREERS: The classic game of drinking on the job and getting canned. Or CAREERS: Getting Knocked Up In College Can Hurt Your Career. How about, CAREERS: What's the Point When There's All This Pot to Smoke? Or my favorite, CAREERS: You'll Never Amount to Anything. To me, this game sounds like a deflating balloon that is filled with feces. Which is what MY career sounds like, incidentally.
Dear Business Owner Who Is Going Down, Down, Down, In a Fiery Blaze of Glorious Failure,
It was all there at your fingertips: great ideas, sound business philosophy, excited investors, and damn fine employees. Now you're living in Corporate La-La Land, and your business is an albatross around the neck of everyone it touches. In the industry, you're a joke, some newbie who thought she could take on the world; unfortunately, you're the only one who doesn't know it. As more employees leave you--loyal people that you ran into the ground with your inconsistencies--I doubt you'll take responsibility for their abrupt abandonment; you'll just masturbate furiously to Oprah while declaring yourself "authentic". I used to take the high road and hoped your business would succeed, but after seeing you micromanage your already unqualified management team (the one you chose based on your intuition, and not on their references or experience), and hearing about your transformation into a corporate bobblehead bitch who can't follow-through, I hope you fail. Spectacularly. And I hope your failure is documented throughout the annals of time, through every media outlet possible, and passed down from generation to generation as a cautionary tale. You used to be worthy of my respect, but now you're worthy of no one's.
Insincerely,
Your Former Employee (there's a lot of us!)
******
Dear People Who Insist On Shopping at Trader Joe's When I Do,
Take a look around. Just look around the store, slowly. Eyeball the dimensions, give yourself some leeway. I don't know if you've noticed, but there's not a lot of room in here. Trader Joe's is slightly bigger than a breadbox, and yet here you are with your three kids, a large cart, and a dog, meandering about the store as though every object privately amuses you. There's not enough room for me, my road rage, and your entire extended family. GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY.
I'm going to kick you in the shins,
Snotty
******
Dear Scissors,
I know you try your best. I really do. It's just... you're not exactly a winning hand, you know? Every time I utilize you on the playing field, I get shat in the face by Rock. He keeps kicking my ASS. And then, whenever I choose Paper, you go all Benedict Arnold on me and play right into the hands of Justin--he uses you to beat me! I'LL NEVER WIN THIS WAY. I need you on my team. Whatever he's offering you, I'll double it. Rock isn't dead, but I don't need him in my life anymore. I just need you and Paper; we can bring Rock down together.
Photo: Tomayto, tomahto.
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