Put a ring on it

Good morning everyone! Did you realize it's Friday? I don't know where this week went...I spent most of it writhing on the floor, gasping for air, trying to get through a terrible bout of insomnia and allergies. And because I have nothing other to say than I AM SO FUCKING TIRED, I give you this, a video that has had me staring in fascination since Pablo sent it to me yesterday. First because I wish I could move like that and then secondly, WHERE IS HIS JUNK? But damn! It's a catchy song! And I've been singing it! All day! And now, so will you!



Hopefully, by next week, my ennui will have worn off and I'll be back to my regular, sparkly self. But for now, my head is shutting down and wanting me to lie, quietly, in a room with the windows drawn. If this were the early 1800's, I would ask my maid to loosen my corset and she would report to all who cared that I was suffering from consumption, and I would softly weep in the corner. As it's 2008, I suppose I'll just listen to my body...which is telling me to have a shot of tequila. And I must obey.

Happy Halloween!

Who needs fiber?

It was the butt plug that did me in.

Before I came to the conclusion that the Almighty would not, in fact, strike me down for drinking or having sex, I thought Adult Shops were a place for degenerate fornicators who wore long coats and big sunglasses. They would grope their genitalia in a back corner, perverted glances concealed as they watched porn and read filthy magazines. I thought if you visited a place like that, your morals had slipped to places so low, that no amount of witnessing would lead you back towards the pearly gates; anything that might have to do with self gratification immediately secured your spot in hell next to people like Larry Flynt and Hugh Hefner (when he gets around to kicking it, that is). The End. I thought touching a vibrator or masturbation would invite blindness, insanity or, as one article I looked up today stated, thinning hair (which explains the bald pates on a lot of you men out there. Ahem).

Of course, then something happened, called growing up and moving past my judgmental attitude. God…I was SO judge-y! Which isn’t to say that suddenly I’ve grown fond of porn or visiting sex shops. Of the two times I have ever seen porn, I have been reduced to fits of giggles and pointing and gasping. Usually things like “And THIS is supposed to get you in the mood? Where do you think she got shoes like that? Why does she have such weird tan lines?” Let’s just say it doesn’t work for me. But I find sex shops deeply interesting. Sort of like an exercise in social anthropology.

So Saturday night, after a very civilized dinner with Angie and Kenneth, we were walking home, past the transvestites and pretty men of the Castro, when Kenneth turned to me and said “Hey! Do you want to see that video of the cock punch?” Well, OF COURSE I DID. The weekend prior, Kenneth had explained how they had walked into a porn shop and there was a video playing of men punching each other in the privates as a way of getting off. It was either go home and play Scrabble or witness the cock punching in all of its seedy glory. Clearly, Scrabble could wait.

And so in we went. What Kenneth and Angie did NOT prepare me for was the immense display of toys that were on shelves within the first few feet of the shop. Toys that were intended to be inserted up one’s bottom.

Now, I’ve had a colonoscopy, so I’m VERY aware how far up the GI tract things can go, but I wasn’t prepared for the sheer length and girth of these particular instruments. I’m fairly certain that they would require not only a passport, but some sort of travelers permit to wander that far up someone’s ass. In fact, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if, upon insertion, the tip might in fact come out through one’s open mouth. Further perusal brought me upon the anal beads which resembled something one might use to unclog your toilet. It would definitely need a preamble of wine and a heavy narcotic to fit into a human orifice. How would you approach your mate with such a device? Fortunately, it bore the name “The Rascal!”, which would definitely divert from its ominous appearance. “Bend over, love! The Rascal wants to come out to play!” I imagine someone might say, playfully slapping their lover on the bottom as a sort of preparation for what was to come.

Fearing that my head might explode and shoot out of my eye sockets, I went to amuse myself in the back where the bondage suits and crotch-less wrestling outfits hung. Pity they didn’t have one in Marc’s size as he doesn’t have a costume for Halloween on Friday…next time. Kenneth came over, crestfallen, to report that the cock punching video was not playing. Being that he very much likes girls, he wanted to scoot, pronto, and head back to Angie’s, but I needed to inspect the butt toys one more time. For research. I led him back up front for a second opinion. “How do you think these things work?” I asked, still trying to do the math: A + B seemed to equate a trip to the emergency room for an unintentional episiotomy. “I think you need a lot of lubricant,” Kenneth said. Angie approached, somewhat indignant over the fact that, in the entire store, there was but one vibrator hanging, dejected, amongst the plethora of butt plugs with a small tag that said, quietly, “female play.” In the Castro, girls don’t even rate CAPS. However, it was a lovely shade of purple with a neat design on the packaging. You know, like where art and sex meet!

We left, but not before I took several, covert pictures of what I was seeing. I’ll only post the one photo of the most robust plug (apologies for the quality. I was trying to be discreet). If you imagine a new toilet paper roll (double ply) you’ll have some idea as to its dimensions. If used, constipation would no longer be a problem. On the other hand, you wouldn’t shit right for weeks.

Now I know how Hester Prynne felt

I have always thought of myself as a Dog Person. It’s not that I have anything against cats, per se. In fact, I’ve known a few that I’ve loved. Well, let’s make that two. Two cats that I’ve found acceptable. It’s not that I actively hate cats, or throw rocks at them, or veer my car ever so slightly at them when they run out into the street…WHAT? I just said I DON’T do that…quit giving me those disparaging looks.

I spent the weekend up in San Francisco at Angie and Mike’s house. Angie is also a Dog Person, which is one of the reason she is my friend. That, and she has pretty hair and shares my shoe size - IMPORTANT THINGS. The strange thing is that, Angie has no dogs, but DOES have three cats. It’s one of the mysteries of the universe, how this happened, but we won’t go into that, because it’s Monday and would require a lot of alcohol coffee.

Angie and Mike most recently acquired Smokey, who was wandering outside of Mike’s office building and decided that Mike looked like the kind of person who would take a wandering cat home. Smart cat, that one, as that is exactly what happened. (Hi Mike! Remember this weekend? When I beat you at Scrabble?)

And so, at 2am, I was woken up by Smokey who decided “Hey! You are a NEW PERSON and might not follow the same rules as those two other people and cats who SLEEP all night when it’s time to PLAY! But first, let me brush your hair for you!” He had taken my hair and spread it across the pillow and was raking through it with his claws. I wasn’t sure what to think about this, as his claws were a wee bit close to my carotid…so I rolled over, pulling my hair with me and Smokey saw this as an invitation to POUNCE! LAY ACROSS MY FACE! KNEAD MY CHIN! Seriously. There was a lot of kneading. But GOD, he was so cute! And so I totally made out with him all night and decided that if I could have fit him into my purse, I would have taken him back down to suburbia with me.

Later, after I had returned home, Kylie attached her nose to my jeans and figured out that I had been unfaithful. I tried to explain that it was a cat and not another dog, thinking that would make everything okay, but seeing as cats are her nemesis, I don’t think she’ll ever look at me the same way again. I'd tell you all about visiting the gay porn shop, but that will have to wait until later this week. (Bet you all just sat up in your chairs a little straighter! Am I right? WOO!) Right now, I have to go buy gifts for and pay attention to my dog...otherwise she's going to burn a scarlet A onto my forehead while I'm sleeping and that will totally clash with the outfit I have planned for tomorrow.

Because my philosophy is, if something embarrassing happens, I should share it with everyone

I consider myself a Clean Person. I kept myself from using ALL CAPS, there, because I don't want to seem obnoxious about it. But really, I like to keep my house clean. I shower regularly. My dog smells good. Marc smells good. We don't have suspicious stains on our carpets, and I have a deep and encyclopedia like knowledge about cleaning products.

And then, we get to my car.

Here is where I will heap the burning coal of blame upon Kylie's head. She SHEDS A LOT. And I WILL use all caps, because with the amount of hair that comes off of her each day, you would think a new dog would form and start demanding to be fed. Each week, you can hear a plaintive wail escaping my lips that goes something like this: "HOW, AFTER I HAVE JUST VACUUMED THIS ENTIRE HOUSE, IS THERE A FUR BALL DANCING ACROSS THE DINING ROOM FLOOR?? ARRRRRGHHHH!" And then I usually fall to the floor and begin rending my garments.

I used to employ my German Cleaning Skills™ towards my car. Somewhere over the past few years, however, I've had to stop, since I was either going to be cleaning ALL OF THE TIME, or have a life. So the car's interior went, literally, to the dogs. Fortunately, I don't have to bus anyone around in it, so I'm spared the embarrassment of people having to sit in dog hair and try to look out of the windows, which Kylie has completely smudged up with her nose. Those who dare enter know that it is not a representation of what my life looks like...thank the Sweet Lord in heaven, because my car would indicate that I live in a decrepit trailer with two pick ups out on the front lawn (on blocks, natch) and a couch on the porch where I sit in my house-coat and watch Jerry Springer all afternoon while pee'ing into my female Stadium Buddy. Want a Bud Lite?

So the other day, I went to meet Angie and a new friend, Kim, for lunch. I thought that we would be eating at their office, so I pulled up and parked, ready to call Angie to let her know I was downstairs. Imagine my dismay when I saw them walking towards me and realized, OH THE HORROR, that they wanted to go off-campus for lunch and wanted me to drive.

I think I might have pooped my pants a little.

Angie, telepathically understanding what my panicked look meant said "Oh, don't worry. I warned her about your car! And look! Her dress is made out of slippery material so the hair will glide right off!" This did not help. Especially since once we got back to my car, Kim noted "Oh, you really DO have a lot of dog hair!" Angie's descriptive powers had obviously not been sufficient. I quickly swept the crap off of the front seat, which had been further soiled that morning since my coffee carafe had leaked and I had nothing to wipe it off with. Fortunately, I am also ingenious, so poor Kim had to sit on an old grocery bag so that she would not get her dress filthy. I like my passengers to travel in style.

It should also be noted that my A/C doesn't work, and we've been dealing with temperatures in the upper 80's all week. So on the way home, Kim, foregoing the front seat and taking her chances in the back, had to ride with the window down, meaning the left side of her hair-do had a little more lift than the right once she exited my car. I'm sure she'll thank me later for injecting her style with lop-sided body. It's the kind of friend I am.

I think I might have to put Interior Auto Maintenance back on my list of things to do, since the mortification of that afternoon will burn brightly in my memory until at LEAST my next cocktail. But hey! We had sushi for lunch! And it was fabulous! And we discussed how two of our last names mean dirty things, so that was exciting!

If I don't post for a while, you'll know where I am. I'll be back when my car is clean.

A belated birthday, because I'm technically impaired

I was going through my archives today when I noticed a post in my "drafts" section that was supposed to have gone up LAST Friday. If you must know, I'm not the most technically savvy person in the world. In fact, I had to look up how to spell "technical"...it's a good day if I can figure out how to turn the computer ON. I just stopped using stone tablets last year, people.

But a dear friend of mine, Andrea, turned 31 on Saturday, and attention must be paid. So lest you think I forgot about you, darling, that is not the case. I just misfired on the "publish" button. Behold:

So, tomorrow, my friend Andrea turns 31. I've known her since her first day of college, back in the merry old 1990's, when Al Gore invented the internet, Bill Clinton got caught with his pants down and the economy was booming. A good time was being had, apparently, by all.

And so were we! Being two years older, and therefore full of wisdom, I took Andrea under my wing. A rudimentary knowledge of college life needed to be explained, such as: how to speaker dance at fraternity parties! how to smoke in a sexy manner! what the actual definition of shacking was! I'm happy to report that she was an apt pupil and a very successful co-ed. More importantly, she was and is one of my favorite people and I'm thrilled to have seen her grow from a bubbly and fun college student who used to study on the floor of the hallway outside of the library because she would get in trouble for talking too much inside of the library, to a bubbly and sophisticated woman who still has a lot to say, but no longer has to deal with the restraint of collegiate law.

And while I might have introduced her to smoking, she doesn't anymore, people, so don't start in on me about leading people astray. Because while we both might look damn sexy while inhaling (after lots of practice) we also like our lungs to be pink and healthy. So now we reserve the sexy for our awesome dance moves which, alas, no longer take place on top of a speaker. Sigh. I guess that means we're officially adults.

Happy (belated) Birthday, bella. I can't wait to see you next month.

Charity work

Being a creature of habit, I tend to take Kylie on the same walk around our neighborhood several times a week. For the past few weeks, we've been walking during the later portion of the afternoon, and I've noticed something peculiar: there is a car that parks in the same spot, each day, and a man has been taking a nap in the passenger side seat whenever Kylie and I march by. It's a busy street, so I admire his undaunted quest for sleep. He drapes the newspaper over his head to shield out the sun, so I've never seen his face, but I'm overly familiar with his footwear.

You see, he sets his shoes out on the sidewalk next to his car. Heaven forbid his toes should not be able to dance and wiggle free during his slumber. Instead, I have to navigate around the shoes which is a challenge only because Kylie wants to bury her nose deep inside and absorb their odor which I can only imagine resembles decaying cheese or the grave (let's just say the shoes are not well cared for and leave it at that lest any of you have delicate stomachs). What does it say about my character that I've wanted to steal his shoes each time I pass them? Nothing good, I'm sure, but at least I can be certain that my spot in hell is reserved!

Today, to reward myself for not having eaten that second brownie, I moved the shoes under his car as I walked past - and I'll have you know this showed a remarkable amount of self-control on my part. I went down a ways and paused, hoping that since Kylie and I were walking by at a later hour that we might catch him at the end of his nap, and witness his Panic! and Alarm!, thinking his shoes were LOST! or STOLEN!, and then relief! over finding them tucked beneath his car. Alas, he still hadn't stirred after five minutes, and I really had to get home to pee.

I like to think I keep people on their toes and their minds sharp. It's a public service of sorts. I should really be compensated.

From the mouths of babes

I'm feeling much better today. Leeches and blood-letting really DO work! Who knew?

After having spent most of the weekend in a prone position on the couch and after using a million hundred tissues, I believe the allergies have gone off to afflict someone else. They've only left the sneezing portion of their program. And I DO love a good sneeze, so I'm thinking I came out the winner on this one. Ha-HA!

We had our friend and her daughter over for breakfast on Sunday. The daughter, who we will refer to as M, is one of the reasons that Marc and I will ever venture down the path of parenthood. She has made us less afraid of what it might be like to bring a Small Person into the world and we realize that it might actually be amusing to raise a child in such a way that they tell their therapist, later, how much My Parents Fucked Me Up. I mean, we have to have SOME fun, what with all of the sleep deprivation parenthood seems to include.

Anyhoo, M loves to be read to, and some six books in, she looked curiously at my face and said "What's wrong with your eyebrows?" and placed her small finger on my left brow bone. This type of question means one of two things...either that I have forgotten to darken the hair of my eyebrows, or that I've colored them in too darkly, which makes me look as though I'm a distant relative of Groucho Marx. Either way, it's not pretty.

She continued "They look sort of funny...they are not the same." At the age of four, M is terribly precocious, but I could tell she was struggling for the correct description as to what was going on north of my eyeballs... I went into the bathroom to inspect.

The left one had been completely rubbed off, giving me the lopsided appearance of a frat boy who'd had his eyebrow shaved while passed out after a night of too many keg stands. An elegant woman throwing a brunch at her house, I was not. I sighed and rubbed the right one off as well, figuring that if I couldn't have elegance, I would at least have symmetry.

First world problem, I know.

I came back out, ready to resume reading, but M had moved on and wanted to go upstairs to have her hair braided. So off we went to my bathroom; she observed my face in the mirror and took note that both of my eyebrows were now missing. "What's wrong with your face, Jen?" Where to begin, right? I told her that I had rubbed the other eyebrow off, so as not to look funny to which she said "Well, you look funnier NOW. I'm glad mine don't do that."

Indeed. It's a good thing she's made of sugar plums and the Baby Jesus, or else I might have wished a pox on her, but she's right. I wish mine didn't do that either.

Wherein I mine my own suffering for content

I woke up on Friday with a low grade headache and the desire to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed until next year, cradled by goose down. It's allergy season and I've felt, all week, like calling my clients to say "I cannot come in as I'm Afflicted with a serious Malady." However, being that it's only allergies, and not something dire enough to drown in black-market narcotics, I've persisted with going to work despite the feeling that my head is barely attached. It's a good thing I can teach while only half consious. I'm a professional, people.

So on this particular morning, I dragged myself into the bathroom to commence my daily ritual of eyebrow and eyelash application. Let's just say the overhead lighting was especially unforgiving as the black shadows underneath my eyes had reached such large proportions, it seemed like my face was disappearing into the sockets. Oh well, I thought as I spackled on the under eye concealer, I'll just distract people today with sparkling jokes and jazz hands! Except my clients are a bit more observant and vocal than most. All morning, I received comments of this ilk:

"You look really awful...did you sleep last night?"
"JESUS!"
"You're so pale...are you sure you should have come in today?"
"You're not going to get ME sick, are you?"

Well then, don't hold back. So sorry I showed up to work looking like an old, medieval hag. Come on and join me over by my cauldron! We'll go bobbing for Christians and heretics and cast spells on people who annoy us!

In the meantime, I'm heading back home towards the tequila and Benadryl. GOD.

Wherein I actually have the balls to tell someone how irritating they are

At Peet's, in line, waiting to order my latte. It's early enough that it's still dark out, ergo I'm cranky about being up in the first place. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Stranger: Excuse me, where do you get your hair colored?
Me: Oh, I don't. It's natural.
Stranger: No, it's not.
Me: Um, yes, it is. I think I would know.
Stranger: It can't be.
Me: Well, it's grown out of my head like this for 32 years, so I think I have you there.
Stranger: I don't believe you.
Me: Allllllll-righty then.

I turned around, thinking the interaction had concluded, but she caught up with me in the pick-up line.

Stranger: I don't know why you would lie about something like coloring your hair.
Me: Why WOULD I lie about something like that? If you'd like, I'll yank out a strand and you can go and have it tested.
Then she made one of those noises that is impossible to type but I can only describe as an irritated fwoosh of air that started deep in her throat and came out as a snort.
Stranger: GOD. Just admit it isn't real!
Me: I would, but it's not the case. You shouldn't insult people before they have their coffee - it's rude.

And with that, my latte came up, I turned to her, made a psh sound and left (I visualized kicking her in the baby hole with a mighty hi-YA!, but I didn't have the energy). As a woman, she should understand...you only debate a strangers hair color credibility BEHIND their backs, not WITH them. Her mama didn't teach her right.

I shall fear no evil, not even the consequences of my love for punk rock

On my way home from work yesterday, I was enjoying the local classical music radio station. On a particular strip of 85North, that is the only station I receive, a strange feature of my malfunctioning radio that drops and catches signals at whim. I think it's fun...you never know what you'll get when you turn it on. And if nothing picks up, I can always whistle.

Regardless, a certain piece by Bach came on, one that my mother used to play over breakfast, often. We would eat together as a family each morning, then read the Bible and have prayer time before leaving for school. I think this assuaged my mothers fears that we might somehow stumble off of our righteous path - if we were bathed in the Holy Spirit before leaving the house (in His blessed name, amen) we were less likely to succumb to worldly temptations. We would, at the very least, have a heightened idea of just how close we were to stumbling into the fiery grips of hell (especially if I was having wicked thoughts about that cute boy in Algebra), what with Proverbs ringing in our ears before first period.

I was in high school when my parents took a particular interest in our musical preferences, having found my collection of Nirvana cassettes, thereby increasing their concern for the status of my soul. We had been raised on hymns and classical music, everything else was considered sinful, something that might lead to S-E-X or, at the very least, masturbation. My mother found a book on the sins of rock music and insisted on reading a chapter along with our Bible reading. (We found this mildly hypocritical considering my father had been in a polka band before he had ever met my mother and had a long running repertoire of popular music he could play on his accordion.)

I had a friend who used to pick me up in the morning. She had come early one day, and my mother insisted that she join in our devotional time. Mom was always excited to perhaps bring someone over to her side of life where all things were righteous and clean and no one ever touched themselves in that way. I feared, after my friend witnessed the spectacle that was my family, that I would become a complete social outcast, but she said nothing on the way to school and started coming earlier every day, listening attentively as my mother would read from the book and then Bible, even helping clear the table before we left for classes.

I asked her about it one day. She was a lapsed Catholic and quite verbal about her disdain for organized religion. Her reply to my inquiry as to why she had continued subjecting herself to my parents proselytizing was simple "Your mom makes great coffee." She then went on to ask why we never read from the Songs of Solomon. I explained that there were references to bosoms and S-E-X, so, you know, we ignored that book. Since my mothers vocabulary didn't include the word sex or any references thereto, I was sure her brain would explode and leak out of her ears if our breakfast devotions included praise of pursuing the pleasures of the body. You might as well stick her into a bathhouse orgy and tell her to act normal.

My parents efforts to keep us on the straight and narrow were, however misguided, appreciated in hindsight. While I think their methods may have been extreme, I sit here, as an adult, with the Golden Rule planted firmly in my gray matter, and I can recite passages of the Bible on command, which is always a neat party trick. I love punk music, my brother is a DJ and we've both had our share of S-E-X, but I'd like to think that those mornings, while we went through the motions so as to respect our parents, that we absorbed enough goodness to carry us through adulthood without leaving behind too much wreckage.

All of this from listening to Bach on the way home.

After the Angels & Airwaves/Weezer show, a thought

Dear Tom DeLonge,

If I can see the outline of your ball-sac from my balcony seat, it might be time to consider new pants. Just an idea.

Thank you,
Jen

P.S. - Also, you were in terrible voice last night...what gives? I almost wanted to come down there, shove you out of the way and take over. And I can't even sing, but it would have been better than what was coming out of your mouth, which resembled the sound a cat makes while being strangled, but with re-verb. I feel like I'm coming off of a bad acid trip, what with my ringing ears and sore, ball assaulted eyes.

P.P.S. - Also, Weezer ROCKED it OUT. But you knew that. You were there. I'm so glad your participation in the Sweater Song didn't ruin it. I might have had to throw something sharp at you. And while I can't sing, I do have great aim.

At least he knows how long he has to wait

I spent yesterday afternoon up in San Francisco, which is by far one of my favorite cities on earth. Despite the amazing places I have lived, I'm still happiest when wandering its hilly streets. It's my souls home, the place where I feel most myself.

Alas, it was time to head back home to suburbia, and so I boarded the train for the hour long trip south. I hadn't taken into account that there was a football game AND an air show all in the same day, so it was standing room only. I found myself facing a gentleman's armpit, his deodorant having been rendered obsolete by too much sun. I'm fairly certain he had been eating garlic fries as well, what with the unfortunate smell that wafted from his mouth as he yelled to his friend who was wedged between two portly women further down the aisle.

Eventually, the train emptied, and I found a seat next to a very pregnant woman. I was somewhat worried about sitting next to her, fearing that I might be called to assist should she decide to give birth on the train, a possibility given her sheer girth. I figured if nothing else, I could tear my new scarf into strips, since they always seem to boil water and then tear sheets up when women go into labor in inconvenient places.

I settled down and the train got back underway. A few moments later, a blond head popped over the seat in front of us. It was attached to a little boy, probably around 4 or 5 who was traveling with his father. He stared, first at me and then at my seat mate. Finding me uninteresting, he turned his attention to the pregnant woman and said, quite loudly, "IS THERE A BABY IN YOUR TUMMY?"

The woman smiled and said "Yes, there is." He was satisfied with this response, but clearly wanted more information. And so, again, loudly, he said "DID A MAN PUT IT IN THERE?" And she said, graciously, "Yes, my husband did."

I had an inkling of where this was going, having had to explain the basics of sex to the children I once nannied, but I wasn't sure how far he would take it. Pretty far, it turns out.

"DID HE STICK HIS PENIS INTO YOUR VAGINA?" the boy hollered, wanting to be heard over the thundering of the train. At the mention of penis, the entire car went silent, all waiting expectantly for her reply. Normally, this is where the parent might leap in and either distract or strangle/smother their child, but the father had his headphones on and was blissfully unaware of the scene his son was causing.

The woman wasn't quite sure what to say, though I'm sure what was going through her head was laced with expletives. The boy went along, undaunted. "BECAUSE MY DADDY SAID THAT HE HAD TO STICK HIS PENIS INTO MY MOMMY AND THAT THAT'S HOW I WAS MADE. I'M NOT ALLOWED TO STICK MY PENIS INTO ANYONE UNTIL I CAN AT LEAST DRIVE."

I'm so glad his parents are raising him with such clear boundaries. Somewhere along the way, he is going to get a calendar, mark the day of his sixteenth birthday and write "GET LICENSE AND STICK PENIS INTO WILLING VAGINA". And his father will be so proud.

Missed opportunities

I had an incident in the freezer section of Trader Joe's the other day. Incident might be too strong of a word since that conjures up images of something bordering on the illegal (which might not shock to any of you regular readers). It was more of a strange happening.

Semantics aside, I was busy trying to find a certain type of soy ice cream when I was approached by an older gentleman who came rushing up to me with purpose. He grabbed my arm, leaned in too close, wafting his strong garlic breath right into my face, and simultaneously shoved his business card into my hand. The following then spilled forth, his enthusiasm causing drops of spit to gather at the edges of his mouth:

"HI I'M JAKE. I'M YOUR LOCAL BUILDER. I SPEAK ENGLISH, FRENCH AND SPANISH. ALL OF MY WORKERS ARE BONDED AND INSURED. I GIVE OIL PANTING LESSONS. YOUR SUNGLASSES ARE NICE. I TEACH PIANO, GUITAR AND TUBA. TWO OF MY WORKERS ARE SKILLED CARPENTERS." He stopped, finally, chest heaving as the above had come out in one, ALL CAPS, explosive breath.

I was trying to process all of this information as he was clearly waiting for a response, and all that I could say was "Well, good for you with all of those languages and skills!" which was, of course, the lamest response. I SHOULD have said "TUBA? SIGN ME THE HELL UP!" because I'm always looking for ways to irritate Marc, and a spirited rendition of the Star Spangled Banner on the tuba first thing in the morning might be fun to try. It would, at the very least, wake him the fuck up. Who needs coffee?

Sorry, tangent.

Alas, he had scampered off to assault his next victim, a woman who looked like she was ready to wallop him over the head with her organic cucumber. I sighed, thinking of my own resume which doesn't include anything nearly as colorful and headed, deflated, to the check out line.

I looked at his business card later that day which was filled with typos, included his language skills and some fetching drawings of homes that were cartoon-ish in nature, at best. Funny, though, no mention of the tuba. In my opinion, that was his biggest selling point.

The pain now is part of the happiness then

We woke early, after a late and somewhat blurry evening, annoyed that we hadn’t closed the drapes, the relentless sun beating in. Agreeing on breakfast, we untangled our limbs, showered, brushed our teeth, all in silence so that our heads would not fall off. You opened the windows so that the ocean air could blow through, and we both felt better.

I sat in front of the mirror, braiding my hair and you came up behind me, pushing my hands away so that you could finish the task and I held my breath, watching you. You bit your tongue as you concentrated on folding the strands of my wet hair, one over the other, and I thought my heart might break because in that tiny moment I felt the fear of what it might be like to be without you. We hadn’t said those words to one another yet, and I pressed my lips together tightly feeling that they might fall, involuntarily, from my mouth.

Years later, having left you, and living a different life, I still think of that morning and how accessible my soul was. I miss that girl who eventually told you she loved you and survived when you didn’t return the sentiment, collapsing first under the weight of your snub and then emerging sturdier, more cautious. While I’m glad for my strength and the wisdom that comes along with living past being broken in two, I mourn the loss of my ability to embrace the possibilities with such fearless abandon, regardless of outcome and what might happen to my heart.

Wherein Marc brings kitchen duties back to lesbian sex

There are several tasks around the house that Marc cannot (or refuses to) do correctly. For instance, he knows that even though I love his helpful intentions when loading the dishwasher, I will come along after him to reorganize the dishes correctly. In turn, I am not allowed to participate in doing laundry given my tendency towards shrinking everything to Lilliputian size, whereas Marc has the patience to take things out at proper intervals during the dry cycle. I get distracted, what with having to breathe and blink and all of that. It’s called knowing your talents, people. (Besides being very good at laundry, Marc also excels at leaving standing water on the bathroom and kitchen counters. You would think he was part duck. But I digress.)

So yesterday, he was loading the dishwasher and I made some snarky comment while wiping up the counters after he had sprayed water all over them. And he, with utensil in hand, goes:

“Don’t make me fork you!”
“Fork? Isn’t that a euphemism for lesbian sex?”
“No, that’s scissoring.”
“Scissoring?”
“Yeah, and don’t ask me how that works, because I don’t know. But it’s totally hot.”
Long pause,
“You're going to put this onto your website, aren't you?”

He's sharp, that one.

Part of the running commentary during the VP debates last night

Marc: Well, what do you think of her?
Me: She has nice skin, I guess.
Marc: Yeah...her shoulder pads are irritating me.
Me: Perhaps they help her look more intimidating to all of those Russians she's fending off of her maritime borders?
Marc: It's annoying that she's attractive in this pinched, constipated way.
Me: You'd totally do her.
Marc: True. But only if she didn't talk.

We are intelligent people, I promise. We just have rather stringent requirements where our politicians are concerned. Because while we may be bright, we are also shallow.

On Orca

A friend recently pointed out that I tend to live with things that are in an irritating state of disrepair. She was annoyed because one of the windows in my car wouldn't roll down. To which I replied that the other three DID roll down and why was she being so high maintenance? Was that one window THAT IS IN THE BACK SEAT, NOT IN THE FRONT WHERE SHE WAS SITTING really going to make that much of a difference?

She added that, on top of the window not working, I had also been living without air conditioning all summer, the lighter does not, in fact, light (which is a huge bummer when I want that joint on my way home from work...good thing Kylie carries matches), the gas gauge regularly malfunctions and the radio gets spotty reception. My steering wheel sounds like two copulating whales when I turn it with any sort of vigor and the "check engine" light likes to flash at regular intervals. I think it's festive. She was incredulous that I wasn't the least bit fazed by the fact that my car is held together by little more than duct tape and a prayer and wondered aloud if I was lazy or just insane.

I prefer to think that this proves I would be adaptable in any hostile situation. In the meantime, she can just hang her head out of the sunroof if she's too hot. Rather, she could if it worked.