I backed into The Man’s “baby” No, not one of our kids. I checked and made sure Toddler’s little face was in the back window of the house waving goodbye when I started the car. And no I did not back into myself, though that would be like me. I backed into his car. Not bad. Just kissed it. Well. If you kiss blind and smeary with your ass. I Just spread a little Honda love onto his bumper is all. My brother was in the passenger seat. He said “Did you just hit something?” and then “you hit his car!?”
Probably he said it like that because about half an hour before this I was pulling in the driveway after our trip to the river and I said “You’re in my spot”, referring to where The Man parked his car. He was taking up the entire parking area. Then The Man looked at me incredulously and asked if I really expected him to get out and move his car. For the record I only did AFTER he said that. I was being funny when I said it. He said “well you haven’t been very funny the entire way home so I didn’t know you were being funny” I guess this explains why comedians have someone warm up the crowd before their set. I said something real awful about not knowing I needed to fucking warn him of my impending funny to get him to force his face into some sort of upward motion and we got out of the car all huffy and puffy. So I can see why my brother might think I purposely backed into The Man’s car. For the record I did not. I know you assholes think I did too.
So after that sinking in your guts that happens when you seriously fuck up swirled and stuttered out over my plexi-skin exterior I put it in drive and went forward a bit and then stopped so I could peer down the left side of my car and assess the damage. I didn’t see anything a shopping cart couldn’t inflict and I went to go ahead and pull out ( I was already planning both sides of the conversation The Man and I would have about it later in my head) but The Man came flying out the back door like… well like someone just backed into his car. “HIT AND RUN! YOU WOULD HIT AND RUN ME!?!?”
“I live here.” I pointed out. HIS FACE. My gawd. It was very similar to the face he made when they were trying to stick my spine with the epidural needle and couldn’t find the spot and I asked when someone was going to wipe up the blood dripping down my back into my ass crack. Except there were no kindly nurses to escort him away and feed him cookies this time. I guess I could have but I didn’t. I put my car in park and got out and we rubbed each others paint off our cars. And then he backed up and he stood there. And I stood there. Until finally I said “Kiss me.” sorta mean like. “I backed into your car so just kiss me anyway.”
An eternity passed while we stood there and our entire life got piled up in the space between us and then finally I dragged my feet over all our shit and when I ended up in front of him he awkwardly leaned over and around all of it and kissed me. I climbed back in my car and drove away.
I plan to handle any future accidents this way as well. Strangers or not.
May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
My First Movie Review
Ordinarily I do not write reviews. I prefer not to give much detail regarding my personal opinions, it muddies the waters when all I want is a clear picture and I don’t consider my opinion worthier than any other. However, there comes a time when people must be warned. This is such a time. Unfortunately for you I only ever see a movie after everyone else owns it (if ever) so it’s likely too late to save you from the cinematic horror fest that is The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.
My gawd people what are you DOING spending your money on this shit? MY GAWD. This is a fucking movie??? This is ENTERTAINMENT?? And honestly I thought this movie might not be half bad. Not just because Mr. Pitt is so easy to look at either.
When The Man and I started the dvd we were rather thrilled to note the warning on our screen that foretold of sex, violence and even *gasp* smoking. Adult movie!! Plug in the neon x’s and the lava lamp! Ready the lube! (hush we have a small life)
Three lifetimes in we realized that even if one of the characters had their head bashed in ala Braveheart while being fucked upside down AND smoking a cigarette it wouldn’t be enough to save this film. We had our eyelids propped open with toothpicks and what do they give us? A couple of bombs going off in the distance, a woman hurriedly extinguishing a fag, and silhouette sex! SILHOUETTE SEX! You have Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett you idiot director movie maker person! These are not people that need to fornicate in the shadows!
I haven’t even started on plausibility. Now I realize I can be very snatchy about suspending my disbelief and often yo-yo it up and down throughout … well life if you want to know the truth but sweet jesus this stretched the boundaries to the point that I’d have to get dipped in holy water and accept Benjamin as my personal savior to believe any of the characters was ever more than one of the little bubbles scribbled out around the big idea of casting Brad Pitt.
Can’t you just see it? They’re sitting around and someone says “hey we have the rights to that Fitzgerald short story we should do something with that.”
“Nah, never work.”
“It’s about some guy aging in reverse, imagine the special effects we could use!”
“Eh. Nobody likes old people”
“We could cast Brad Pitt as the lead!”
“Goddamn it I think you’re onto something. Let’s start shooting tomorrow.”
“Shouldn’t we get a writer?”
“Oh who fucking cares - it’s Brad Pitt!”
Well, I’ll tell you who cares! I fucking care! I’m willing to go ahead and swallow your whale of a tale about some man being born old and dying young but I will not, WILL NOT believe that an ACCENT makes a woman OLD!
AND I care about nudity! I want to SEE IT! I care about violent war scenes and goddamn it that woman wasted most of her cigarette smashing it out in a hurry like that!!
And then… came the end. FINALLY the end was drawing nigh. We knew it was the end because Brad Pitt was all cherub and baby-like nestled in the withered up Cate Blanchett‘s (oh man it looked so real) tender embrace. And holy fuck was it bad. Right after the old biddy said something along the lines of knowing the baby knew who she was (don’t buy it!) and the little fucker died I glanced over at The Man and damn it if he wasn’t attempting to pull the skin off his face in slack jawed horror just like me.
Because damn it all if you’re going to reveal to us that life sucks in forward AND reverse you could at least do it with some fucking violence. Or nudity. Or let a character smoke an entire cigarette in a scene.
But that’s just MY opinion. Don’t let it shade yours.
May 25, 2009
My gawd people what are you DOING spending your money on this shit? MY GAWD. This is a fucking movie??? This is ENTERTAINMENT?? And honestly I thought this movie might not be half bad. Not just because Mr. Pitt is so easy to look at either.
When The Man and I started the dvd we were rather thrilled to note the warning on our screen that foretold of sex, violence and even *gasp* smoking. Adult movie!! Plug in the neon x’s and the lava lamp! Ready the lube! (hush we have a small life)
Three lifetimes in we realized that even if one of the characters had their head bashed in ala Braveheart while being fucked upside down AND smoking a cigarette it wouldn’t be enough to save this film. We had our eyelids propped open with toothpicks and what do they give us? A couple of bombs going off in the distance, a woman hurriedly extinguishing a fag, and silhouette sex! SILHOUETTE SEX! You have Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett you idiot director movie maker person! These are not people that need to fornicate in the shadows!
I haven’t even started on plausibility. Now I realize I can be very snatchy about suspending my disbelief and often yo-yo it up and down throughout … well life if you want to know the truth but sweet jesus this stretched the boundaries to the point that I’d have to get dipped in holy water and accept Benjamin as my personal savior to believe any of the characters was ever more than one of the little bubbles scribbled out around the big idea of casting Brad Pitt.
Can’t you just see it? They’re sitting around and someone says “hey we have the rights to that Fitzgerald short story we should do something with that.”
“Nah, never work.”
“It’s about some guy aging in reverse, imagine the special effects we could use!”
“Eh. Nobody likes old people”
“We could cast Brad Pitt as the lead!”
“Goddamn it I think you’re onto something. Let’s start shooting tomorrow.”
“Shouldn’t we get a writer?”
“Oh who fucking cares - it’s Brad Pitt!”
Well, I’ll tell you who cares! I fucking care! I’m willing to go ahead and swallow your whale of a tale about some man being born old and dying young but I will not, WILL NOT believe that an ACCENT makes a woman OLD!
AND I care about nudity! I want to SEE IT! I care about violent war scenes and goddamn it that woman wasted most of her cigarette smashing it out in a hurry like that!!
And then… came the end. FINALLY the end was drawing nigh. We knew it was the end because Brad Pitt was all cherub and baby-like nestled in the withered up Cate Blanchett‘s (oh man it looked so real) tender embrace. And holy fuck was it bad. Right after the old biddy said something along the lines of knowing the baby knew who she was (don’t buy it!) and the little fucker died I glanced over at The Man and damn it if he wasn’t attempting to pull the skin off his face in slack jawed horror just like me.
Because damn it all if you’re going to reveal to us that life sucks in forward AND reverse you could at least do it with some fucking violence. Or nudity. Or let a character smoke an entire cigarette in a scene.
But that’s just MY opinion. Don’t let it shade yours.
May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Special Line
We all dislike being told what we can or cannot do when it comes to our personal fashion choices. We want to not only do whatever the hell we want, we want other people to think “goddamn, I never would have thought of that but he/she sure rocks it. She is special!”
But not all of us can. And it may not be right. It certainly isn’t just or doled out in even measures of cool for everyone but it is. IT IS. Sometimes I forget that. ‘cause goddamn the rules I do what I want and I encourage you to do the same.
For example, I like wearing glasses. Sunglasses, yes. But I’m talking about glasses. I have better than perfect vision (YOU OVER THERE YES I DO SEE YOU DOING THAT YOU FUCKING PERVERT) so it offends some people who actually require glasses. “You don’t even NEED glasses!” Which is total bullshit. You don’t see the bald people saying the rest of us can’t wear hats for gods sake. And I like wearing them! I just like it! So I do. Sometimes.
But then there comes along a person that proves there is a line and that line exists in this case just below the ears of a washed out pink woman. That line is being crossed by her giant floppy breasts at your dear relatives funeral. That line is smudged and smeared red three centimeters around the outside of her happy lips. That line is disappearing in her play-dough form and wobbling on top of a pair of hooker heals right before your very eyes!
*rubbing eyes and shaking head*
Still. Do whatever you want. You’re unlikely to be in the category of blog worthy fashion mistake. You would never think of wearing what she did, all the pieces coming together that way was a magic only she could create on her body. She was special.
May 24, 2009
But not all of us can. And it may not be right. It certainly isn’t just or doled out in even measures of cool for everyone but it is. IT IS. Sometimes I forget that. ‘cause goddamn the rules I do what I want and I encourage you to do the same.
For example, I like wearing glasses. Sunglasses, yes. But I’m talking about glasses. I have better than perfect vision (YOU OVER THERE YES I DO SEE YOU DOING THAT YOU FUCKING PERVERT) so it offends some people who actually require glasses. “You don’t even NEED glasses!” Which is total bullshit. You don’t see the bald people saying the rest of us can’t wear hats for gods sake. And I like wearing them! I just like it! So I do. Sometimes.
But then there comes along a person that proves there is a line and that line exists in this case just below the ears of a washed out pink woman. That line is being crossed by her giant floppy breasts at your dear relatives funeral. That line is smudged and smeared red three centimeters around the outside of her happy lips. That line is disappearing in her play-dough form and wobbling on top of a pair of hooker heals right before your very eyes!
*rubbing eyes and shaking head*
Still. Do whatever you want. You’re unlikely to be in the category of blog worthy fashion mistake. You would never think of wearing what she did, all the pieces coming together that way was a magic only she could create on her body. She was special.
May 24, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
She Missed a Spot
It doesn’t startle her to hear the bathroom door open when she’s showering and she opens her mouth to send whichever child it is right back to bed when his grown up voice surprises her. “Mind if I join you?” and the admonition dies there in her throat. But she does mind. She doesn’t want to share the warm water and she won’t get anything done with him in there. And it’s her fifteen minutes. Fifteen glorious minutes where nobody needs her to be anything she isn't.
But she says “Sure.” and he’s already stepping in. She pulls her face out of the water to ask “Did you have a good time?” but she doesn’t turn around. She starts shampooing her hair.
“Played some pool.” He starts helping lather her hair from behind, suddenly taking her hair in his fist and pulling a little, forcing her to step back against him so he can speak directly into her ear. “I ran into your friend.” Her head’s angled with her neck exposed and she notices the cobwebs in the corner near the ceiling that need cleaned.
“That’s nice. How was she?” she shuts her eyes and holds her breath when his other hand goes to her neck as though she is his hand and can breathe or not at will but instead he traces an imaginary line with his thumb from her ear to the place where her heart jumps involuntarily.
“It was kind of funny. She said she didn’t see you on Thursday.” he’s pressing in behind her and she realizes this is foreplay of some kind.
“Yeah. She’s been taking extra shifts at work.” She turns out of his embrace measuring her breaths and backs into the spray, reaching up to run her hands through her hair and rinse the shampoo out before putting in conditioner.
“I told her I would have to give you a hard time about that.” he grabs his soap and starts lathering without taking his eyes off her face.
“Well I hope you didn’t rub it in that she missed out.” She can’t decide if his word choice is intentional, if he knows she’s shadowing him and tries to squeeze whatever is left from a baby wash bottle.
“and Friday? Was she working on Friday night?”
Finally, she gets tired of the predictable pace of the game and looks him dead on. “How should I know? Friday I was fucking somebody else.” and she waits for him to laugh but he doesn't. So she shoves him playfully hard into the wall behind him but the humor falls with two or three soap bottles near their bare feet and the ridiculousness of the difference in their strength makes it an invitation. He grabs her wrists and even the suds sliding over her skin don't offer any relief from his grip.
“I think you missed a spot.” he transfers both wrists into one hand so he’ll have the other free to show her where he feels neglected and she's free to ponder her missing spots. She wont miss them anymore if she can help it.
But she says “Sure.” and he’s already stepping in. She pulls her face out of the water to ask “Did you have a good time?” but she doesn’t turn around. She starts shampooing her hair.
“Played some pool.” He starts helping lather her hair from behind, suddenly taking her hair in his fist and pulling a little, forcing her to step back against him so he can speak directly into her ear. “I ran into your friend.” Her head’s angled with her neck exposed and she notices the cobwebs in the corner near the ceiling that need cleaned.
“That’s nice. How was she?” she shuts her eyes and holds her breath when his other hand goes to her neck as though she is his hand and can breathe or not at will but instead he traces an imaginary line with his thumb from her ear to the place where her heart jumps involuntarily.
“It was kind of funny. She said she didn’t see you on Thursday.” he’s pressing in behind her and she realizes this is foreplay of some kind.
“Yeah. She’s been taking extra shifts at work.” She turns out of his embrace measuring her breaths and backs into the spray, reaching up to run her hands through her hair and rinse the shampoo out before putting in conditioner.
“I told her I would have to give you a hard time about that.” he grabs his soap and starts lathering without taking his eyes off her face.
“Well I hope you didn’t rub it in that she missed out.” She can’t decide if his word choice is intentional, if he knows she’s shadowing him and tries to squeeze whatever is left from a baby wash bottle.
“and Friday? Was she working on Friday night?”
Finally, she gets tired of the predictable pace of the game and looks him dead on. “How should I know? Friday I was fucking somebody else.” and she waits for him to laugh but he doesn't. So she shoves him playfully hard into the wall behind him but the humor falls with two or three soap bottles near their bare feet and the ridiculousness of the difference in their strength makes it an invitation. He grabs her wrists and even the suds sliding over her skin don't offer any relief from his grip.
“I think you missed a spot.” he transfers both wrists into one hand so he’ll have the other free to show her where he feels neglected and she's free to ponder her missing spots. She wont miss them anymore if she can help it.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Living, Dying, the Drive to Get There
Allow me to set the scene so to speak…. I drive a Honda Pilot. (mom-mobile) It seats eight. OR you can pack for eight. You cannot do both. In the Honda Pilot on an 800 mile (round) road trip we had; my mom, my sister, my brother, my niece, my daughter, my son and me. I’m the driver. Oh the joy!
Things that should be shared:
“Oh, sorry Mom. I think I’ve been sitting on your hand for the last hour.” my sister two thirds of the way home. “I know.” mom‘s stoic response.
“Ooo0o0ooooh Deeeeew” my brother as I accelerated into a turn between a semi and a string of caution cones. He said it like we were all about to die and he felt bad I would be responsible.
“Why can’t you drive like this all the time!? Why NOW in the construction zone where fines are doubled and there are orange cones everywhere!?” my brother 30 miles into a construction zone when I was doing ninety toward the nearest rest area, while the toddler moaned “MOMMY I NEEEEEED YOUUUUU!“ at me from his car seat.
“Is he okay???” Small girl child to her mother after she observed me sitting in the grass smoking a cigarette about ten paces from my toddler screaming and punching a tree in time out.
I probably don’t have to set a funeral scene for you. Things you don’t always get to say/hear at a funeral:
“What an amazing red casket” me to daughter.
“NOooooo!” Cousin Jack over the top of the minister as he was grabbing toddler just before he ran into burial hole.
“Get her sleeping out of that box!” my toddler to me regarding Grandma Great.
“What a load of crap.” me to my brother during the religious parts of the ceremony. Actually. You can always say that.
"Burn me. Just burn me." Mom to me standing in cemetary smoking over her mother's grave.
Such is living and dying.
May 21, 2009
Things that should be shared:
“Oh, sorry Mom. I think I’ve been sitting on your hand for the last hour.” my sister two thirds of the way home. “I know.” mom‘s stoic response.
“Ooo0o0ooooh Deeeeew” my brother as I accelerated into a turn between a semi and a string of caution cones. He said it like we were all about to die and he felt bad I would be responsible.
“Why can’t you drive like this all the time!? Why NOW in the construction zone where fines are doubled and there are orange cones everywhere!?” my brother 30 miles into a construction zone when I was doing ninety toward the nearest rest area, while the toddler moaned “MOMMY I NEEEEEED YOUUUUU!“ at me from his car seat.
“Is he okay???” Small girl child to her mother after she observed me sitting in the grass smoking a cigarette about ten paces from my toddler screaming and punching a tree in time out.
I probably don’t have to set a funeral scene for you. Things you don’t always get to say/hear at a funeral:
“What an amazing red casket” me to daughter.
“NOooooo!” Cousin Jack over the top of the minister as he was grabbing toddler just before he ran into burial hole.
“Get her sleeping out of that box!” my toddler to me regarding Grandma Great.
“What a load of crap.” me to my brother during the religious parts of the ceremony. Actually. You can always say that.
"Burn me. Just burn me." Mom to me standing in cemetary smoking over her mother's grave.
Such is living and dying.
May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
"So I Stand in the Sun"
I only don’t write when I have too much to say or anything at all to say really. I never say much here; All the words swinging around the sharp curves of body but never the face. Never the give it all away eyes.
All the bottles are full and to even blow a hesitant breath across them… it’s too dangerous. The risk of knocking a single bottle is enormous. I could send them all splashing and shattering everywhere and I don’t know who I would be standing there in the sticky broken mess. I don’t know what would be left of me or if I would like me if I stopped holding it all together.
This last weekend I went to visit my extended family. It wasn’t a happy visit. My Grandma Great died. She was over one hundred years old. There’s some question over her exact birth date. I suppose if you live long enough no one can prove you were born anymore. Looking around at my relations at the services you could certainly see that she had lived. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what it’s for.
I keep catching the echo of conversations from long ago. The tail end of a memory spinning out before it fades. An ancient childhood argument with my dad, I think. The words “I didn’t ask to be born” and his face and the way I still don’t understand.
I can’t seem to gather my thoughts and shred them up with words into a nice neat pile of confetti to toss around and play with in here anymore. Trying that stream of thought technique here. I don’t like it; I’m not in charge and I don’t know where we’re going.
My dad turned up at the service. Found his feet at the bottom of a crowd and followed them all the way up to his sad eyes. I stared at the length and width of him for thirty heart thumping seconds until I could see it was my brother, until I could let it be my brother. I went ahead and told him even though it’s a punch in the guts under a kiss. It was a special occasion so we all went as other people.
In other news your hope might be restored to know there are bees out there that are not just buzzing. There are bees out there that caw.
May 19, 2009
All the bottles are full and to even blow a hesitant breath across them… it’s too dangerous. The risk of knocking a single bottle is enormous. I could send them all splashing and shattering everywhere and I don’t know who I would be standing there in the sticky broken mess. I don’t know what would be left of me or if I would like me if I stopped holding it all together.
This last weekend I went to visit my extended family. It wasn’t a happy visit. My Grandma Great died. She was over one hundred years old. There’s some question over her exact birth date. I suppose if you live long enough no one can prove you were born anymore. Looking around at my relations at the services you could certainly see that she had lived. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what it’s for.
I keep catching the echo of conversations from long ago. The tail end of a memory spinning out before it fades. An ancient childhood argument with my dad, I think. The words “I didn’t ask to be born” and his face and the way I still don’t understand.
I can’t seem to gather my thoughts and shred them up with words into a nice neat pile of confetti to toss around and play with in here anymore. Trying that stream of thought technique here. I don’t like it; I’m not in charge and I don’t know where we’re going.
My dad turned up at the service. Found his feet at the bottom of a crowd and followed them all the way up to his sad eyes. I stared at the length and width of him for thirty heart thumping seconds until I could see it was my brother, until I could let it be my brother. I went ahead and told him even though it’s a punch in the guts under a kiss. It was a special occasion so we all went as other people.
In other news your hope might be restored to know there are bees out there that are not just buzzing. There are bees out there that caw.
May 19, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Paned
It startles me to find her, the way a sheet of glass can stand still, invisible and then break your nose when you attempt escape. Could be all the windexing I do. So shiny! So slick! Untouched. Fabulous plexi-skin shell you have there, miss! Go on, let your mom hug you in all-one-piece, the way she needs to, see? Barely a squeak across your exterior. What’s inside only counts if anyone sees it. Don’t look. And don’t count her. I can’t take it.
May 13, 2009
May 13, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
On Mother's Day
We don’t have a great Mother’s Day history in my family. I pretty much hate this holiday. Yes! Even more than xmas! You can’t fucking buy anything for my mom. Seriously. Deon and I *whew* we have TORTURED ourselves with this since childhood. It doesn’t matter if she has talked about having something for DECADES. She really just wants to want it. Wants the idea of it. So when you roll that bicycle out with the bell and everything she’s going to do the face. THE FACE. And then it’s going to be parked in her living room until brother comes home from Idaho and hangs it under her carport. Fuck. That might have been her fiftieth birthday present. Whatever same difference. Interesting note… my brother could find a broken aquarium on the side of the road, I mean an aquarium without glass at all and my mom would display it in front of her fucking tv. I’m not kidding. She would name fish for the goddamn thing.
Remind me I have this whole theory on personalities like my brothers and the shit they get away with. Also I’ll show you my awesome head band I think he found on a mountain and gave me for my birthday one year. It covers my ears. He totally loves me.
And here at my house. I’ll just say laundry basket. And gold roped necklace. I think I can stop there. I think I have to. I’ll start sputtering. You really can’t give me a goddamn thing.
Mother’s Day:
The day when women of all ages go out of their mind trying to think of random stupid shit to give the mothers in their life. His mother. Her mother. Your mother. Mother fucker.
The day when a cliché ends up wrapped around her neck, wilting in her hands or surrounded with pink hearts and a Hallmark sneer in her mailbox.
The day when fathers pay homage to a mother’s superiority by demonstrating their inability to keep children quiet enough for anyone to sleep in and children remind everyone who their favorite is as they crawl all over Mom under the covers.
Update. I told Deon this year I'm retrieving the bike from the carport and bringing it in with a bow on it. Too pointed?
May 9, 2009
Remind me I have this whole theory on personalities like my brothers and the shit they get away with. Also I’ll show you my awesome head band I think he found on a mountain and gave me for my birthday one year. It covers my ears. He totally loves me.
And here at my house. I’ll just say laundry basket. And gold roped necklace. I think I can stop there. I think I have to. I’ll start sputtering. You really can’t give me a goddamn thing.
Mother’s Day:
The day when women of all ages go out of their mind trying to think of random stupid shit to give the mothers in their life. His mother. Her mother. Your mother. Mother fucker.
The day when a cliché ends up wrapped around her neck, wilting in her hands or surrounded with pink hearts and a Hallmark sneer in her mailbox.
The day when fathers pay homage to a mother’s superiority by demonstrating their inability to keep children quiet enough for anyone to sleep in and children remind everyone who their favorite is as they crawl all over Mom under the covers.
Update. I told Deon this year I'm retrieving the bike from the carport and bringing it in with a bow on it. Too pointed?
May 9, 2009
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