My favorite form of punctuation is the ellipse. Because so...much can happen betwixt those three little dots...
Friday, June 30, 2006
Grandpeople Weekend 2006!
So I'm off this afternoon to fly away to Tennessee for Grandpeople Weekend 2006. Dr. J is driving in this evening and we're all going to stay in the Big E's new house and.... Yay! I'm so excited to see my sisters. They make me laugh.
And going home to Tennessee just feels...relaxing somehow. Life is slower there. People talk slower, walk slower, drive slower. The lady at the Kwik Sak will make eye contact with you when she sells you your pack of cigarettes. There's such a friendly familiarity and smell and sound and color. Home. Like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans. I love Tennessee.
Tomorrow is Grandaddy day. We are to get up bright and early and then have breakfast at Bucky's. God, I love Bucky's. Then we're going out on some piece of land somewhere to fish. Oh my gracious, but that sounds so nice.
Gramma day, I'm not as thrilled about. Gramma day involves going to Sunday services down at the southern Baptist church and out to lunch and then shopping. Someone may as well go ahead a slit my wrists right now. But I'll do it for her. It's her day. I'll suck it up.
God, I really really really don't want to go to church. Last year I managed to dodge all church save Christmas. This seems like more of a feat if you know my mother and father. I didn't know what to pack to wear to the Baptist church. I wish I had a giant hat. I would wear a giant hat and white gloves and anklets. Instead I opted to blend in as much as humanly possible.
And I hate shopping. Gracious, I hate shopping. It's funny that The Cool Springs mall is the only mall that I really know the layout of when I live about a 22 hour drive away. But I will have my sisters with me and we will endure.
And then Monday and Tuesday we will be set free of the Grandpeople obligations. We will play. We will find Aunt B and play with her too.
What kind of but not really stinks is that my flight back is on the afternoon of the 4th. Then I think I have a layover and then I get back far too late to go to any BBQs or see any fireworks. Oh well. Maybe I can see them from the sky. I don't really like fireworks all that much anyhow....
All this to say, I guess I won't be back around the blog until Wednesday some time.
So...Yay America and all that stuff.
Later.
You'll feel just a little bit of pressure...
So I'm at the gynecologist yesterday for my annual, right? (Gracious, don't you love stories that start out like this?) And I'm sitting around flipping through July's Ladies Home Journal and learning everything I ever wanted to know about the princesses of York and I realize that my gynecologist is sort of...prejudice...or something. They're in the business of making babies. Everybody there had a baby except me. I sort of felt like I was letting them down or boring for them or something. Me and my barren womb. Maybe it was just my timing, but I swear to you I was the only woman in that place who wasn't living up to her pod person capabilities.
There was this couple sitting next to me that had a 10-day-old baby. They were just staring at it. Him. They were just staring at him, watching him sleep for like 20 minutes. I guess if you make another human then it is bound to be fascinating, but dang. Occasionally they'd softly say something to each other, remark on the length of his arms or something. It was kooky. They were mesmerized. Just staring at him. Watching him sleep.
So boop skee doop, I go into an exam room but it's not your typical exam room. Apparently it's a midwife room whatever the heck that is with a rocking chair and all these pictures on the wall of slimy freshly birthed bloody babies and doctors proudly holding the goo kid up to the light like Frankenstein and I get naked and change into their little smock and I spy on the counter what appears to be a container of baby wipes. I think, you know what? I want my chuchita to look and smell her best today. It's her special day. So much attention and more action than she's seen in ages. I think I'll just take one of those little wipeys and boop skee doop....
Burning fire sensation.
I look more closely at the container of baby wipes. It says on the back "NOT FOR USE ON SKIN. THIS IS NOT A BABY WIPE. GERMICIDAL WIPES."
Shit.
Burning fire between my legs.
I do a little dance in my smock.
Fuck fuck fuck.
WHAT HAVE I DONE???
I shuffle through the drawers looking for something, anything! I come across all manner of scary metal tools in the process and I'm getting dizzy.
Soft knock at the door...
I try to compose myself.
"Hi Celia. Good to see you again. How are you?"
"Welp. I've been better, I can tell you that..."
God, I'm such an idiot. My doctor admitted that it was stupid to have a baby wipe looking container on the counter whose contents were not intended to come in contact with the skin. She said it must be something the midwives use. She said she would do her best to not irritate further the already irritated skin.
She said my breasts felt lovely and my ovaries were nice and firm and my uterus seemed perfectly normal and my cervix perfect which made me proud. I have a perfect cervix.
She also gave me a parting gift of two months worth of free birth control pills as a consolation prize for quitting smoking.
Is it possible to make one of the most miserable and uncomfortable experiences ever even more miserable and comfortable?
Yes. Yes it is.
Poor chuchita. She had a hard day.
SotD 6/29
"Your cervix looks perfect."
Thursday, June 29, 2006
I want my toe
This is a story Gramma used to tell the three of us when we were little girls. It is meant to be told aloud to small children curled up on your lap in a recliner that preferably rocks. You may turn the lights off to achieve the best toe-telling conditions. When telling this story, the teller must focus on their voice, the timber of their voice, the ability one's voice has to lull others into a false sense of security. The human voice is a powerful tool in hypnosis.
Let us begin.
Once upon a time there was a little old man and a little old woman who lived way way far out in the country. They had a rickety drafty old house on a piece of land with a sad little garden out back. The little old man and the little old woman were poor as poor could be.
One particular winter, their harvest was especially small. The little old man would bring in a couple of sad shriveled potatoes and a wrinkled old carrot and place them in the woman's outstretched palm in the kitchen. She would sigh and then cook up a stew with what ingredients she had.
They would slurp their soup in silence and listen to the wind.
One evening around dusk the little old woman asked the little old man to go out into the garden and get a couple potatoes for their supper. The man reluctantly stood and slowly walked out the back door into the garden knowing that they had eaten the last two potatoes of the harvest in their stew the night before.
He could feel her watching him. He halfheartedly dug around in the dirt some with his spade... Dug around some more... Suddenly his spade hit something. He got down on his knees and brushed the dirt off. He couldn't believe his eyes. There in his garden, just as plain as day, was a human toe. Quick as a rabbit, he cut that toe out of the ground and ran back into the kitchen. Proudly he presented the meat. It had been so long since they had dined on meat. With very little hesitation, the little old lady plopped that toe right into her pot on the stove that had just started to boil.
They eat heartily.
They went to bed with full bellies.
Late that night the little old woman was awake with a shot,
"Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"That..."
They both listened...
And sure enough they could just make out a low moan coming from out in the garden.
"I want my tooooe.....I want my toooooe....."
They convinced themselves that they were hearing things and tried to go back to sleep.
A few minutes later they heard more clearly, seemed like it was coming from the back porch now, the plea,
"I want my toooooe......I want my toooooooe......"
They huddled closer together as they listened to the most awful scratching sound they'd ever heard...as though someone, someone with very long fingernails...was actually climbing....up...the side of their house. From the chimney top now,
"I want my tooooooe......I want my tooooooe...."
Getting louder and louder each time. A guilty gurgle escaped the old man's belly.
Then they heard a soft thud from the fireplace below in the kitchen...
The creeeeak of footsteps on the stairs...
Becoming more and more of a demand,
"I want my toooooooe! I want my toooooe!"
They clung to one another terrified. They both knew full well where his toe was and that he wasn't getting it back.
On the other side of their bedroom door now. Impatient. Insistent.
"I WANT MY TOOOOOE! I WANT MY TOOOOOOE!"
The click of a latch.
Hearts beating in their chests.
They watch as slowly....sllllooooowly the door....swings open....
"SOMEONE'S IN THE BED, I WANT MY TOE!"*
*This is the conclusion of the story, but it deserves some explanation. If you've done your job correctly and created a hypnotic delivery, then what one must do for this final sentence is jump and boing the children on your lap up in the sky and scream the words with such terror in your voice as to make blood turn to ice. It doesn't really matter what you say for this last sentence. In fact, I'm not sure that what is written is what was actually said. It can most certainly be a load of garbledy gook, but it must be delivered with gusto. With feeling. You will know that you have told the story well if you illicit screams.
Itchy is a vampire
My face hurts. My face muscles are literally going into spasms. Seriously. That is how much I laughed last night. Head thrown back cackling that makes the table across from us look over.
Maybe it's because Itchy is still on steroids for her rash that makes her so hilarious, but dang. I haven't laughed so hard in a long long time.
It actually sounded foreign to me, my laugh. I forgot how loud it can be. How much like a cackle. A voice burst. It's sort of embarrassing...
Ok, but Itchy is a vampire. This is what she ate for dinner. A bloody steak. As in actual blood. As in so rare it still had that flesh colored haze to it. She didn't touch her vegetables or her mashed potatoes. Itchy is a vampire. You heard it here first.
Her husband bought my dinner. I love him. And his goatee. He is sexy.
So is Itchy. I didn't notice the hard nipple problem that she was complaining of last week. Did I just admit that I checked out Itchy's tits? Yes. Yes I did. Twice.
You guys. They are so funny. Did I say that? They need to start their own sit com. The banter they bounce off each other, the story growing bigger and bigger as it goes from one to the other the goofiness in each of them and they're so cute and in love and dorky. Yay!
You have to get Itchy to tell you about the evil doll at their bed and breakfast...and how the evil doll has no upper body strength.
Did I tell you that her husband bought my dinner? So nice.
And it was a perfect night and we were on the water next to this giant pirate boat and I didn't break anything or spill anything I just got sweat rings which are unsightly but forgivable and I held off telling barf stories until after dinner, so that made me proud.
But here is where I give you folks a word of caution. You people that I'm planning on visiting on my road trip.
There is a common misconception that hanging out with an actor is incredibly entertaining. As though one could sit down with them and just watch them and be entertained. This is not the case. Chances are you are cooler than me. Repeat that out loud to yourself: Chances are I'm cooler than Plimco. I'd much rather listen to you tell stories about your wacky family or odd jobs you've had or how you have an irrational fear of spiders and staircases or your SCUBA diving license. The only thing that is actor-ish about me is that I am an active listener. Talk to me. Please? You talk. I'll observe you and the manner in which you tell your stories and pick out bits to encourage you. If you ask me open ended questions such as, "Tell me about the theatre", I will most certainly clam up and shift in my seat and try with all my might to flip the conversation back around to you. You are far more interesting. Ok? Do we have that straight? Good.
Most actors do like to talk about themselves. They like to have the social attention, everyone hanging on their every word. I'm not that kind.
My cheek muscles are seriously going into convulsions.
Oh and another thing. If you ever find yourself at a stop light in Salem and some hot pink haired lady crosses the street in front of you and she's wearing all black and looking morose, if you say out loud to yourself in the safety of your car, "She's a witch! Burn her! Burn her!" because you think you are funny and you are quoting from that movie. If when you pull out into the intersection and a car screetches to a halt and almost bashes into you and you almost die, do not be surprised. Witches are to be respected. Not burnt. Even in jest. That is what I've learned.
That and also, you guys? Itchy is a vampire.
SotD 6/28
"Settle down, Slim."
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Air Conditioning
I haven't had air conditioning since I moved away from home in 1996. Zip zero zilch. Not at home and not in my car.
These days I don't have air conditioning at home still and I don't have it at work still, but I have it in my car.
I'm not a big fan (pun!) of air conditioning. It makes me cold. I spend most of the winter being cold, why do I want to do that again? And Plimcos are notorious for being cold. My mom takes a blanket with her to the movie theatre. Seriously.
Hooray for poor circulation.
So I have this "luxury" in my car now and I've been using it just because I can, but... It doesn't match anywhere else I go, so it's this little isolated pod of super cold recycled air in my day.
Where am I going with this?
I just walked into an air conditioned room. I couldn't wait to get back out. It was cold. It gave me chill bumps and made my nipples hard which is embarrassing. Sort of.
If the temperature outside is what one has spent all winter trying to get the temperature inside to become, why must there be a switch? Why can't it be enjoyed and just... Fine. It feels fine. The world is fine. No need to alter anything.
I'm actually a little chilly sitting here at my non-air conditioned desk. I guess I could turn the little heater on underneath and warm my knees...
mmmmm....warm.
The day I find out if you are all imaginary
Today is the day, folks. The day I meet my very first blogger. Face to face. And partake of food and spirits with them.
I still have my doubts. I still think that there is a very good possibility that you are all imaginary.
It's interesting that my first imaginary friend to meet is Itchy. It seems apropos somehow. A nice way to begin. Ease myself into it before I drive all over tarnation having my dog meet your dogs and holding your babies and surreptitiously going through your medicine cabinets in your bathrooms.
What?
No no no.
You know what is funny to me? I have your phone numbers. I have a lot of your phone numbers and I never call.
I have Itchy's cell phone number. Never called it, but I guess I'm going to have to in order to find out where we're having dinner.
I have Aunt B's home phone number, cell phone number, AND work phone number. Aw yeah. Never call her. Unless I'm in town. That doesn't really count though because I know she exists. BTCP. BBC. (It's a fun acronym game! Can you figure it out?)
I have Trista's cell phone and home phone number. Never called her in my life.
And I have the Mr. Coward's cell phone and beeper number. Never call him.
Ok, I was just kidding about that last one. Sometimes I call him when I'm drunk.
But seriously folks, this is weird.
I'm not good at social situations. Something usually goes horribly awry. I spill something all over myself or someone else. I break a plate. I call someone a racist and storm out of the room. I start talking about my enormous penis and everyone gets uncomfortable.
You know that censoring mechanism in your head that says, you know what? It's fairly hilarious that you just thought that, but no way in hell you need to say that out loud.
Yeah. My little censoring mechanism is on the fritz.
Oh dear.
What have I gotten myself into?
I find it especially intriguing that we are meeting in a town so rich in the history of witchcraft. Maybe she's a witch.
Maybe I'm a witch.
Booze. Booze will help us.
If all else fails, I guess I'll just flirt shamelessly with her. But her husband will be there...
Crap.
Maybe I should bring a date?
Yeah no.
What if we both self destruct? Upon meeting? That would be kind of cool actually... Or high five. Yeah, that's better.
Plimco walks into a restaurant wearing a hyacinth in her buttonhole as promised. Across the crowded room in the back corner by the trombone player, a flicker of recognition. Itchy is ravishing. She's dressed head to toe in robin's egg blue chiffon. They begin crossing to one another... They meet in the middle of the restaurant. A pause... HIGH 5! The conductor strikes up the band...
SotD 6/27
"Would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of bar-room vernacular, that is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive. The method may not be perfect, but it is all I have."
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
How to lose my respect
You know what pisses me off? Stupid little smileys. Oh, you know what I'm talking about. Please don't make me illustrate. I lose complete and total respect for you if I send you an informative Email full of information and receive a:
Thanks! :)
In return. Fuck you and your little semicolon closing parenthesis. You're not fooling anyone. You're just using keyboard buttons to make little pictures. Buy yourself some paint.
And it's really not cute when you make them do stuff like wink or stick their tongue out at me. They make me angry, your sideways smiles. Save it.
You know how I choose to express emotion? I don't. I'm a cold cold cold reptilian person with no soul. Please spread no more of your zest my way. I eat your zest on a cracker. You can take your semicolon eyeballs and shove them up your ass.
JK! ;)
Actually no. I'm not. Just kidding. That's what that stands for, you know? And you know who is going to take the time to write that shit out? Me. I refuse to live in a world of acronyms followed by exclamation points followed by punctuation in the shape of happy faces. I'm going to fight it with every ounce of my being.
WHO'S WITH ME?!
Ps. Dearest Itchy who is on vacation and safely away from a computer hopefully and I am meeting for dinner tomorrow,
Please do not take this personally. I realize that you are a fan of the. Jesus. How do you even make it... :P I think that's right. Please don't let me cramp your :P I'm just being honest. I'm just letting you know. Every time I see your little :P guy? I wish to slaughter whole nations of people. That's all.
I bought a tent!
Check out my new tent. Yay.
I got the red one. I sat here and stared at my screen for a while deciding on a color. What color did I want my new little house to be? I like the red. It will make me feel like I'm in a birdhouse. I can pop my head out at random campers nearby and "CUCKOO!" them. A little Plimco bird.
Yay.
This is crazy. I guess it's really going to happen.
eep.
I found a snooty camp site outside of Seattle on a beach and then one on the eastern side of Montana and another in northern Iowa. I figure that should do it. I should be able to crawl back to Dr. J's guest bed and collapse from northern Iowa, no problem. I guess I just need to figure out what I'm doing in the space of time from St. Louis to Colorado. Hmm... We don't get the dog friendly house in Colorado until that Monday, so that leaves me a weekend where I could either hang out alone in my parent's house in Missouri or... what? I guess I could take little drives and camp my way to Colorado... Is Kansas good camping country?
Jesus. I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
But I know I'm doing it.
I have the tent to prove it.
eep.
Baby vulva strikes again
I held a two-month-old baby yesterday. Remember? The fetus from this post. The fetus with the vulva. She's famous! She's a person now.
I like holding babies. They make neat noises and smell nice usually.
But I'm always faced with the same impulse. I'm holding this squishy squirmy geegling creature and I think to myself, self. I bet this sucker would bounce. I look at the wall across from me, the floor. If thrown just so... gaJUNKah! Boing! I have to give them back before I act on such impulses.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TAKE YOUR CHILD FROM ME! GET IT OUT OF MY SIGHT!
And then I fantasize about the noise it would make for the rest of the day. The squeal of delight. gaJUNKah!
My friend said that I should practice with baby opossums first. I'm just not sure where a girl could get her some baby opossums around here...
SotD 6/26
"- that's what makes if worthwhile."
Monday, June 26, 2006
Goodbye new car smell
Saturday afternoon I go for a jog, right? Fluff Bucket stops along the way (which is probably a fairly hilarious sight to see now that I think about it. I'm trucking along full jogger force which, ok, is admittedly not very fast but then the Bucket finds something to sniff. I have one of those retracto leashes that extends several feet. I keep running along at the same speed for a bit then....FLAM! I'm jerked back in the halted Bucket's direction. I hate it when she does that.) So she starts munching on some mysterious substance by a tree. Jogger Plimco get angry. There's a moment of stand off... and then we're on our way. Didn't think much about it.
I go to the CVS and get some Dramamine. I shove a kid's dose down Fluff Bucket's throat. She gets car sick and I'm about to drive us an hour and a half to the next state away in order to do my laundry for free because that makes sense. 5 minutes into the hour and a half drive, 5 MINUTES INTO THE HOUR AND A HALF DRIVE, Fluff Bucket barfs. She always barfs. That's not the abhorrent part. Guess the Dramamine doesn't work. What is abhorrent is that 3 seconds after she barfs, my nose is overwhelmed with the smell of feces. I swear it was human feces. Whatever she munched on our little jog earlier was most assuredly poop of some sort.
You know how cow poop smells like cow poop and it's not so bad? It has a sweet familiar, dirt based grass and country smell. And you know how horse poop smells like home? And dog poop smells like dog poop, but people poop? People poop smells like the worst kind of poop in all of poopdom...unless it is your own poop. Then it is fine. But to smell a stranger's poop? To smell a stranger's poop for an hour and a half car ride? Hell.
I was so angry. Every breath: EEEEUUUGGGHHH!!! Why'd you do it, Bucket? Why'd you do it?
Goodbye new car smell.
I don't even want to think about why a person would be pooping in the front yard of those duplexes...
Sunday, June 25, 2006
SotD 6/25
(sung) "She shows no emotion at all, stares into space like a dead china doll."
Press and...wait.*
Her alarm was set for precisely 5:33AM. She would rise. Stretch. Pivot left. Slide two feet inside two strategically placed slippers. Pad to the bathroom. Shower. Pad back out clean in her full length slip. Sit at her white wicker vanity. Her cat making figure 8s betwixt nylon incased legs. She would begin. She would begin again. The spreading on of her mask. Cover up. Foundation. Powder. Eye liner. Eye shadow. Expertly applied. Mascara. Curler pinching. Lip liner. Mauve lipstick. They like for her to wear mauve. She's instructed to wear mauve. Mauve skirt and blazer. Zipped up. Buttoned up. Golden name tag pinned above her left breast. Perfectly straight.
She grabs the two swede briefcases by the door. Pauses... Hesitates facing the closed door. She takes a breath...
The neighborhood today looks the same as the neighborhood yesterday. She puts her mauve car in park. Begins. Begins again the walk up the sidewalk. The press of the bell. The press and wait... A sprinkler turns on in the yard three houses down. A dog barks. The tinny emotionless ditty of an ice cream truck is barely audible in the distance...
...
If it was raining, he didn't have to work. No one eats ice cream in the rain. He'd wake, keep his eyes shut, and listen. Listen for the rain. Rain meant no work. It meant he didn't have to see them, listen to them, accidentally touch their sticky fingers as they dumped one dollar and fifty five cents worth of pennies into his outstretched hand. The change warm from them. Their heat. Their sweat. He hated them. The way they smelled. The way they sounded. The way they'd run to him. The way they called to him, "Hey! Ice Cream Man! Wait up!" as though he were made of ice cream. They made him sick. And that damn song. That damn song over and over and over. That damn song. It's enough to drive anyone crazy.
...
She'd clip clop up to her 23rd house of the day. Press and wait. Still no answer. 23 door bells. 23 homes. Empty. She no longer knew what to say if someone did answer. It had been so long since she had spoken to a human...
...
He was up all night giddy in his preparation. 1000 razors. His fingers covered in bandaids. He had to let the ice cream thaw just enough... Rewrap the bars and popsicles just so... Tomorrow. Tomorrow for the first time, he hoped it wouldn't rain...
...
Her alarm went off precisely at 5:33AM. She rose. Stretched. Pivot left. Place feet into slippers. Pad to bathroom. Pad back out. Seated at her white wicker vanity. She began. She began again to spread on her mask. Eyes staring back. Empty. Hallow. She picked up her golden name tag. Read her own name. Silently. To herself. Several times. She took the pin on the back of her name tag in her right hand. Jammed it into the back of her left hand. Jammed it in until it poked through to the other side. Looked back up at her reflection... and smiled. Smiling back. Blood pools on white wicker...
*The Scheherezade Project-theme-Emptiness
SotD 6/24
"Oh Miss McGee, it's so loud!"
Saturday, June 24, 2006
SotD 6/23
(sung) "A fine romance with no kisses. A fine romance my heart misses. We should be just like a couple of hot tomatoes. Instead your as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes. This is a fine romance."
Friday, June 23, 2006
My stupid jogging shorts
I have the ugliest pair of shorts that I jog in. I got them from the Lost & Found. They are the only pair of shorts I own. They are navy blue and have a gigantic elastic waist. When I wear them, I look like my mother and that terrifies me.
I'm shaped like my mother. Petite on top. Giant hips and ample booty. I look like Dexter's mom from Dexter's Laboratory. Basically, I look deformed. Basically, if I find something that fits my hips and booty, it is far too big for the top part of my body. Pear shaped. I believe that is what some people call it. I am super pear.
These jogging shorts are so awful and ugly, but I have to jog in something. In the winter I could wear pants, but it just makes more sense to jog in shorts now. I try rolling the elastic down and then wearing them on my hips which works when I'm walking, but jogging? It flips right up and under my boobs and god. I have to be the most unattractive jogger on the planet.
Please don't spy on me...
SotD 6/22
"You left your ID at home? Oh, way to go, Andrea. Way to ruin the night for both of us. And it was supposed to be a special night too..."
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Robot
Given the opportunity to doodle, I often end up drawing robots.
I like the word too.
Robot robot robot.
Beep Boop! Beep Boop! Beep Boop!
Yay robots.
Brick*
She'd been planning for years. Diagrams. Charts and graphs. Impact prediction. Hair crack patterns. She found a brick on the side of the road in June. Took its dimensions, its weight. Held it in her hands. Tossed it from one to the other. Fingers barely wrapping round the edges. Barely a grip. Her weapon. It is a weapon. "You can kill somebody with a brick." And it was true. You can. But rather than sink it into someone's skull, she craved the shatter. Years and years she craved the shatter. The calm that was sure to follow. The clean breaking and tinkle.
1 giant, smooth department store window.
She stepped upon the sidewalk. Took her place as she had a thousand times before. Took her place center in front of the pane. The pain. The yearning she felt when she stood there. The need to destroy. The drive to break. Her reflection with empty eyes. Staring. Looking back out. At a body. Her body. A body covered in warts, mange, scabs, soars, bruises, stitched chapped skin. She held eye contact with herself as she slowly raised the brick...
*For The Scheherazade Project/Subject - A pane of glass is broken
3 Mediocre Monkey Poems
Why you look at me like that?
Crazy monkey in your little red hat.
Why don't you just scat?
I see you over there...
Looking at me like that.
Maybe you think I'm fat.
You the fat one, monkey.
...
His teeth like yellowed boulders. Dangerous.
The saliva stringing
His agenda....hidden.
A monkey from another planet.
Messages transmitted to the
scarlet trapezoid just slightly
askew atop the primate's noggin.
He could cause some damage, that one.
...
Clack! wooden letters
A fez is unique to whom?
children born in fall
SotD 6/21
"OK"
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
For your next assignment...
People have been giving me assignments lately. I like it. It allows me to hide behind the assignment so that I feel no obligation to tell you what is really going on in my life.
This is my next assignment:
Would you write me a poem about a monkey wearing a red fez? It's for a painting I'm getting ready to do....
Feel free to participate. There can never be too many poems about monkeys wearing red fezes in the world afterall...
What NOT to do at an audition:
-Don't wear flip flops
-Don't deliver an entire monologue to the floor or to an invisible person in a chair
-Make sure that your name on your headshot is bigger than an 8 point font
-Don't do the Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow speech from the Scottish play. We know that. We've heard that. We have it memorized. We've seen it done better than you could ever hope to do.
-For that matter, don't do R & J.
-Don't say "fuck" at a cattle call audition. There are kids auditioning right behind you. There are children's theatres in the audience. It's trashy.
-Wear a bra. Please. For the love of God.
-If you try a southern accent, you will fail. I'm from Tennessee. I know how southern is supposed to sound. What you just did? Ain't it.
-Don't do a monologue barefoot
-Only sing if you know how to sing. Well. No one's forcing you to.
-Ladies, playing stupid = unattractive. I don't care if you are just playing a character. Pick at least one character that has a brain in her body.
-Don't say "scene" at the conclusion of your pieces. That is moronic.
-Don't pick a monologue where you say "Mama" or "Papa". Please. Please please please. I am so sick of hearing people talk about mama and papa that I could just SCREAM.
-Singing a pornographic song acapella about rape will insure that you never get work in this town again. Ever.
-Smile. You seem like a crazy manic person. Give me 2 seconds to show me your not. In real life.
-Keep your hair out of your face. Your eyes are important.
-If you are a very depressed person in your private life, pretend not to be when you're introducing your pieces.
-Avoid monologues that tell a nice little story. Pick one where you are trying to get something from someone. Where you are talking to someone and not to the ether.
-If you put your hair up for one character and then whoosh it down for another character, that is just kind of weird and I start thinking about that instead of your piece.
-Wear a bra. Did I mention that? When I see your nipples pointing at me in that manner and jostling around under your thin little shirt, I have lost all hope of ever paying attention to what you are saying up there.
-Ladies, don't dress like a whore. That's another kind of audition you can go to. I know this great place...
-Move around. Some. You are not a tree.
-When you switch characters, show us that you are switching. Either change the way you're standing, or your voice, or your focus, but do something. Don't spin around though. Or close your eyes and drop your head and breath. That's silly.
-When you have completed your audition, simply say "thank you" and walk off the stage. Do not laugh at yourself like you are the funniest person in town. You are not.
-You have 2 minutes. You cannot cover every emotion in 2 minutes. Do not try. You will fail and start hyperventilating and although I know CPR, I don't feel like getting out of my seat to help you.
-Oh and wear a bra.
SotD 6/20
"Like if some oracle told you you'd kill your father and marry your mother, wouldn't you just like not kill anybody and never date again?"
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Box Fan
I discovered yesterday that when I get out of the shower, if I lay on my bed naked on my back to air dry... and the box fan is in the window facing the bed.... Blowing... That air flow can be... Stimulating. The whole experience was so inspiring that I wrote this haiku:
Out of the shower
Licks her fingers sets them...There
Box fan aimed just so
Blueberry Poop
Blueberries are my favorite fruit. I can sit and eat them by the pint. I'm eating some right now as a matter of fact. They've been so expensive at the super market that I've only allowed myself to hold the anemic portions in their little plastic baskets in my hands costing $4.99 and look at them longingly as one looks after an old friend's retreating train.
But hark! They're on sale again! 2 pints for $2.99! Hell yeah.
But I eat so much of them though like a blueberry monster that my poop turns black.
This is fairly disconcerting that first wipe. I'm like Good God! What the hell is going on down there?! Wracking my brain... Am I dying? Did I eat charcoal?
Ah yes. Blueberry skin. That's what's up. Ok. Moving on with my life...
End Grandpeople Transmission
I'm done with Grandpeople posts. Stick a fork in me. You guys seemed really enthusiastic about them anyhow... Right.
Dr. J, is that enough? I could probably squeeze a few more out, but I'll spare everyone here. Let me know if you or E haven't covered anything that I need to cover. I was trying to think of a way to fit in the fact that Gramma is 6 feet tall and has an orange afro and drives a yellow Cadillac somehow. Oh and you better have written something about how she is a poet. And her perfect calligraphy handwriting. And how Grandaddy was a bona fide sailor and looked like a little Popeye in his sailor suit and hat and sea smile.
It's interesting when one sets out to compose a picture out of memories. I notice sometimes mine come in little bits, you know? It's not necessarily a linear or interesting story. A smell here, an image there, the sound of a laugh, a breaking plate. It's like stitching together a bunch of worms. Tricky and tedious and gooey.
SotD 6/19
"Sit there and do not show your chuchita."
Monday, June 19, 2006
The Lump on Grandaddy's Head
When I was a little girl, I liked looking at gross stuff. (I still do.) I liked picking scabs and looking at ingrown toe nails and peeling off sheets of sunburned skin and popping pimples and looking at people's scalps and their collection of dandruff.
I would go around like a little monkey looking at people's heads. Picking through. Getting excited if I came upon a particularly impressive wad of dandruff.
One special evening, I came upon Grandaddy's head. Grandaddy parts his hair in the same spot. He has parted it there for as long as I've known him. I lifted up some hair and there... nestled underneath... was a gigantic greenish lump on top of his head.
I may have screamed. I most certainly gasped. I was most certainly surprised.
Grandaddy! What IS THAT GROWING ON YOUR HEAD???
"Oh, that? That's my ingrown hair. It's as long as every hair cut I've ever had in my life."
There was a certain pride in Grandaddy's voice as he told me about his ingrown hair. About how his doctor was so curious about it and said he could take it out but Grandaddy said he'd rather just leave it put. How he didn't notice it the first several years until the hair grew long enough. How it's just winding around and around and around itself up there on his noggin under his scalp skin.
It's squishy. When you poke it. And the most unusual shade of green I've ever seen.
I like looking over at Grandaddy across a room of people and knowing his secret. Knowing what's going on under there. Under his hair.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
SotD 6/18
"Reality is abob with centers."
Father's Day 2006
What I said:
Did you get your present?
What I thought:
Thank goodness I have sisters that care more about this shit than I do.
What I said:
Nope. I'm not seeing anyone. No one worth telling you about anyway. I'll be sure to let you know when I do.
What I thought:
I've been "seeing" someone since January, but he won't tell me who he is, so I cannot tell you.
What I said:
I really look forward to seeing you soon too.
What I thought:
I'll probably only be able to tolerate about 48 hours worth of you until I have to leave. Tops.
What I said:
No. The summer's really slow as far as auditions go and I couldn't commit to anything because I'm taking 3 weeks to drive cross country.
What I thought:
I'm scared as hell. I'm lonely as hell. I feel unproductive and worthless. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with my life. Where I'm going. Where I want to go. What I want.
What I said: I'm so glad you're my dad. I guess I wouldn't be me if it weren't for you, would I?
What I thought: I'm so glad you're my dad. I guess I wouldn't be me if it weren't for you, would I?
Said: I love you too.
Thought: You're the only man I've ever said that to.
Brought to you by the number 7
I'm taking a break from grand people posts today to tell you how I've been haunted by the number 7 lately.
I think it all began with a mysterious phone call asking me how old the Bald Monkey was for some sort of consumer reports survey or something. I had to count.
7.
Last night I had a dream that I won $700,000 from a scratch ticket that I bought at the scratch ticket machine at church. $700,000. Someone else gave me a scratch ticket that I won $500 on. $700,500. I started paying off debts right and left, let me tell you. I was so relieved.
Then I woke up.
I know it's just because of all this anxiety I've felt lately regarding the new car payment and my horrible math skills and not knowing if I'm doing the math right and should I have bought that extra box of cereal at the grocery store because I don't know that I can afford it and blahbity blah town.
Still. I think I'm going to buy a scratch ticket today...
I also had a very dramatic dream that I went to the Mothership and went up to the cash register and Knucklehead said, "It's you." and I said, yes. And then we bent toward one another over the counter by the cash register and kissed passionately and the entire restaurant applauded.
Still. I think I'm going to have to try some of that BBQ some time this summer...
SotD 6/17
"He looks like... tapioca."
Saturday, June 17, 2006
SotD 6/16
"Will you please tell me a story about when you were a little girl that starts in the morning and ends in the night time and then sing me one more song?"
Friday, June 16, 2006
SotD 6/15
"I don’t think you’re mysterious and aloof. I think you’re tantalizing and dangerous. Like running with scissors. Or a pointy stick. Or, even better, scissors AND a pointy stick. You’re sharp and shiny."
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Spending the night at Gramma's House
I had a little red suitcase that had a girl on the front that looked just like me that said, "Going to Grandma's" on it.
Sometimes Gramma and Grandaddy would take us to Sarge's Shack for catfish for supper. I remember getting in trouble one night in the back of the car on the way home because we took our plastic utensil sack covers with us. We blew them up and twisted and twisted and twisted the top so that they were little plastic balloon pillows covered in greasy fried catfish fingerprints. They were slippery. Whatever we were doing with those plastic utensil sacks must have been obnoxious because I think they got confiscated from us.
Seems like we always had to take a bath before bed.
Grandma's bathroom was so so very clean. I thought it was never used, it was so clean. Nary a hair to be found. Sparkling. And the bathroom on Trousdale Lane was especially nice. I seem to remember shag carpet-like seat covers and bath mats and black and white tile. Ivory soap. Grandma used Ivory soap and had big red towels.
After our bath we'd brush our teeth and say our prayers and go to bed. Grandma's beds were super high off the ground like the Princess and the Pea. They were so tall, they were over my head when standing. Gramma didn't want us to roll out in the night. Gramma had a plan. Gramma protected us.
She would line around the bed a series of high backed chair chairs so that if we happened to roll off in the night, we wouldn't have far to fall.
One morning we woke and The Big E was curled up in chair by the side of the bed sleeping soundly. Whewph. That was close.
Dr. J and I would sometimes be allowed to sleep in Aunt T's old room with the red shag carpet. That bed was in the back left corner of the room and the ceiling was lower or you had to step up to the bed or something I'm not sure which, but it felt hidden and like a canopy or a cave in there. Dr. J and I would make up stories to tell to each other. The stories were extremely humorous because we are both very funny people. Gramma would come in throughout the night. We'd hear her padding down the hall.... shhhhh! She's coming..... "Girls! Settle down in there. Go to sleep." She was always nice about it the first couple of times, then she got pretty fed up with us because we could stay up all night giggling and telling each other stupid stories given the opportunity.
Then in the morning came country ham and red eye gravy and biscuits with Sue Bee whipped honey and orange juice and scrambled eggs. MMMmmm. That breakfast has to be one of the best breakfasts ever. She had blue chairs and pewter plates and the sun would shine in and my toes would swing just above the kitchen floor as I ate that breakfast in my nightgown getting sticky and full.
Crazy stuff Grandaddy says
Hey there, Grandaddy. How ya doing?
"Oh, I'm just as fine as frog hair."
Fine as frog hair.
It took me a minute the first time I heard it to get that...
Grandaddy and Color
Grandaddy is color blind. I forget that about him sometimes.
I remember once we went to a wedding around Christmas time and I showed up wearing a bright red dress that Gramma had bought for me. I walked up to him and he held out his hand and I took it and he made a little big deal like he does and said "My my MY!! OOOO weeee! What a pretty green dress you have on!" Green?! It's red, Grandaddy, but thank you.
I remember him explaining to me once when we were driving around in his farming truck (that I would later inherit) that he has to memorize the position of the lit lights at stop lights rather than the color. That's how he knows when to stop. If the top one's lit vs. the bottom. I remember thinking that was a pretty smart way to do it.
Free Samples
Gramma used to work at the cosmetic calendar down at the Harvey's. She sold make-up and perfume.
We would get the best free samples.
I'd be in middle school going to school smelling like Fendi and Liz Claiborne and Red Door and Sunflowers and oh, what was that fragrance with the rectangular shaped bottle? It had a teal top. I think Liz Claiborne made it too. Realities? We wore that a lot as well.
Gramma made everyone smell good.
I remember our bathroom before school in the morning being a very potent place. Me squirting on some Fendi, J spritzing herself some Claiborne, and little E making herself smell like Sunflowers before trotting off to 3rd grade. OOOO WEEE!
We'd also get those giant trays of eye shadow samples looking like an enormous artist's palate. The big trays that lived on the counter in Cosmetics with every possible color you could ever imagine brushing on your eye lid.
Gramma would do our make up for us before dances at school. We'd go down to the Shady Brook Mall and sit in one of her tall chairs with the bright lights and shoppers would walk by and she'd tell them that this was her grandaughter who was going to the Homecoming dance tonight. I remember how she'd test the color on our skin on the back of our hands. I was told I was a fall and that I should wear red. Gramma bought me a lot of red throughout the years. Red dresses, red suits, red lipstick, red sweaters. And she's right. I do look good in red. Gramma's colors she looks best in are...oh. I can't remember the season. But they're oranges and greens and browns and animal print. She likes to see all of her granddaughters in color. Bright vibrant colors.
She used to buy me a lot of hot pink because apparently that is one of my colors that looks nice on me too. She bought me this hot pink dress with a poofy skirt and a wide black patton belt that I wore some. Once she came to visit me when I was in Memphis. I wore a hot pink fuzzy sweater. She still mentions how that sweater looked so good on me. To this day. I guess it did. I'm just not much of a pink kind of girl. She still buys me red though.
My Gramma smells so good
My Gramma smells so good. She smells like...oh! I don't know that I can even describe it and do it justice.
We'd get home from Gramma's house and sniff our clothes and sniff and sniff because they still smelled like Gramma's house and Gramma's house smells so good.
When I was in college and she would mail me a sweater for my birthday, I'd open the box and be overwhelmed with that familiar odor.
Some Gramma's have stinky houses like moth balls and old soup. Not my Gramma. Her house smells like Egyptian finery and clean and exotic and a treat for your nose. It is a pleasure to sniff and sniff in her house. Mmmm...
Gramma makes Grandaddy smell good too.
Snack
When we would go over to Gramma's house after school, we would have the best snack. Gramma would serve it to us on her red round paisly serving tray as though we were princesses and deserved special treatment. All around the round tray were circles of Ritz crackers and squares of orange cheddar cheese.
We'd snack on cheddar cheese, Ritz crackers, and Dr. Pepper. The Dr. Pepper would come in a big blue plastic cup with ice.
Seems like her little TV with bad reception in the kitchen would be showing Days of our Lives in the back ground.
That was the best snack.
Scissors
I remember the night I learned to use scissors. I was at Gramma's house. My kindergarten teacher had expressed concern to my parents that I hadn't figured it out yet. I was sort of an ambidextrous child who wrote with my right hand and did everything else with my left. When scissors were placed in my right hand, I would turn them around backwards and hold them as though they were in my left. It was all very complicated.
I remember working with Dad though at Gramma's house one evening. We had her big metal scissors she kept in the jar with the pens on the writing desk where Grandaddy would sit and doodle those huge geometrical doodles that filled the whole page of the calendar.
I remember the cool of the metal in my little hands. Being intimidated by their weight, their temperature.
I cut some stuff. Correctly.
There was much celebration.
Gramma let me use her big silver metal scissors and I could cut.
I was proud.
SotD 6/14
"What kind of sandwich is that exactly?"
"Cream cheese and pretzels on wheat bread. I just added the pretzels. I needed SOMETHING to make it less boring..."
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The wisest thing my Gramma ever told me:
Gramma used to work at the... what was the name of that place? I keep thinking it was Lord and Taylor, but that can't be right. Oh shoot! It was right next to where I used to take ballet classes on the square. Across the street from Helms jewelry store. Dad had all his suits tailored there...
Pigg & Parsons!
Gramma used to work at the Pigg & Parsons and when business was slow, she and her co-workers, which were primarily men, would look out the big store front windows at the passers by.
Women would walk by with skirts up to their bottoms. The men would comment that she looked not so nice. Too much skin. They wanted a little something left up to the imagination.
The best advice my Gramma ever gave me was this:
Get yourself a snug sweater that shows off your bosom. A snug sweater is the sexiest item of clothing that a woman can own. Showing too much skin is just trashy. Men like to use their imaginations. Keep them guessing a little bit instead of showing it all walking down the street.
How did you two meet?
I remember walking my dog one day and talking to Gramma on the phone. Seems like that's the usual time we chat, when I'm out walking the dog. She almost doesn't need to ask anymore, the standard "Hey. What are you up to?" question. Walking the dog.
I can't believe my Gramma and Granddaddy have been married for 50 years. (Is it 50 years?) That is an unfathomable amount of time to spend with someone. To see their face at breakfast all those mornings. To have been married to someone for more than half the time you've even been alive is a remarkable thing.
"Hey, (full name), what are you doing?"
Walking the dog.
"Seems like you're always out walkin' the dog every time I call."
I know! Hey Gramma. I was thinking the other day and I know you've told me the story before, but how did you and Granddaddy meet again?
"You want the long story or the short story?"
Both.
"Heh heh. Well. I'm at the beauty parlor right now about to put my head under a dryer, so I'll just have to tell you the short one today."
Ok.
"We met on a Greyhound Bus."
REALLY? You're kidding.
"Nope. I'm not."
How I remember the story is that Gramma was sitting toward the back of the bus and this man was kind of harassing her. I can't remember if it was her boyfriend or not. Maybe. Anyhow, they got in a fight and Gramma was trying to get the guy to leave her alone. Granddaddy sauntered back there and said, "if you don't mind, sir I'd be happy to take your seat as it looks like this lady would much rather have someone else sitting there", or something nearly as dashing and brave and romantic and the two talked for the rest of the ride. Bumpity bumping along the highway.
"Then we wrote letters."
You wrote to each other?
"Every day, just about. Well, there was the war, of course, so that's all we could do. Write each other lots and lots of letters...."
Some day will you tell me the long version?
"Why sure."
Assignment: Grandpeople
Dr. J has given me an assignment.
See, my grandparents that are living just turned 80. For their birthdays we got each of them a day with us. One whole day with all three of their scintillating granddaughters. They may do with us whatever they wish. It is their special day. My Gramma will probably make us go shopping at Cool Springs. I hate shopping. I hate malls. But I will endure this pain for Gramma because I love her and she has neat hair. I hope Granddaddy takes us fishing. I like fishing. I hope we get to smoke cigars with him too...and maybe drink a beer. Even though he officially doesn't touch the stuff...
Anyhow. We also wanted to put together some sort of, what did they call it? A memory book or some such nonsense where half the book is stories we remember about Gramma and the other half is Granddaddy's. We are a nerdy family.
So I'm going to force myself to write grandparent stories until I can tell no more. If grandpeople stories don't appeal to you, tough.
Dr. J, you can just copy and paste.
The trick with this is going to be that I have to write nice things. Like I can't write about how I made Gramma cry because I'm not a Christian and not married yet. And I probably shouldn't mention how my Granddaddy would get violent and beat them all pretty bad when my dad and aunt were kids.
Oh and I probably shouldn't cuss either.
And I suppose the voice will be different as well. Or rather, the reader. I'll have to not speak to you (the collective "you") for a while and switch to them. Or maybe just a more open ended presentational style. Hm.
This is going to be tricky...
I have a week and a half before GRANDPEOPLE WEEKEND 2006. I hope I can do it.
I'm just using you
Look.
Thank you for paying my $6 cover to see your friend sing folk music. You're right. These guys can really play guitar. Thanks for buying me those two beers too. I'm broke.
But don't introduce me to your friends like I'm your girlfriend.
I'm not.
Look.
You are an incredibly attractive person. I'd even go so far as to say gorgeous. Hell, if I didn't know you and I saw you walk in the room? I'd probably flirt my ass off just to get you to smile. If I didn't know you, you'd probably be more hot.
I like walking in places in my dirty T-shirt and jeans and no make-up and watch the well-groomed girls at that table look you up...and down. And then look me up...and down. And then whisper. And then try to make eye contact with you. I think that's funny.
And I really like your new beard. It makes you look like less of a baby and literary somehow.
Even though you don't read books.
I like you when you're on the opposite side of the room from me and you watch me. I can feel you watching me. I like being watched.
And how when I'm in the middle of telling a story and you're not paying attention to the content at all, but instead to the manner in which I tell it and how sometimes you just have to shake your head and interrupt and throw your hands up in the air and exclaim, "You're so fucking cute, I can't stand it!". I like that. Even though I hate the term "cute" and even though you're not paying attention to a word I said.
I don't really care about how your audition went though. Or how your mom just got braces.
Actually, no. Keep talking. You're good at talking about yourself. Keep at it. That way I can just sit here and think about something else while nodding and saying "huh" occasionally.
I like how you have that actor's willingness to be spontaneous too. To try new shit. Hey! You want to randomly pick a poem from your roommate's bookcase and read it out loud to each other? "Yes!" But when you look at me with that blank stare afterwards... When you say, "Uhhh...I don't get it. Do you get it? I don't get it. I mean I get that it's all flowery language and pretty and what not, but..." You were reading a poem about a corpse. "Really?" Yeah. "Huh." Huh.
Look.
Given our history together, I doubt that we can ever be "just friends", but...
You're just a kid.
No. I'm fine. You don't have to ask me if I'm ok. Yes. Of course. Watch the game. You don't need permission. I'm fine. I'm just going to sit here and listen to this tortured guitar playing guy and watch him rise up on his toes....and then go back down. UP....and down. Over and over. Please don't ask me what I'm thinking about. I'm not going to tell you. Is your hand on my waist? Please don't touch me. I'm fine. I'd much rather sit here and fight back tears while you're way over there watching the game. Seriously.
Hey. Thanks for dragging me out of the house on a Tuesday night. I appreciate it. I should really get out of the house more often.
But just because you paid my cover and bought me a couple of beers does not mean that I have an obligation to sleep with you.
Look. I don't want to break your heart. Again.
You're moving in a couple of months anyway.
If you have to ask me if you can kiss me, you should know the answer is going to be "no".
I'm just using you.
You're a distraction.
SotD 6/13
"Your future hotness was very evident from your baby picture."
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Our early careers as cowgirls...
This is me and Dr. J. We are cowgirls. I'm the baby one. Don't say I never showed you a picture of me...
Fucking Father's Day
You know what else makes me angry?*
"WHAT ELSE MAKES YOU ANGRY, PLIMCO?"
Fucking Father's Day. I hate fucking Father's Day. Father's Day can kiss my ass.
Hang on! Hang on! I'd hate Mother's Day too if it came second. But it doesn't. Mother's Day I can deal with. It has that familiar oh-would-you-look-at-that-it's-that-time-of-year-again-time-to-show-some-appreciation-for-the-mom feeling to it and I deal. But Father's Day? There is just enough time separating the two so that every Sunday in between I'm faced with the sinking horrible paranoia of OH SHIT! IT'S FATHER'S DAY AND I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING FOR DAD!
Then there's the gift comparing. Come on. I know they do it. Hell I'd do it. You can't help it. And for the past couple of years for Mother's Day we've actually all three of us been in the same room as the Mom. And my Dad gets pouty. Oh does he get pouty. It's his thing.
But I have no energy for it. I don't want to feel obligated to get him shit. To call. But you do. You have to. But you have to want to.
Fuck.
I hate Father's Day.
Thank goodness I have sisters. If you hold out long enough like you're playing chicken in a drag race, then one of them will do something and put your name on it. Sometimes this back fires though and they do something grand and extraordinary and don't put your name on it and then you just call and Dad is all, well Dr. J got me a singing telegram and tickets to the Titan's game and you're like. I love you? You're the best Dad evah! And you hear the disappointment in his voice and know that you are the worst of the daughters this year and are a disgrace to the Plimco name.
I hate birthdays too. Everyone's birthday. I'm not getting any of you shit. Why? Because I just don't care, that's why.
And I'm broke. I'm so broke. I could maybe give you a stick of gum to celebrate but that's about it and a stick of gum does not a happy birthday make.
*Keep up, folks, we have a theme today.
Smelling like food
You know what makes me angry?
"WHAT MAKES YOU ANGRY, PLIMCO?"
Well, I'll tell you. Since you asked.
Stuff that's not food, that smells like food. Makes me angry.
Grapefruit scented dish soap. Green apple scented dish soap.
You're trying to clean your plates, right? Get the food OFF. Why you want your plates to smell like food? Hmm?
People that smell like fruit. You're a person! You should smell like a person, not a watermelon patch!
Fruity ass lip gloss crap.
Sugar cookie flavored hand lotion. They're my hands!!! I don't want them to smell like fucking cookies!!!
Peach blossom shampoo. I do not wish to have a peach head.
I prefer to smell clean, thank you. Not like I've been rolling around in some goo in an orchard.
Gross.
That shit makes me angry.
The pear tree
I have a pear tree in my back yard. I have a back yard. And a porch. Holy shit, I have a back yard. With flowers. And a garden. And grass. Soft soft grass and shade under the pear tree.
It's been so rainy here all spring and before that there was snow out there and I only moved in September, so I didn't get to really experience the joys of the back yard yet and...
I have a pear tree in my back yard. Yesterday I threw on a sun dress and poured myself a glass of wine and tiptoed tentatively out back in bare feet and spread a blanket on the grass by the strawberry bushes underneath the pear tree next to the irises and roses in the shade and sun and sat listening to neighbors mowing and birds tweeting and bugs buzzing and read me some fine fine Dr. J literary criticism and occasionally looked up at the clouds and sky and. Oh. I can't believe I live there. It's beautiful. My back yard.
I haven't had a back yard that I could just hang out in and drink wine in with my dog in a while. The last place I lived, I would have gotten shot had I tried...or stepped on a syringe. The place before that just had asphalt.
On our farm in Tennessee, we had a pear tree in the back yard. We had 5 million trees in our back yard, but the pear tree was especially notable. It bloomed and was climbable and was where our cats would always retreat to from opossums or raccoons. It was not unusual to walk out back and hear "REow? ReOW? ReeoW?" coming from the tops of the branches of our pear tree.
And another thing, I am able to use the force on mosquitoes. It's true. As soon as I recognize their presence, I control them with my mind. I will them not to bite me.
I think I'll hang out in my back yard some more this afternoon...
SotD 6/12
"You make boring stuff crazy. You're a nut."
Monday, June 12, 2006
Tony
Wouldn't it be cool if I won a Tony last night? If I'm sitting here this morning in my silk robe with my gourmet coffee and my Tony next to my monitor? I could have. For all you know. I suppose. Have won a Tony.
I wonder if they spin around. They look like they spin. The little medallion. That's the first thing I'm going to do when I win my Tony. I'm going to thump it and see if it spins.
My speech will be much better than some of those speeches too. Barf.
And can I just say, The Wedding Singer? Why? What the fuck? Why why why does such a horrid horrid musical exist in America? I hate musicals. Musicals with Cyndi Lauper though all scantily clad? Yeah. I'd go see that.
Oh and Julia Roberts? Go away. I hate you. You have no business in the theatre. You can take Oprah and never show your face on the stage. Ever ever again.
Fiction
Is it ok if sometimes I write fiction?
Sometimes I'm going to write fiction. Screw this autobiographical nonsense. My life really isn't all that interesting.
Actually. Ok fine. I guess I should tell you.
This is actually all fiction. I just made it all up. None of this is true.
I'm really a farmer from Montana. I have 2 kids and a cat named Shingles.
This has all been a lie.
Thank you for your time.
SotD 6/11
"Don't break too many hearts, cowgirl."
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Lickity Split
I guess I'm ready to go do this thing. I can't think of anything else I need to do in preparation.
I jogged.
Did some last-minute sit ups in hopes of removing any last-minute unwanted jiggle I could. Showered.
Shaved everything I could think of shaving then realized that a bunch of lesbians probably don't care if my legs are hairy or not.
Masturbated because...well. It just seemed like the thing to do.
Put on sun screen.
Put on my red polka dot bikini because if I'm on a block in a denim mini-skirt, chances are people are going to see my panties, so why not a bathing suit instead? And water guns will be present, so... it made sense.
Put my hair in pig tails.
Tied some red gingham ribbons at the ends.
Put on my cow girl boots.
Tried on my plastic sheriff badge.
Tried the red gingham snap shirt tied just below my boobs with the bikini. Am not drunk enough to dance that bravely... yet.
Practiced dancing in one place in front of my mirror and didn't make myself sick. It was sort of fun. I can do that peep through your legs move that the strippers taught me and you get a peek of my red polka dot swim suit bottoms when I do it.
Packed some jeans in case they want me to try on their chaps...and in case I want to ride the mechanical bull.
Got some gin in my system.
Practiced with my six shooter toy gun I bought yesterday and my hat with the red star on it.
I can't think of anything else I need to do.
Oh I should probably eat something so that I don't pass out.
Holy Christ I don't think I've ever gone out in public looking like this much of a slut.
I found out that I was given a cow girl name for the occasion.
Lickity Split.
I know you don't tell go go dancers to break a leg. What do you say to dancers? It's French and morbid. Merde, I think?
Merde, cow girl.
Default voice
Apparently my default voice is vampire. Meaning if I'm driving around with you talking about a person or a group of people and then I say something as though they were saying it, my default voice is vampire.
Girl scouts in the CVS parking lot trying to hawk their cookies:
"Vould you like to buy some of our delicious coookies?"
Fancy neighborhood with way too big homes way to close together:
"Yes, ve have ze gate up to keep you out because we are special. mwa ha ha. Even though you could simply squeeze through our bushes and steal our candy..."
Drooling Bull Dog walking down the sidewalk:
"You like my new collar? It is green. Watch out! I may bite you..."
What? Why? Why does she automatically turn into a vampire?
I don't get it...
Saturday, June 10, 2006
The strippers taught me nothing. NOTHING!
Doing research on those strippers was a huge waste of time and crisp dollar bills... Not that I have any regrets about the evening.
Variety. That's what that place lacked. Variety.
They all moved around the same. None of them were on blocks boogying to hip hop. They all slowly sauntered their little golden cat walk in the shape of two penises pointing in opposite directions. This was their routine.
Saunter saunter approach.
Say "hi".
Turn around.
Bend self in half and peep through legs.
Wave at you through legs.
(At this point the observer has the option to wave back depending on their tolerance level of redundancy. You already said "hi" afterall. 3 seconds ago.)
Back to standing.
Spread legs apart and then they all did this weird butt muscle shake thing which, I must admit, was entertaining the first time I saw it, but then it just got sort of weird. Wiggle wiggle wiggle. Not shaking their ass at you, but shaking their ass muscles at you. There's a difference.
Then they'd get on the floor and crawl around some doing their best impression of a kitten arching their backs. Then came the fan kick and...money shot open legs...and the look on their faces. The look on their faces was all the same. Bored fake grin. See? See my cooter? There it is. They looked like their heads could have been standing in line at the grocery store while their bodies were busy on the cat walk at the strip club.
And another thing, I thought getting completely nude was illegal. When I went to the titty bars in Memphis, that's all there were. Titties. Oh, what was that place called? Platinum Plus or something? Anyhow, they had to leave their panties on. Their thong. Could NOT under ANY circumstances show the cooter. And when I took my boyfriend to that strip club in Providence for his 21st birthday, they had to keep their panties on too.
Hmm... This place was seedy. They were all naked as jay birds though. Tweet tweet.
I've decided that I'm picky about boobs. I really think my boobs are probably the standard of perfection that everyone else must strive to live up to. Honestly. All other boobs fall short in my book. This one lady had strange tits. They sort of folded over and lumped on her chest like... wads of... Oh I don't know. They looked like they belonged in a bakery. She kept tugging on them too. Tug tug. Boop! Boop!
Oh and for the record, just to save you guys some trouble, it's probably not a good idea to start making out with the person you went to the strip club with instead of watching the strippers. Because the manager will come over and tell you that people will start getting the wrong idea and think that you work there and think that they can kiss his girls and they can't and he's just trying to protect his girls, so if you two are going to be all over each other like that could you please leave. For the record. Should you ever find yourself in such a situation.
ahem.
So yeah. I still have absolutely no fucking idea how I'm going to cow girl dance to hip hop on that little box for 3 hours tomorrow. Thank you, strippers. Thanks for NOTHING!
What a fine week for sentences!
This week I had so many grand sentences grace my ears that I started keeping track of the runners up. Consider these your sentences of the weekend. Here they are in no particular order:
"We rented Proof last night and all I could think about was how much better you were than Gwenyth Paltrow."
"I laughed so hard, I pooped a little."
"When you have children, Plimco, make sure you write their names on their clothing."
"You always complain about being fat, but every time I see you, you have your face in a fucking bag of Cheetos."
"It took me 2 and a half hours to get here. I had to pull off at the Dunkin Donuts and take a dump with my two-year-old."
"Painting a guy to look like an albino is the black face of albinism."
"I bet you look good in pink."
"The only way I'm getting an erection in here is if you give me one which, let's be honest, is highly likely."
Friday, June 09, 2006
Shit. What the hell was I thinking? I can't dance!
Shit. You guys, why did I sign up to dance as a cow girl for three hours in front of hundreds of people on a block on Sunday? I can't dance. What the hell was I thinking?
Ok, I can waltz. I can waltz your socks off. I can also polka like you've never polkaed before. And gallop racquet. And the Macarena. And the electric slide. And interpretive dance. But that's it. Oh wait. Ballet. Some ballet.
But. But! BUT! They are, get this, not going to be playing COUNTRY music at the little party at which I am to dance, but instead the DJ is to play hip hop. HIP HOP?! I have no clue how to dance to hip hop. I guess I'll just shake my ass and pray I don't fall off my box.
Shit. You guys? Why didn't you talk me out of this? 3 fucking hours. Fuck. Fuck me. And when I boogie by myself alone and naked in my room at night? I don't stay in the same place the whole time! I move around. But I'm going to be up on a little fucking box!!!
Maybe I'll just shoot passers by with my water pistol to the beat of the music. That should work...
What have I gotten myself into? Putting me and my dancing "moves" up on a block for public scrutiny. I could maybe come down with poison ivy on Sunday or something...
I need to start practicing.
Hip hop?
Jeezum Crow.
Breaking their hips, breaking my heart
I used to hang out in nursing homes all the time. I was there to sing songs about Jesus's love and also to flirt with boys as we walked through the halls smelling nursing home smells. Sometimes there were puppets. Sometimes there were none. Sometimes there was angel food cake and red kool-aid. Sometimes there was none.
I haven't been to a nursing home in a while. I wish nursing homes weren't depressing stinky places, but they are. At least the ones I've been to.
Yesterday my handsome IT guy was under my desk checking on my speaker connection while I was checking on his ass. He had been visiting his 88-year-old mother's lawyer. His mother is in a nursing home. They've dropped her twice. The first time, there was just bruising. This last time they broke a hip.
Breaks my heart.
Then yesterday I'm walking down the street in the misting rain with Fluff Bucket and there's this old man. We see our old man off and on. He is very old and his brain is not what it used to be. Yesterday he was standing in a puddle. In his socks. By a tree on the sidewalk. Slowly picking bark off the tree. Methodically. Slowly picking bark. He must have been out there in his sock feet in that puddle for a while judging by the progress he'd made on the tree. As we walk by I see a darker spot on the back of his grey sweat pants. He'd wet his pants standing in the puddle in his sock feet. I didn't want to startle him, so we just tromped by, but then... I felt him looking after us and I turned around and smiled. He gave me that helpless grin that makes the wrinkles on your forehead smooth and your hairline go backwards. He looked like a tall Dopey from the seven dwarfs. I imagined my dad or my granddaddy or Exador old and lonely and sad and confused standing in their sock feet with their urine soaked sweat pants in that puddle picking bark off a tree. Broke my heart.
I walked the rest of the way home in the mist sobbing.
I have to do something. I figure since I have all this time on my hands because I'm not rehearsing, I'll volunteer at a nursing home. I won't be flirting with boys and singing about Jesus this time though. I just... I don't know. I just want to... Make it better, you know? Make them grin. Listen.
Gracious, I can't even write about this anymore...
Another thing I want to do before I die:
Go to a monster truck rally.
Bukowski
Red Sox down 1. Top of the 5th.
I'll have another beer and see what happens.
Delirium Tremens.
Imagine there are 2 TVs in a bar, right? On either side of the bar like so:
' l_____l '
I'm sitting directly beneath the one on the right. If I crane my neck straight up as though I'm looking at the ceiling, I can see the game on TV. Bases are loaded. I realize that I may view the game more comfortably if I look at the television set opposite where I'm sitting. It's small, but I'm wearing my glasses...
Hit and.....pop up into out field! Runners running. I look at the screen across from me with glee on my face as we score. At that exact moment. At that exact goofy moment of baseball bliss of catching up-ness, the cute bartender that just got back from his road trip to Chicago with his band, the cute bar tender in the Strokes T-shirt and black chucks with the shaggy hair stands up from bending over the clean glasses emerging from the dish washer. His head precisely even with the television set. He sees the look on my face. Misinterprets. "Hey!" as though he knows me.
Hi.
I just...
See...
Your head is just...
Perfectly level with the TV and the Sox just scored and...
Gracious. Sorry to... look at you in such an excited manner....
...
It's ok to drink and write at a bar named after Bukowski. For the record. Other places I look like a dork, but here? Here? Here I'm a writer.
Shhhh.... Don't bug her. She's a writer.
Riiiiight.
SotD 6/8
"He's giving my cell phone number out to all of his spider buddies too. Bastard."
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Stolen Life Savers
When we were little, if we were good in the grocery store, we got to pick out a snack at the check out. We would get nerds until we were banned from nerds because we'd spill them all over the back seat of the car. Remember nerds? Half the container would be watermelon, the other half sour apple? Or strawberry and grape. If you dumped in a mouth full, they tasted like dirt.
My sisters and I would help mom with her list torn out of a spiral notebook. I remember looking at the frayed spiral notebook edge of the paper high in her hand as she pushed the cart with the red seat up and down the aisles at the Giant Foods. Up and down. Squirming round like an infinite S.
We invented a game involving getting eaten by alligators. The floor linoleum tile was primarily white with scattered squares of black. We'd challenge ourselves to hop on only black squares and try to make it through the store that way. And if we failed? Death by alligator. Or, wait. I guess sometimes it was hot magma too. Apparently shopping with three little girls for a family of 5 is quite a task because we would be in the Giant Foods for HOURS it felt like.
But there was Jim. I think his name was Jim. Thinking back on Jim, the whole relationship just seems...skewed. Jim worked as a butcher at the Giant Foods and whenever we went shopping he would come out and say "hi". I was 5. I think I thought Jim was my boyfriend or something because I would get all embarrassed and Jim would pick me up and I would hold onto his big strong butcher shoulders and blush...and blush. There was usually blood on his apron...
One day I was naughty. I don't remember what I did, but I was most certainly a naughty naughty girl. So naughty, in fact, that I was not granted my grocery store snack at the check out. My sisters both got snacks. They picked out a 3 Muskateers bar and some Sweet Tarts, but I got nothing.
I was mad. I had been naughty and I was mad. I sought revenge. I saw them at eye level. I planned the whole thing out in my head. Precisely. As a serial killer plans their next victim. As we left, I did it. I grabbed the roll of Life savers and put them in my pocket and walked out of the store following my mother and my two already snacking and gloating sisters.
The rush! The scandal! I felt as evil as I'd ever felt and it felt grand.
This is what I'd do when I got home. I'd stash the precious roll of savers in my patten black shiny shoes that I wouldn't have to wear to church until winter in the back of my closet. Then, when I decided to reward myself, I'd sneak in my closet and suck on a Life Saver. Genius!
I sat in the middle between my sisters in the back seat of our maroon interior Grand Marquis on the way home. It was hot. The metal seat belt burned my legs. My sisters on either side of me... enjoying their snacks.
I could just have one on the way home. Just one. Then I'll put the rest in my black patten shoe in the back of my closet and eat them later only special occasions.
I had to get the saver veeeery carefully out of the wrapping so that no one noticed a commotion...
Orange? I don't want orange. I want a red one. This took some sticky shuffling...
Somebody snitched on me.
"Celia's eating candy!"
Mom's eyes shoot to me in the rear view mirror.
"Where'd you get that candy, Celia?"
Think, Celia, think! Ummm... I got it for Christmas and forgot I had it in my pocket?
Lying was fruitless.
Mom screetched the car around burning rubber and making skid marks on the road.
Where are we going?
"I'm taking you back to the Giant Foods so that you can apologize for stealing their product, little Missy! And you are going to have to work to earn the money to pay for this."
Oh dear.
I was mortified. It got worse. I had to apologize to Jim! Sweet sweet handsome and tall Jim the butcher was also the manager and I had to tell him what I'd done... And apologize for stealing from him. He was so disappointed. His little angel. A thief. My brilliant plan gone horribly awry.
I'm pretty sure that I got a spanking too when I got home.
Jim never seemed as excited to see me when we went grocery shopping after that.
I didn't even like Life Savers all that much...
...
Update: This was written as part of The Scheherazade Project. The theme was someone steals something she doesn't need.
I wasn't looking at the personals
So I was looking at the personals yesterday and noticed a trend amongst men looking for women. Most are looking for an "athletic build". The exception to the rule is those that are looking for big booties and big titties. "A woman who has a hard time buttoning up her shirt."
Poop. I am neither of these things.
Not that I was looking at the personals for myself mind you. No no no. I was making fun of the balding model the other day because he reads the personals and has met at least one woman through them and I just wanted to see what people were saying. How they were phrasing their "I wanna get with you" plea.
One guy had a little cartoon of the dad from Family Guy who was lifting up his shirt and written on his chest was "No fat chicks". Classy.
Some guys just wanted to screw. They were like, I'll just be honest. I really don't want to meet your mom or hold hands with you at the movies. I don't want to cuddle with you all night and wake up the next morning and have breakfast. I just want to have sex and move on with my life. Nice.
There was one that I liked. I mean. If I was the kind of girl that responded to personal ads, which I'm not, but if I was, I maybe would have responded to this one. It simply said this:
I'm looking for a girl who's not scared to smoke a cigar.
I like that. I'm not scared to smoke a cigar. No promises of sex. No talk of long term relationship or body type. Just a girl that's not scared to smoke a cigar.
The other one that I maybe would have responded to but didn't because I'm not the type of person that responds to personal ads was this guy who owns his own house and coaches little league and is sick of dating duds and has blue eyes and dark hair and a dog. He said you get extra points if you are a dog owner or a dog lover. I got extra points! Instead of posting a picture of himself, he posted a picture of his dog. It really is a great dog. But... But he was a year younger than me and read like he was looking for a wife and I promised myself I'd never date anyone younger than me again and what am I talking about I just read the personals to make fun of them not to answer them or anything.
They were all very immediate too. Tonight! Let's get together and smoke a stogie tonight! But. I'm planning on going home and putting on my pijamas at 5:00 and making jambalaya and drinking a glass of wine and then reading some literary criticism while intermittently talking to my dog tonight. I need notice to psyche myself up for a social situation, bub. Tonight, my ass.
You know what's the most daunting part of it though? The idea of having to go through all that getting-to-know-you shit all over again. Feigning interest. I don't want to have the where I'm from, why I'm here, what I do, what kind of music I listen to conversation all over again. Fucking hate it. I sound like a recording whenever I have it.
No, I'm from Tennessee. I sound like I'm from Connecticut? Yeah. Voice classes. When you're an actor you sort of learn to have an absence of accent. Why did I come here? Well, I got an acting contract out of college in RI and I really liked the east coast, so I decided to say.
Every time. Blah blah blah.
I also just want to automatically know all that stuff about you. I want to skip to the comfort, the hanging out, the knowing each other and what makes us laugh. The picking on each other instead of trying to impress. I don't want to play the stupid game. I don't want to have to try to impress you. You should already know that I'm amazing. Isn't it obvious?
Ugh.
But. This is all superfluous. I mean. It's not like I'm looking at the personals with the intent to actually respond or anything. I'm looking at the personals to make fun of them.
Ah. Look at all the lonely people.
SotD 6/7
"Hes thinking about setting up a sting operation"
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Ingrid
I was speaking to someone last night about how the Bald Monkey is the bane of my existence. How his little blue booties are not booties at all but little plastic caps for his claws that one must stick on with super glue. They are supposed to last 4-6 weeks according to the package, but I've already replaced at least 4 of them and noticed 3 more off. Then I remembered Ingrid.
I went to a cat shelter in Memphis to save Ingrid. She was grey with green eyes. She was a barn cat. She had been beaten and trusted no one. She was feral and mad. I took her home to my little white house on Felix street where I lived with the 3 goths, the black chow Zoe, and the rottweiler Inubis. Welcome to our cozy home, Ingrid!
That cat pissed all over the place, but her favorite spot was the middle of my bed. I'd be settling in after a long night of studying ready to catch a solid 4 hours before tackling my college career again tomorrow... I'd slide my bare feet under the covers... Wet. Wet cat piss. And she'd piss on top of the comforter and of course it would sink through. I'd have to wash everything. Eventually the mattress started to smell too. I hated that fucking cat.
What's the one cool thing cats have going for them? You can hold them, right? Fuzzy purring wads of warmth in your arms. Yay kitty. No. Ingrid would scratch your eyeballs out of your sockets before she'd let you hold her. She'd hide from everyone, she was so skittish. I hated that fucking cat.
Summer rolled around and I was off to do my acting internship in North Carolina. I couldn't take Ingrid. I asked my parents if she could stay in their barn. She was a barn cat after all. They said sure. They hardly ever saw her. She'd prowl and piss on the hay bales. In the fall, I left Ingrid on the farm and decided to get a nice kitten, a normal kitten, a sweet and loving kitten from the pet shop. I brought the Bald Monkey back to my studio apartment on Cooper Ave...
Ingrid got some sort of feline leukemia or something. My parents brought her inside because she wasn't feeling well. She crawled under their bed and died.
Come to think of it, she's not the only cat who did that. Seems like we had many cats who, when their time came, would crawl under my parent's bed and die. What's up with that? The feline mortuary beneath sleeping human mother/father figure. Bizarre.
SotD 6/6
"There is no such thing as eternity. There is only theatre."
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
I get a gun! Pchoo! Pchoo!
So... Remember how I'm dancing as a cow girl at the all-female Pride block party on Sunday? I just found out that we'll be provided with water guns... "To help cool you off." I was also told to "come prepared to flirt and be flirted with".
Oh dear. What have I gotten myself into?
For some reason I don't feel as gross when I'm hit on by girls as I do when I'm hit on by guys. I wonder why that is. Girls are just...better at it. They're not slimy or creepy or scary. Just honest. Nice ass. Thanks. Have a nice day. No swarm. Smarm? Whatever. None of that.
Ok, but there's more. I was also told... (wait for it...) that there is also to be...
A MECHANICAL BULL!!!
Oh hell yeah.
Ride em cow girl.
I'm supposed to wear a denim mini skirt though. Hmm. I wonder how that will work...
The Little Road Trip
So, I've decided that I'm going to do this. I have the car. I have the time. I have the dog. I need to just stop pussy footing around and start planning this thing.
Some of you were nice enough to tell me that I could take a shower in your bathroom and sleep on your couch and let my dog poop in your yard. I'll pick up the poop. The tricky part is that you don't all conveniently live in a direct route line from the east coast to the west and back.
So, I have to get to Colorado eventually for a few days, right? Because that's where Plimco family vacation is this year. So. Hmm... I really want my final west coast stop to be Seattle because I've never been there and think I may want to wind up living there some day, but need to at least visit there once before such things occur.
Can you tell that I'm staring at a map of the United States while intermittently writing this? Not a good idea if one strives for continuity in a post...
Ok. Right. So, zoom zoom zoom, Fluff Bucket and I take off and start driving the afternoon of July 21st. That gives me a week to get to Colorado. Plenty of time.
First stop..... Where? Ohio? Who's in Ohio? The polka hall of fame. Ok.
Then...I guess I could bop up to Michigan and drink Naive's beer.
Then I could visit the Dr. and Chet in Indiana. The two cousin dogs finally meet!
Next Nashville. Eat some Knucklehead BBQ, pester The Big E, have lunch with my grandparents, make Aunt B and Mrs. Wigglebottom take a walk with me and The Bucket (ooooo...I wonder if they'd get along....) sit on somebody's front porch swing and sweat and drink and watch lightning bugs.
Then I have to get serious about heading west.
Stop off and visit the folks in St. Louis, I guess... Even though I'll be hooking up with them in Colorado later, but I haven't stayed in their new house yet, or tried out their little special wine fridge and oh! More dog meeting.
I guess I could stop off and see if my ex-boyfriend is still alive in Kansas City... Then Kansas? Who do we know in Kansas? I could just drive through.
Colorado family fun time.
Then Utah! Wow. I never thought I'd ever get excited about going to Utah. But that is where all mysterious Tristas dwell. So I'll hold her baby and maybe eat some of her mint chutney and... Honestly. Who knows what in the world we'll get ourselves into and then...
Ok. Here's where things get hazy.
I could A) bop over to yet another ex-boyfriend in Orange, CA and boom! Coast 2 coast. But... I've been to Orange before and... I don't really want to go there again, but... It's a place I could stay and people I know, but... I'd rather II) head straight up to Seattle. I'd probably have to break that drive up. I don't know any bloggers in Oregon or Washington. Poop.
I could camp, I guess. I need to buy a tent. Poop. How much do tents cost?
Then on the way back I'm presented with the same issue. I could just drive straight back, but I'm at a loss for couches and showers.
Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa? I got nothing. Next couch over would be Dr. J's again in Indiana. Hmmm.... Suddenly my plan seems shitty.
Camping. I'll just camp. Or sleep in my car.
This seems silly, but I have this idea of transplanting ocean water. The Atlantic Ocean is about a 10 minute drive from my house. I'll slop some water in some tupperware and put it in my trunk and forget about it. Then when I get to the Pacific Ocean, I'll sploosh it in with ceremonial flair. Then I'll take some of that ocean's juice for the ride back.
This is sort of scary. But I'm going to do it. I'll have a big dog with me to protect me and everything will be/has been sort of documented here, so if I turn up missing or mangled then you guys should know at least the vicinity to start asking questions...
So. I need to find a tent and I need to start looking up camp sites from Washington through Indiana.
I also need music! Folks. I need lots of music. I've been doing a bit of a mini survey. Ready?
What is the best CD to drive by? If you had to pick one. Tell me so that I can get it... or have someone burn it for me. We're talking hours and hours and hours of music I need people. Music to watch the country go by to...
This is exciting.
SotD 6/5
"Sometimes my pee smells like Sugar Smacks."
Monday, June 05, 2006
Dang
This word has somehow snuck into my daily vocabulary. Every time I turn around I'm "dang!"ing. Dang. Where the hell did it come from? Who says "dang" all the time? It's so...inoffensive and...childish and... Dang. I wish I could stop it.
I have this pseudo-aunt that is forever exclaiming "Golly!". She has a super southern accent. Perhaps "dang" is half a step cooler than "golly", but I'm not so sure.
Dang.
SotD 6/4
"I'll let your father tell you about how he almost caused an international security incident at the airport in Moscow."
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Smooth
Sally's husband, Henry, and I often find ourselves in social situations where we say or do the completely most embarrassing and stupid thing we could possibly do. It's not a contest, but... When we haven't seen each other in a while, we have to catch up on the stories and there's this sense of, oh yeah? That's NOTHING. The other day....
This last visit I had the story of the dinner party. I went to a little dinner party last week and everyone and their significant others were there and I was chatting with an old director of mine and she showed me her new postcards/flyers for her hot tub/massage business. The card had a picture of one of the Japanese tubs in the corner and some palm fronds and then in the diagonal corner was a person getting a massage. They had this great tattoo on their lower back. I was like, damn! Whose back IS that? MMM mmm MMM! Whoever's back that is I'd like to... My director stops me. "It's my wife's." She's sitting right next to her. She grins and turns and lifts up her shirt slightly to show me her tattoo in proof. Open mouth. Insert foot.
Henry replies, "That's NOTHING. The other day I went to the wrong funeral."
I'm sorry. What?
Henry's great aunt Agnes had died at the ripe old age of 93. Her death had been imminent for a while now. Henry couldn't make the wake the night before because he was working down at the Ruby Tuesdays until late. He gets up the next day, dresses in his black suit, combs his hair, and drives on down to St. Rocco's church for the service. St. Rocco's church is where cousin Edith's funeral was a couple weeks ago and uncle Don's was the week before that.
Henry walks in and takes a pew about three rows in from the back. The place is packed. He kneels down and says a few prayers for great aunt Agnes. He rises and starts looking through the throng of backs of heads for his parents. The funeral begins. The closed casket is already at its place at the front of the church. 15 minutes into it. 15 MINUTES INTO IT, the priest says something to the effect of, "Our dear brother in Christ, Joe, will be missed...." Joe?! Who the heck is Joe?
Henry looks around him a bit more closely. Doesn't recognize anyone. It dawns on him. He went to the wrong funeral. Does he stay for the remainder of Joe's service? No. He leaves. He goes back home and takes his suit off... Scratching his head...
SotD 6/3
"I had this big zit on the top of my head for years. When it finally popped, the puss hit the ceiling."
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Sentence of the Day 6/2
"Why don't you just have the cowboys sign your tits."
Friday, June 02, 2006
Once upon a Rodeo...
I challenged myself to the story game. You gave me 3 characters. Actually Trista and Dr. J gave me 3 characters. I wrote you a story. Here are the characters:
1. Tina -- a girl who works in a kleenex factory stuffing the little pocket kleenex packets even though she has been told by a very reliable psychic (who once predicted that Dukakis would lose the presidential election) that she will die of suffocation in a giant pile of facial tissue.
2. A debonair, world-traveling stuffed Mini Horse named Benjamin Bradford Bartholomew Bobsled. but everyone calls him Steve.
3. A hayseed plowboy named Jethro with chicken pox scars who hopes to get out of his small, Midwestern town through his talent for playing the ukelele.
And without further ado... I give you....
The Festering
Occasionally they'd have little analysis sessions where they attempted to define It. What is It? Where do they stand with It? I don't believe It. How is It affecting them today as opposed to yesterday? I've had enough of It. I can't stand It anymore. It's driving me crazy. Can I touch It?
Months and months and months now.
Sometimes It goes away. But not for long. And Its been leaving the door open and an arrow of muddy foot prints.
He's not as dirty as he used to be, but I suspect there's still a desire there. Unexplained.
The version of themselves is surely more exciting than the original.
But It's not...
All that exciting.
I mean, It is, but...
Thankless. Hard.
It's hard.
Once she said, "Fuck It." and erased all memory. Removed that tiny giblet from her obdula oblongata. Flicked It out the window as a motorist would flick a booger. Today, on the commute home, thinking about It. Occasionally grinning. Occasionally gasping. Getting angry. Gripping the wheel. Today. On her commute home from the Kleenex factory, she saw a little girl with a dog precisely the same size tugging the frizzy haired child along the side walk. Red leash taught. The same look on both their faces. Dog and girl. And for the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to take It that far. To imagine their little girl and her dog. She thought about calling him up. Jethro? Do you think you'd make a good Dad? But she didn't. Instead she screamed something only her car interior heard and her interior ain't talking...
Jethro and his ukelele, Delilah, had so much going for them. They'd play down at the Tasty Freeze on hot summer nights in Indiana. Their tunes were so catchy, even the lightning bugs danced. Jethro played that ukelele like a man...despite the tea cup size. He'd lean his fedora just a smidge back on his head of hazelnut curls and...play.......and play.
Everyone said he was destined for greatness. Everyone knew he was too good to be playing in the Tasty Freeze parking lot. Everyone knew he was better than that. Bigger than that. Everyone knew he'd leave town some day and play professionally
Mildred: over there on that volcanic island that Aunt Jolene went to that one year and came back with those flower necklaces and that T-shirt for Alex and... Aunt JOlene? You remember. She showed us pictures on that digital camera of hers. Remember? She sent away for that contest where you get a 5 dollar surprise in the mail from someone somewhere in America and she got that silly stuffed horse for her prize and she had to put it in every picture she took.
Betsy: Oh right! And the dog chewed its plastic eye balls off and she was so embarrassed.
Mildred: Anyhow. I bet you a million dollars Jethro's going to be playing that ukelele there in lights some day. Mark my words.
Betsy: You don't think he'll settle down and get married?
Mildred: Married to who? Oh never-you-mind, I'm sure he gets plenty of tail, Betsy. I just don't think there'd be someone with enough... energy to or maybe just....patience for his....well. I've heard he's really weird. A great lay (so I'm told) but he talks about weird shit. Socially? Well. You know musicians...
They had met at the east coast rodeo 6 months ago. A brief, but powerful initial interaction. Tina brought forks to throw at the bulls in case they weren't rowdy enough. Jethro wore his cowboy boots. Tina in a grass green snap shirt whith white fringe.
They exchanged contact information at the conclusion of the rodeo. Fingertips brushing over business cards...
They kept in close contact, but It was difficult. Jethro had his ukelele career and Tina had her curse afterall. Her curse she wore like a stigmata bolo tie....if such a thing existed...
Tina... stuffing Kleenex boxes.... sick of handling the soft... Thinking of him as she stuffed... Day in. Day out.
Jethro... Strumming ukelele blisters on his destined-for-greatness hands. Posing for photographs. His mind on her. On It. On whether or not they'd ever get It.
Jethro knew about the curse. He'd been warned, but didn't place too much stock in the psychic mumbo jumbo even though he owned his own pack of tarot cards wrapped in a silk handkerchief on his wooden bookcase at home. He decided he'd call her under the auspices of telling her a bedtime story, but instead forcing her to confront It.
He mixed another Gin Jenny and put on another CD. Clicked his pen. Once. Twice... 3 times...
Perhaps he's not drunk enough yet...
Or scared enough or old enough or lonely enough or brave enough.
It would be a real shame if the curse ended up being true and she died tomorrow at the Kleenex factory without ever having known... Without ever having kissed. It would be a real shame...
Stranger things have happened.
Sentence of the Day 6/1
(sung) "You got a look in your eye when you're saying goodbye like you wanna say 'hi'."
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Reading Music
I've been having dreams lately where I'm reading sheafs of sheet music. Pages and pages and pages full of black squirmy notes.
I can read music. I haven't needed to for a while, but I can.
I played alto saxophone for 9 years. I sing. I've been singing, reading music and singing since... Golly. Probably since I could read words.
I got my acting internship in college by singing a song for some people. I'm an alto, but I can sing first and second soprano too.
I used to be pitch perfect meaning I could pull a key out of my ass and it would be on pitch. I bet I could still give you a G. Let me see... Yeah. I think that's still a G.
For my internship, before the show, the quartet (I sang alto) would have to go around dressed in our colonial clothing (Plimco in a mop cap) to various restaurants in Boone, North Carolina and sing. We'd walk into Shoney's. I'd give us a G. The Daniel Boone Inn. I'd give us a G.
Ahh... The Daniel Boone Inn. I think that's what that place was called. The only thing on the menu was homemade fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, corn bread and strawberry shortcake. Sweet tea and coffee. They gave us food for free. We literally sang for our supper. I got sick of eating that meal that summer, but dang. Now? That sounds so so soooo good...
I digress.
Out of college I was expected to sing some more in a ballroom in a Victorian mansion. We sang songs from operas and Victorian ballads and some difficult difficult shit. And Christmas Carols! Boy oh boy did we sing us some Christmas carols. We started rehearsing in June. Seriously. We recorded our Christmas CD in September. We started giving Christmas tours and singing at Christmas feasts the first of November. No wonder I hate Christmas. Too much cheer. Far far too much cheer that year. It broke me.
I don't audition for musicals. I can't stand the scene. The musical theatre scene makes me want to barf. I can't deal with those people and their wide eyed, bubbly ass, annoying as hell personalities.
I miss singing though.
I miss reading music.
I miss making my brain work in that way, finding those notes, carrying those tunes, making that music.
I was struck with this very vivid memory last night when I was in bed. Maybe it's because I had the fan on and it was humid and the smell of the wood floors and the heat... I remembered hanging out in the choir loft at church. I work so hard to forget or ignore or not talk about church and Christianity, but we really made beautiful music in that loft. My mom was the organist and choir director. We spent quite a bit of time in her loft. Singing. That old metal electric fan and the wood floors. The hanging tape with dead flys. The metal folding chairs and Dr. Pepper. Cutting up with my sisters when we were supposed to be paying attention. Our sheet music getting sticky. Explaining to a soprano what a fermata is.
I wonder how I could get that back, you know? How I could get that back without the religion. The bi-weekly reading of music and singing of song. I sing to my dog and to myself and often have to sing little ditties in plays or what-not, but... I want it back.
I want to read music again. I want to be good at it again.
I want to give you a G.
Sentence of the Day 5/31
"We overlapped on the day you were born."