My friend Kim has some sort of war going with the ice cream man. She runs an in-home day care and I probably don’t have to tell you how horrifying it is when the sound of Pop Goes The Weasel is blasted from a tiny truck and followed by “KIMMIE CAN WE HAVE ICE CREAM!?!?!” in five or six tiny whiny voices. And this is in spite of the fact that the ice cream is really a disgusting Popsicle of some kind that costs $3.95. So she’s asked the guy not to play his music through her neighborhood on the weekdays. Of course his feeling is… “I’m trying to earn a living here.”
RIGHT. Clearly he’s just full of wild ambition.
*insert sound of golf cart going down the most pot holed road in SE Portland here*
Seriously.
We were standing on her deck when I first learned of this animosity. I was helping her plant flowers in pots all over her back deck. Children were napping. The sun was shining. All was right in the world. The deck is around a pool and sits up plenty high enough to see the road on the other side of her lower fence. I looked up from trying to remove a two year dead bamboo root ball from a pot to observe her giving MASSIVE stink eye to a rather nasty man (aren’t they all though? I mean really have you EVER seen a guy in an ice cream truck that didn’t give you the skeeves? I think not.) in a beat up old ice cream cart thing. Or it was a van. I don’t know. Anyway I give her the “are you nuts? What’s your problem face.” and she proceeds to explain their ongoing dislike of one another. Which I find enormously funny.
Then she says “The worst part is… when I DO go get ice cream he NEVER has what I want.”
“ahahahahahahahhahahahahaha! You buy his ice cream??”
“I’m only human. He plays the music….”
And now you know why there are still men in golf carts selling the worst ice cream known to man kind.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Grim Grey Inbetween
I would like to live in a world of white. I would just float about on the fluff that comes off a dandelion and maybe sleep on a puffy cloud when I’m tired of spinning in the blinding purity of right or nothingness. Something like righteous nonexistence. Clean sheets. Blank paper. The absence of anything.
Then again I can’t help but be drawn to the sharpie staying power of a decisive black line. The words formed on the paper, the quality of what something actually is or is not with no further debate needed. Here it is! Here is the line! The shapes we’ve determined mean exactly this or that, this is the reality we’re all going to keep to.
Of course what I get is layer upon layer of gray. The smudgy graphite on the too thin paper of a kindergartner learning their letters. Nothing is wrong and nothing is right it's all just trying to figure out what the shapes might mean and trying to avoid tearing. Maybe this… this is almost slate. Nope. Erase that. Try again. Search for understanding of yourself, of others, of any damn thing at all. Ashes and ashes and dust to dust ... the neutral kiss of a girl making love to god while being reamed in the ass by the devil.
June 10, 2010
Then again I can’t help but be drawn to the sharpie staying power of a decisive black line. The words formed on the paper, the quality of what something actually is or is not with no further debate needed. Here it is! Here is the line! The shapes we’ve determined mean exactly this or that, this is the reality we’re all going to keep to.
Of course what I get is layer upon layer of gray. The smudgy graphite on the too thin paper of a kindergartner learning their letters. Nothing is wrong and nothing is right it's all just trying to figure out what the shapes might mean and trying to avoid tearing. Maybe this… this is almost slate. Nope. Erase that. Try again. Search for understanding of yourself, of others, of any damn thing at all. Ashes and ashes and dust to dust ... the neutral kiss of a girl making love to god while being reamed in the ass by the devil.
June 10, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
And I Still Know Nothing
I took my old self down to the jail. Not now me. Not the invented me I walk around in. The me under that. I went ahead and had a full reversion. Seriously. Full reverse sweaty palmed terror driven self destructive nineteen year old me.
Because. I thought about him. And I thought about me. I thought about what I thought he was. What he thinks he is. What I think I was. What I think he thinks I am. I thought about the last ten to eleven years. Tried to imagine back to the time and place I was before and figure out what’s different if anything. And I thought and I thought and I thought in circles and triangles and spirals and the thing is…. You can’t un think or out think or think around a feeling. I could not get rid of the feelings. And I got a letter. And another letter. And I had to see him. Because I still don’t know anything. Or I can’t tell if I do.
Because if I’m the same I want to know it. So I can do something about it.
And if I’m different. I want to know it.
And I want to know which parts of the different are improvements and which are really just me still full fetal arms over head frozen reflex crazy girl.
And the people say “why? Why would you go see him?” because they’re thinking about what he deserves.
But what about what I deserve? What about who I am? What about who I am regardless of what anyone does? At what point has a person gone so far that I can no longer treat them the way I would like to treat fellow human beings? Is there some line they cross and then I become them? At what point do I say my heart is just not that big. How do you decide if someone was just fucked up and you got in the crossfire or if they actually really truly used you and abused you and will continue to as long as you let them and as long as they can slide it in under the guise of pity or kindness or basic human rights?
Consider a person in your life that screwed you in ways you’re still figuring out. Screwed you so horribly that after eleven years you’re only just realizing how far they bent you over. Consider that they found you a fucked up mess… KNEW that and then ripped the hole wider. Consider that they told you it was your fault. That you were damaged. That you were fucked up and if you could just quit being so fucked up and trust them it would be fine. Better than fine. That they would be fine and you would be fine. That it would be all the things they obliterated the possibility of for what turned out essentially to be a con. Consider that you believed that. Not all of you. Just enough. Enough to keep the hole and the fear and the choking sad.
Consider them sitting behind plexiglass looking at a life sentence.
Well. I did. Consider it. And seriously. There’s never going to be a safer way to see this person.
So I did. And I’m glad I did. And I felt better right after. And then I thought some more. And I thought myself right back where I started.
And I still know nothing. I sat on a stool bolted to the floor and I leaned over sideways to speak into a telephone and I stared at the man on the other side and I know nothing.
And he said “I love you. I have always loved you. And I can do that if you like it or not.”
And I pulled up every horrible thing he ever did to me or those I care about and I held them over the hole hoping not to let the scary awful terrible truth get in.
That he probably does. He probably does love me. He probably always has.
And someplace between all his fucked up and all my fucked up.... it mattered not one bit.
May 27, 2010
Because. I thought about him. And I thought about me. I thought about what I thought he was. What he thinks he is. What I think I was. What I think he thinks I am. I thought about the last ten to eleven years. Tried to imagine back to the time and place I was before and figure out what’s different if anything. And I thought and I thought and I thought in circles and triangles and spirals and the thing is…. You can’t un think or out think or think around a feeling. I could not get rid of the feelings. And I got a letter. And another letter. And I had to see him. Because I still don’t know anything. Or I can’t tell if I do.
Because if I’m the same I want to know it. So I can do something about it.
And if I’m different. I want to know it.
And I want to know which parts of the different are improvements and which are really just me still full fetal arms over head frozen reflex crazy girl.
And the people say “why? Why would you go see him?” because they’re thinking about what he deserves.
But what about what I deserve? What about who I am? What about who I am regardless of what anyone does? At what point has a person gone so far that I can no longer treat them the way I would like to treat fellow human beings? Is there some line they cross and then I become them? At what point do I say my heart is just not that big. How do you decide if someone was just fucked up and you got in the crossfire or if they actually really truly used you and abused you and will continue to as long as you let them and as long as they can slide it in under the guise of pity or kindness or basic human rights?
Consider a person in your life that screwed you in ways you’re still figuring out. Screwed you so horribly that after eleven years you’re only just realizing how far they bent you over. Consider that they found you a fucked up mess… KNEW that and then ripped the hole wider. Consider that they told you it was your fault. That you were damaged. That you were fucked up and if you could just quit being so fucked up and trust them it would be fine. Better than fine. That they would be fine and you would be fine. That it would be all the things they obliterated the possibility of for what turned out essentially to be a con. Consider that you believed that. Not all of you. Just enough. Enough to keep the hole and the fear and the choking sad.
Consider them sitting behind plexiglass looking at a life sentence.
Well. I did. Consider it. And seriously. There’s never going to be a safer way to see this person.
So I did. And I’m glad I did. And I felt better right after. And then I thought some more. And I thought myself right back where I started.
And I still know nothing. I sat on a stool bolted to the floor and I leaned over sideways to speak into a telephone and I stared at the man on the other side and I know nothing.
And he said “I love you. I have always loved you. And I can do that if you like it or not.”
And I pulled up every horrible thing he ever did to me or those I care about and I held them over the hole hoping not to let the scary awful terrible truth get in.
That he probably does. He probably does love me. He probably always has.
And someplace between all his fucked up and all my fucked up.... it mattered not one bit.
May 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Jail Lobby is Pink
It’s only twenty or thirty steps from a warm spring day in the park to a pink tiled jail lobby. Twenty or thirty steps, give or take a falter or ladder rung due to circumstances that may or may not be in your control. It’s only ten or so more to an actual cell. It’s not far away, it’s right there in all of us; the justice center where we all try to find our piece of fair, our fair share of peace our own personal set of rationalizations and neurosis and law. I stared at the pink tiles to avoid contemplating the dark smudges on the walls. The kicking that must happen when someone realizes where their feet or a loved one’s feet had taken them. The sudden wall between them and the end of the road. The sudden visible divide between guilty and innocent between right and wrong. The only sounds from the metal detector gates erupt when officers of the law stroll in and out.
The pink seemed an odd choice for a jail lobby at first. You had to wonder if someone intended the ladies restroom effect, if they realized the deputies behind the glass would be female, if they pictured the women arriving with children to sit on this hard wood bench and wait for a man’s name to be called, if there had been a discount on dignity. At first I sat up straight against the hard wood but eventually I slumped into a corner against a stain on the wall watching the people coming and going.
There’s a little girl with pig tails watching herself in a large round mirror in an upper corner. She’s smoothing her shirt down repeatedly and admiring the shine coming off her sandals while her mother fills out a slip to put money on her dad’s books and they wait to be called to go up for their visit. She practices her smile and twirls around to watch her skirt float up around her and as she comes back around she catches her need and want in the reflected eyes in the mirror and rushes over to hide behind her mother with her skirt landing in a whoosh.
Every bit of research I can find thus far advises that children should visit incarcerated parents. And so I sit in the lobby checking things out. Memorizing procedure so that if I decide it’s the right thing I can prepare my daughter for the pink tiles and the deputies , the procedures and the way a skirt will eventually fall flat no matter how fast you spin.
April 26, 2010
The pink seemed an odd choice for a jail lobby at first. You had to wonder if someone intended the ladies restroom effect, if they realized the deputies behind the glass would be female, if they pictured the women arriving with children to sit on this hard wood bench and wait for a man’s name to be called, if there had been a discount on dignity. At first I sat up straight against the hard wood but eventually I slumped into a corner against a stain on the wall watching the people coming and going.
There’s a little girl with pig tails watching herself in a large round mirror in an upper corner. She’s smoothing her shirt down repeatedly and admiring the shine coming off her sandals while her mother fills out a slip to put money on her dad’s books and they wait to be called to go up for their visit. She practices her smile and twirls around to watch her skirt float up around her and as she comes back around she catches her need and want in the reflected eyes in the mirror and rushes over to hide behind her mother with her skirt landing in a whoosh.
Every bit of research I can find thus far advises that children should visit incarcerated parents. And so I sit in the lobby checking things out. Memorizing procedure so that if I decide it’s the right thing I can prepare my daughter for the pink tiles and the deputies , the procedures and the way a skirt will eventually fall flat no matter how fast you spin.
April 26, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
A Burning Desire
Why do people stay in the same line of work when they hate it? Because that’s what they’re trained in. That’s what they know how to do. That’s become who they are. In a job interview they want to know what your experience is, they want to be sure you match the job.
It’s the same in relationships.
Say you’re a firefighter but you hate it. You hate the smoke. You hate the sirens. You hate the people jumping out of buildings onto your trampoline. You hate the heavy protective gear. You hate all of it.
But if you show up for any other job you’re overdressed. There’s no place to plug in your hose. People make disparaging remarks regarding your helmet. You’re not saving any lives.
If you somehow manage to secure a position in a field unrelated to fire fighting you could be suspicious. Why the fuck would anyone hire a highly skilled fire chief to work in an office unless there are hidden fire hazards everywhere? At the very least you should check the batteries in the smoke alarms. After all, a fire doesn’t give a fuck what it is so long as it burns.
And in the absence of any real fire duties there are those who find they can't live without using their hose. They have to become the arsonist just for a chance to hop in their big shiny red truck. They will burn the fucking building down for the chance to bring out all their former job skills.
Thoughts? Jokes about the hose? Can anyone work the dalmatian angle here?
April 12, 2010
It’s the same in relationships.
Say you’re a firefighter but you hate it. You hate the smoke. You hate the sirens. You hate the people jumping out of buildings onto your trampoline. You hate the heavy protective gear. You hate all of it.
But if you show up for any other job you’re overdressed. There’s no place to plug in your hose. People make disparaging remarks regarding your helmet. You’re not saving any lives.
If you somehow manage to secure a position in a field unrelated to fire fighting you could be suspicious. Why the fuck would anyone hire a highly skilled fire chief to work in an office unless there are hidden fire hazards everywhere? At the very least you should check the batteries in the smoke alarms. After all, a fire doesn’t give a fuck what it is so long as it burns.
And in the absence of any real fire duties there are those who find they can't live without using their hose. They have to become the arsonist just for a chance to hop in their big shiny red truck. They will burn the fucking building down for the chance to bring out all their former job skills.
Thoughts? Jokes about the hose? Can anyone work the dalmatian angle here?
April 12, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Paternal Doubts
“Mom.” Her eyes were huge with the gravity of her news. “I took a test today.. And…” She was looking at me like maybe I might want to consider sitting down for this. “There’s an eighty to ninety-nine percent chance that I’m half god.”
*begins tallying therapy bill* “Wow. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“It’s sometimes called a demigod. My father is Poseidon.”
“What makes you so sure the god half is paternal? What about ME?”
“Moooooooom.”
“Of course if I were a god I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you. And I‘d need an elaborate mortal disguise.”
“Mom. It can’t be you because gods have to be separated from their children at BIRTH because of the smell.”
“The Smell?”
“Yes. The smell. Besides the test was very clear that my father is Poseidon.”
“Still… wouldn’t I know about it?”
“Not necessarily. That was a long time ago and maybe you forgot."
"It was a long time ago."
April 08, 2010
*begins tallying therapy bill* “Wow. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“It’s sometimes called a demigod. My father is Poseidon.”
“What makes you so sure the god half is paternal? What about ME?”
“Moooooooom.”
“Of course if I were a god I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you. And I‘d need an elaborate mortal disguise.”
“Mom. It can’t be you because gods have to be separated from their children at BIRTH because of the smell.”
“The Smell?”
“Yes. The smell. Besides the test was very clear that my father is Poseidon.”
“Still… wouldn’t I know about it?”
“Not necessarily. That was a long time ago and maybe you forgot."
"It was a long time ago."
April 08, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Oh Right I Have a Blog
......I would like clarity to be more than a mood. Still- I reject it as a lifestyle.
Tell me so I can deny it.
Show me so I can close my eyes.
Hear me so I can shut up.
Give me a mirror so I can turn on the shower and draw pictures in the steam.
I don’t seem to have anything to write anymore. Not sure what genre I’m living in. Character motivation is unclear. I’m seasons ahead and lack the skill for a catch you all up montage.
I imagine you’ll muddle through or fuck off. I’m ambivalent about your decision.
It’s 1:13 am. I have no business being awake. In a few short hours I will have to drive The Man to work. It’s spring break so I’m hoping my children will be willing to have a nap when we get back. I’m insane to even entertain that as fantasy. Seriously. Ahahahahhaha! It’s like it’s my first day of motherhood! “motherhood” jesus. Not quite the ghetto yet not so superbia.
I kid. Twice. Heh. *remind me to send Insomnia a thank you note. This is fun.
I’m not sure if my incredible ability to hold this idea of what should be over what is has been my downfall or my savior. Also I used to think it was pulling me up and now I’m kinda wondering if it might be the incredible weight on top of me. Ack. This feels like it might be going somewhere… quick do the hokey poky and turn myself around. Things are just more interesting if you chase your tail. Ask a dog.
My nine year old has been hinting about wanting the full details on her dad. “Mom, when did you and my dad break up?” “oh. Well. We didn’t break up because we were never exactly a couple.” what? It’s mostly true other than the sex and it certainly sounds better than “I had to move out because he was starting to slam me into walls and disappearing for days on end to do drugs and strippers and what with being pregnant with you I decided it was an inappropriate environment.” *sigh* I’m going to tell her. Really. Soon as I figure out what to say. It’s not that I need it to sound Disney. Just…….
Okay. So I want it to sound Disney. Send seven dwarfs over to remind me how fucked up Walt is anyway. I’m sure I’ll get over it one of these days.
Yesterday my three year old was begging to play a video game he found in the entertainment center. I told him it was too violent and to pick a different one. He hit me with the case.
On Saturday I got to plant flowers. I was watering them in after and for a moment I felt peaceful. I know this because I was standing there holding the watering can and I realized I felt something and I wasn’t even sure what it was. I had to stand there and try to figure out what was so fucking wonderful. It was the flowers. They’re bright and colorful and I knew what they needed and how they should go and nobody else gave a damn how I did it and I did everything right and they were.. Happy. If flowers can be happy. And I was okay. I mean really actually okay. Calm. And …… forgive me for this… “centered.” It was one of the best gifts I’ve had in ….. christ. My life. Thank you.
March 22, 2010
Tell me so I can deny it.
Show me so I can close my eyes.
Hear me so I can shut up.
Give me a mirror so I can turn on the shower and draw pictures in the steam.
I don’t seem to have anything to write anymore. Not sure what genre I’m living in. Character motivation is unclear. I’m seasons ahead and lack the skill for a catch you all up montage.
I imagine you’ll muddle through or fuck off. I’m ambivalent about your decision.
It’s 1:13 am. I have no business being awake. In a few short hours I will have to drive The Man to work. It’s spring break so I’m hoping my children will be willing to have a nap when we get back. I’m insane to even entertain that as fantasy. Seriously. Ahahahahhaha! It’s like it’s my first day of motherhood! “motherhood” jesus. Not quite the ghetto yet not so superbia.
I kid. Twice. Heh. *remind me to send Insomnia a thank you note. This is fun.
I’m not sure if my incredible ability to hold this idea of what should be over what is has been my downfall or my savior. Also I used to think it was pulling me up and now I’m kinda wondering if it might be the incredible weight on top of me. Ack. This feels like it might be going somewhere… quick do the hokey poky and turn myself around. Things are just more interesting if you chase your tail. Ask a dog.
My nine year old has been hinting about wanting the full details on her dad. “Mom, when did you and my dad break up?” “oh. Well. We didn’t break up because we were never exactly a couple.” what? It’s mostly true other than the sex and it certainly sounds better than “I had to move out because he was starting to slam me into walls and disappearing for days on end to do drugs and strippers and what with being pregnant with you I decided it was an inappropriate environment.” *sigh* I’m going to tell her. Really. Soon as I figure out what to say. It’s not that I need it to sound Disney. Just…….
Okay. So I want it to sound Disney. Send seven dwarfs over to remind me how fucked up Walt is anyway. I’m sure I’ll get over it one of these days.
Yesterday my three year old was begging to play a video game he found in the entertainment center. I told him it was too violent and to pick a different one. He hit me with the case.
On Saturday I got to plant flowers. I was watering them in after and for a moment I felt peaceful. I know this because I was standing there holding the watering can and I realized I felt something and I wasn’t even sure what it was. I had to stand there and try to figure out what was so fucking wonderful. It was the flowers. They’re bright and colorful and I knew what they needed and how they should go and nobody else gave a damn how I did it and I did everything right and they were.. Happy. If flowers can be happy. And I was okay. I mean really actually okay. Calm. And …… forgive me for this… “centered.” It was one of the best gifts I’ve had in ….. christ. My life. Thank you.
March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Timmy Popped Corn and I Don't Care
“This could use some butter. Not a lot but some.”
“But I salted it.”
“Sure, I said butter.”
“But I already salted it. Isn’t the butter just for the salt in it?”
“What? No. The salt is good but it needs some butter. Salt is not butter. Butter is not liquid salt. It’s not like you salt your toast!”
“You put butter on toast ‘cause it softens it.”
“Nooo. You put butter on toast because it’s delicious.”
“Well I thought it was the same thing.”
“Now you know butter.”
March 14, 2010
“But I salted it.”
“Sure, I said butter.”
“But I already salted it. Isn’t the butter just for the salt in it?”
“What? No. The salt is good but it needs some butter. Salt is not butter. Butter is not liquid salt. It’s not like you salt your toast!”
“You put butter on toast ‘cause it softens it.”
“Nooo. You put butter on toast because it’s delicious.”
“Well I thought it was the same thing.”
“Now you know butter.”
March 14, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Ruminative
I’m angry.
I know it’s propelling me backwards, the toilet spinning the Aussie way and I can’t help it.
I don’t even want to help it. Me! Mine! My turn!
I’m too pissed off to do what I’m supposed to do. For anyone.
And all this knowledge, this knowing that it really doesn’t matter which way the water goes down, it just makes me angrier.
I would like to know less. I would like to be less.
“And here are your wings. Nice spread. I think you’ll be very happy with them.”
“Oh .. I don’t know if I want to fly… well maybe… yes I think I might.”
“Before you go… Here’s your weight.”
“Oh. Shit.”
*spiral flush*
My thinking isn’t off exactly. It’s just that it’s impossible
I don’t feel idealistic. I feel…Willing.
Willing and Unable Alone.
March 07, 2010
I know it’s propelling me backwards, the toilet spinning the Aussie way and I can’t help it.
I don’t even want to help it. Me! Mine! My turn!
I’m too pissed off to do what I’m supposed to do. For anyone.
And all this knowledge, this knowing that it really doesn’t matter which way the water goes down, it just makes me angrier.
I would like to know less. I would like to be less.
“And here are your wings. Nice spread. I think you’ll be very happy with them.”
“Oh .. I don’t know if I want to fly… well maybe… yes I think I might.”
“Before you go… Here’s your weight.”
“Oh. Shit.”
*spiral flush*
My thinking isn’t off exactly. It’s just that it’s impossible
I don’t feel idealistic. I feel…Willing.
Willing and Unable Alone.
March 07, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday Slapdashery
I stand on tip toe when using the can opener. I don’t know why. I have to assume my body has an innate sense on how this enhances my upper noodle strength and why the hell would I allow my brain to interfere?
Consider the relationship between intelligence and culpability. Am I the only one thinking no fair? No worries...there's always the insanity defense. Maybe smarter does mean guiltier. Maybe guiltier means crazier. I can't believe guiltier is a fucking word. Ridiculouser.
I once had a 4.0 report card where the teacher still couldn’t resist adding “not working up to her full potential.” and “needs to improve time management” in the comments section. Now there’s a mind fuck for a kid; don’t you think?
There‘s this unrelenting pressure in me. This rigid spine of right my muscles and soft tissue can’t escape. I’ve always had that. As long as I can remember anyway. It’s not just about “right” it’s about potential and debt. This longing for approval made bitter with the desire to be free of it has colored my entire life. I can’t seem to shake it or make it my own. You can’t abandon your bones but they can leave you a pile of mush.
February 28, 2010
Consider the relationship between intelligence and culpability. Am I the only one thinking no fair? No worries...there's always the insanity defense. Maybe smarter does mean guiltier. Maybe guiltier means crazier. I can't believe guiltier is a fucking word. Ridiculouser.
I once had a 4.0 report card where the teacher still couldn’t resist adding “not working up to her full potential.” and “needs to improve time management” in the comments section. Now there’s a mind fuck for a kid; don’t you think?
There‘s this unrelenting pressure in me. This rigid spine of right my muscles and soft tissue can’t escape. I’ve always had that. As long as I can remember anyway. It’s not just about “right” it’s about potential and debt. This longing for approval made bitter with the desire to be free of it has colored my entire life. I can’t seem to shake it or make it my own. You can’t abandon your bones but they can leave you a pile of mush.
February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Creepy Septic Problems
Jeremiah the septic guy is creepy. What? You would have guessed that? OoooooOOOOooooh *full body wriggle* You’re such the smarty-pants. Well I had no idea. I mean already I knew I wouldn’t like it. Strangers coming over and fixing things is uncomfortable. Answering the door is awkward. Yes, yes I realize I’m a decade’s supply of saved magazines away from being a shut in. fuck off.
He showed up in his van (LATE!) and called me. From my drive way. *eyes*
“Hey it’s Jeremiah the creepy septic dude,” okay so maybe he didn’t SAY that. Maybe I discerned it when I glanced out the window in the computer closet to observe him down below staring at me on his cell phone in his van calling me. “Yeah am I at the right house?”
Dude. You can see me. I can see you. Let’s not pretend.
“I’ll be right down.”
So I run down the stairs and I open the back (front) door to let him in …. and then I have to stand there for ten minutes while he chirps back and forth on his Nextel with someone…. Probably he was making sure someone would know where he was… since he didn’t. Finally he manages to wobble-roll his way out of the van and make his way over to me. He looks like a weeble. A super shiny bald weeble.
“Yeah so I don’t really know anything about this… I assume the management company told you what the problem is?” I mutter while avoiding prolonged creepy eye contact and take him down to the scary scary dark basement I haven’t cleaned out… oh I don’t know since never. There’s a giant mountain of laundry near the washing machine which is right by the downstairs sink which is where he wants to look of course. “I stopped doing laundry and dishes and stuff so it slowly drained but when we use water the sink fills up…” I manage to slide the mountain over all huffing and puffing like and he makes a bizarre humpty dumpty sort of noise like HE’S fucking doing it or just gets off watching girls try to slide mounds of laundry across basement floors. He‘s JUST. THAT. CREEPY.
He tells me to fill up the bathtub and then drain it. So I run upstairs and do that. Then he freaks because I did it. “I didn’t know you were going to drain it.. right then! We’ve got problems now!” Tool! Of course we have problems! That’s why you’re here!
Why is it that people hired to fix a problem always assume you’re making the problem up??? Doctors. Mechanics. Shrinks. All of ‘em.
So I get the hell out of his way and sorta say hey dude do what you need to do - you’re the creepy septic guy - not me. and I wander off to hide in the computer closet with Deon.
Then he finds us. *screaming and arm flapping* Creepy septic guy found creepy shut ins!
“I found the problem. You’ve gotta come see this.”
For the record. When a creepy septic guy says this you should say “no thanks!” but creepy shut ins are not that skilled in human interaction to know this. So we followed him outside to peer down into the septic tank. As if that wouldn’t always look like a problem to me. So I’m standing there looking down at…. Well I don’t even want to know what, wondering why we have to hold hands with the creepy septic guy while he does his job. Honestly I don’t give a flying fuck how the pipes work or where the shit goes. I just want to take a goddamn shower. So when we don’t give whatever response it was that he was hoping for he finally says….
“It’s full.”
“it’s new.”
“yes but it’s full.”
“But it’s new.”
He gestures at the nasty below. “But it’s FULL.”
“what are you saying creepy septic dude?”
“It’s full.”
“Well. I just rent here.”
"I called the management people.”
“Okay.” Deon and I slowly edged away from the creepy septic hole, the creepy septic guy and his creepy septic van while creepy septic guy went on and on about drain fields and flushing and creepy septic whatnot.
Luckily my landlord is also my neighbor and we were saved when he came over to see about the problem. He probably smelled the creepy all way over at his place. So we scuttled back into the house and let him deal with creepy septic guy who just wouldn't fucking leave. Even after the landlord ascertained the creep of the dude and told him he was going to use the company that put the septic tank in and not him.
Meanwhile… if they don’t fucking fix this soon I’m going to be creepy septic girl. *longs for shower*
February 10, 2010
He showed up in his van (LATE!) and called me. From my drive way. *eyes*
“Hey it’s Jeremiah the creepy septic dude,” okay so maybe he didn’t SAY that. Maybe I discerned it when I glanced out the window in the computer closet to observe him down below staring at me on his cell phone in his van calling me. “Yeah am I at the right house?”
Dude. You can see me. I can see you. Let’s not pretend.
“I’ll be right down.”
So I run down the stairs and I open the back (front) door to let him in …. and then I have to stand there for ten minutes while he chirps back and forth on his Nextel with someone…. Probably he was making sure someone would know where he was… since he didn’t. Finally he manages to wobble-roll his way out of the van and make his way over to me. He looks like a weeble. A super shiny bald weeble.
“Yeah so I don’t really know anything about this… I assume the management company told you what the problem is?” I mutter while avoiding prolonged creepy eye contact and take him down to the scary scary dark basement I haven’t cleaned out… oh I don’t know since never. There’s a giant mountain of laundry near the washing machine which is right by the downstairs sink which is where he wants to look of course. “I stopped doing laundry and dishes and stuff so it slowly drained but when we use water the sink fills up…” I manage to slide the mountain over all huffing and puffing like and he makes a bizarre humpty dumpty sort of noise like HE’S fucking doing it or just gets off watching girls try to slide mounds of laundry across basement floors. He‘s JUST. THAT. CREEPY.
He tells me to fill up the bathtub and then drain it. So I run upstairs and do that. Then he freaks because I did it. “I didn’t know you were going to drain it.. right then! We’ve got problems now!” Tool! Of course we have problems! That’s why you’re here!
Why is it that people hired to fix a problem always assume you’re making the problem up??? Doctors. Mechanics. Shrinks. All of ‘em.
So I get the hell out of his way and sorta say hey dude do what you need to do - you’re the creepy septic guy - not me. and I wander off to hide in the computer closet with Deon.
Then he finds us. *screaming and arm flapping* Creepy septic guy found creepy shut ins!
“I found the problem. You’ve gotta come see this.”
For the record. When a creepy septic guy says this you should say “no thanks!” but creepy shut ins are not that skilled in human interaction to know this. So we followed him outside to peer down into the septic tank. As if that wouldn’t always look like a problem to me. So I’m standing there looking down at…. Well I don’t even want to know what, wondering why we have to hold hands with the creepy septic guy while he does his job. Honestly I don’t give a flying fuck how the pipes work or where the shit goes. I just want to take a goddamn shower. So when we don’t give whatever response it was that he was hoping for he finally says….
“It’s full.”
“it’s new.”
“yes but it’s full.”
“But it’s new.”
He gestures at the nasty below. “But it’s FULL.”
“what are you saying creepy septic dude?”
“It’s full.”
“Well. I just rent here.”
"I called the management people.”
“Okay.” Deon and I slowly edged away from the creepy septic hole, the creepy septic guy and his creepy septic van while creepy septic guy went on and on about drain fields and flushing and creepy septic whatnot.
Luckily my landlord is also my neighbor and we were saved when he came over to see about the problem. He probably smelled the creepy all way over at his place. So we scuttled back into the house and let him deal with creepy septic guy who just wouldn't fucking leave. Even after the landlord ascertained the creep of the dude and told him he was going to use the company that put the septic tank in and not him.
Meanwhile… if they don’t fucking fix this soon I’m going to be creepy septic girl. *longs for shower*
February 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Awesome!
We’re all doing it, this watering down of language through repetition and word misuse…. this seeming inability to hold more than a handful of adjectives in our brains at a time. We all have these word cycles… periods of time when everything and everyone is cool or maybe everything is like you know like something else and definitely I know people who have a shit ton of suck going on in their life. And when a word achieves it’s new Mad Lib, fill in any blank status we toss it back and forth to one another thinking we’re communicating something. It's ridiculous! None of us know what any of us is talking about most of the time! We don’t want to actually take the time and effort to express ourselves- but still- it deserves a noise, by god! That’s why most of the time the words that do this have a cave man quality satisfying sound to them. Like Fuck. Can’t get enough of THAT bam-wowy of an anything word, can we?!
And that’s another thing. We all keep making up words and feeling fucking clever about it. Granted, sometimes it is fucking clever but “bam-wowy?" That’s just stupid. It’s not like I just filled some missing word gap in the English language… like now we’re all going to rejoice that there’s finally a word to describe something never before put into words…. It just means I don’t fucking know the word that already exists and I’m too fucking lazy to go look one up. I mean seriously people… are we now celebrating the crap innovations brought about by laziness and ignorance? Don’t answer…. We might have to do something about it if we name it and I have a lot of online surveys to do, plus there’s my status to update on my five social networks.
I’ve noticed everything is awesome for me lately. You know, pronounced ouwsum. Of course, not really. My life is certainly NOT particularly awesome. That’s the funny part. Like the choice of word has to be AWESOME to contrast with the reality. It’s annoying. Not as annoying as my “dude” phase but at least then I could blame drug use. (awesome!) So I go through my day and everything is awesome. Does it even mean anything anymore? Am I really walking around in awe at the minutia of my daily life!?! Then again who says that windex isn’t awesome!?! I mean seriously…. It’s blue… I spray it on a surface, wipe the surface and HELLo0o0o0o0o0 shiny fresh scented sparkle splendor! That IS indeed awe inspiring if you stop and think about it. So in short… awesome is awesome and fuck you, you super cool varied vocabulary snobs. Like FUCK YOU in your awesome!
I guess what I’m saying is….. This is a sucky situation but I’m angry and resentful that doing something about it might mean effort on my part. So carry on!! Carry on…
And that’s another thing. We all keep making up words and feeling fucking clever about it. Granted, sometimes it is fucking clever but “bam-wowy?" That’s just stupid. It’s not like I just filled some missing word gap in the English language… like now we’re all going to rejoice that there’s finally a word to describe something never before put into words…. It just means I don’t fucking know the word that already exists and I’m too fucking lazy to go look one up. I mean seriously people… are we now celebrating the crap innovations brought about by laziness and ignorance? Don’t answer…. We might have to do something about it if we name it and I have a lot of online surveys to do, plus there’s my status to update on my five social networks.
I’ve noticed everything is awesome for me lately. You know, pronounced ouwsum. Of course, not really. My life is certainly NOT particularly awesome. That’s the funny part. Like the choice of word has to be AWESOME to contrast with the reality. It’s annoying. Not as annoying as my “dude” phase but at least then I could blame drug use. (awesome!) So I go through my day and everything is awesome. Does it even mean anything anymore? Am I really walking around in awe at the minutia of my daily life!?! Then again who says that windex isn’t awesome!?! I mean seriously…. It’s blue… I spray it on a surface, wipe the surface and HELLo0o0o0o0o0 shiny fresh scented sparkle splendor! That IS indeed awe inspiring if you stop and think about it. So in short… awesome is awesome and fuck you, you super cool varied vocabulary snobs. Like FUCK YOU in your awesome!
I guess what I’m saying is….. This is a sucky situation but I’m angry and resentful that doing something about it might mean effort on my part. So carry on!! Carry on…
Monday, February 1, 2010
F*ckin For Footwear
“Those are some awesome boots.” I told some guy standing and chatting with Lori and me.
“These boots?” We all stared down at his boots.
“Yeah. It looks like you could hike Mt. Hood right now.”
“Yours are a lot shinier.” We all looked at my boots. They are super shiny.
“Different boots for different moods. Tonight I wanted to feel like a super hero.”
“You don’t understand - she’s a shoe whore” Lori offered.
“I don’t think I’d say whore.” I interjected
“…..Actually those are probably her size.” Lori had the nerve to point out. “She wears a six.”
“What are you, my shoe pimp?!? And wait...you know my shoe size?” I asked incredulously “How can you tell?”
“The boots you’re wearing now are a little bit too big for you.”
“They really are!! I bought them at a costume shop. They only had small medium and large. Am I walking funny? Errr... funnier than usual?”
“No. I can just tell.”
“Do you really like my boots?” Some Guy asked
“Yeah. I wouldn’t just say that. They’re cool boots.”
*nodding all around from everyone*
“’Cause you can have them.”
“What?” I looked at his boots some more. Mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at him. They needed red laces.
“Well, not right NOW. But yeah… another time. They’re a six. They’re actually a little small for me.”
“Oh sure. Small for you. But still. That’s a six in mens and I’d be a four in mens. ‘Sides you’re wearing them and you’ll wanna wear them again.”
"It's because you think my feet are too small."
“Nope. Totally not what I’m thinking.”
February 1, 2010
“These boots?” We all stared down at his boots.
“Yeah. It looks like you could hike Mt. Hood right now.”
“Yours are a lot shinier.” We all looked at my boots. They are super shiny.
“Different boots for different moods. Tonight I wanted to feel like a super hero.”
“You don’t understand - she’s a shoe whore” Lori offered.
“I don’t think I’d say whore.” I interjected
“…..Actually those are probably her size.” Lori had the nerve to point out. “She wears a six.”
“What are you, my shoe pimp?!? And wait...you know my shoe size?” I asked incredulously “How can you tell?”
“The boots you’re wearing now are a little bit too big for you.”
“They really are!! I bought them at a costume shop. They only had small medium and large. Am I walking funny? Errr... funnier than usual?”
“No. I can just tell.”
“Do you really like my boots?” Some Guy asked
“Yeah. I wouldn’t just say that. They’re cool boots.”
*nodding all around from everyone*
“’Cause you can have them.”
“What?” I looked at his boots some more. Mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at him. They needed red laces.
“Well, not right NOW. But yeah… another time. They’re a six. They’re actually a little small for me.”
“Oh sure. Small for you. But still. That’s a six in mens and I’d be a four in mens. ‘Sides you’re wearing them and you’ll wanna wear them again.”
"It's because you think my feet are too small."
“Nope. Totally not what I’m thinking.”
February 1, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Shadow Stalker
It isn’t that I don’t think of you anymore. It’s that when I think of you I don’t think of me.
Only a small part of me finds it amusing that a shadow would speak to me of being left in the dark. Most of me is not yet that big a person and that is why we‘ll only ever dance across the surface of my tiny big person in passing conversation for now and maybe forever. Don’t tell me it’s not fair lest justice actually find you.
It isn’t that I don’t love you anymore. It’s that I have to stop loving you to love me.
January 20, 2010
Only a small part of me finds it amusing that a shadow would speak to me of being left in the dark. Most of me is not yet that big a person and that is why we‘ll only ever dance across the surface of my tiny big person in passing conversation for now and maybe forever. Don’t tell me it’s not fair lest justice actually find you.
It isn’t that I don’t love you anymore. It’s that I have to stop loving you to love me.
January 20, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Missing: Tiny Red Spider Buddy
“Mom!-Mom!-Mom! Come see my buddy! Mom!” Thatcher attached his sticky hand to my fingers and dragged me out of the kitchen into the dining room. Sure enough there was one of his many buddies dangling from the light fixture with the end of it’s web about toddler chin height. This year we put the Christmas tree in the dining room and it came with about a thousand tiny red spiders. Thatch has a deep affection for the spiders. Any and all spider removal must happen under cover of darkness or nap time.
“That’s great, Thatch.” Spiders don’t bother me so long as they’re not on me though I do prefer not to share any of my living space with them. After I removed all the holiday ornaments from the tree and Tim stripped it of it’s twinkling mockery I shoved the tree out on the porch still in it’s stand. It looks nice. Also I’m hoping those spiders still crawling out of it will eat those other weird bugs that live on the porch.
While in deep conversation with the tiny creature Thatcher suddenly discovered that he could blow his spider buddy through the air. He would take a deep breath and use it to gently lift his dangling arachnid friend in a slow smooth arc in the air. While the spider was at it’s farthest point from Thatch, Thatch would throw his head back and howl with laughter. “Look! Look how much fun I’m giving him!” Then he would quickly prepare for the spiders return and blow it again.
Until he blew harder sending the spider farther than ever before and then laughed harder and longer than ever before… head full tilt, mouth wide open in pleasure…..
And then the spider was gone.
I nearly choked. I wanted to laugh but... look what happened to him!
“Mom! Where my buddy? Where he go? Did you vacuum him!??”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I just offered him some juice before he could question what (who?) was in his mouth.
January 06, 2010
“That’s great, Thatch.” Spiders don’t bother me so long as they’re not on me though I do prefer not to share any of my living space with them. After I removed all the holiday ornaments from the tree and Tim stripped it of it’s twinkling mockery I shoved the tree out on the porch still in it’s stand. It looks nice. Also I’m hoping those spiders still crawling out of it will eat those other weird bugs that live on the porch.
While in deep conversation with the tiny creature Thatcher suddenly discovered that he could blow his spider buddy through the air. He would take a deep breath and use it to gently lift his dangling arachnid friend in a slow smooth arc in the air. While the spider was at it’s farthest point from Thatch, Thatch would throw his head back and howl with laughter. “Look! Look how much fun I’m giving him!” Then he would quickly prepare for the spiders return and blow it again.
Until he blew harder sending the spider farther than ever before and then laughed harder and longer than ever before… head full tilt, mouth wide open in pleasure…..
And then the spider was gone.
I nearly choked. I wanted to laugh but... look what happened to him!
“Mom! Where my buddy? Where he go? Did you vacuum him!??”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I just offered him some juice before he could question what (who?) was in his mouth.
January 06, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
A New Year Miracle
The only real trouble with going out by yourself on your 30th birthday/ New Year when you have every intention of drinking enough alcohol to forget that you’re going out by yourself on your 30th birthday/New Year is the awkwardness that is midnight.
Trouble with midnight is the traditional New Year kiss. You’re supposed to have a fabulous bend you over backward into the new year make out session with someone you love. And if you cannot have that it should just be a lot of confetti and horn blowing and friendship and smiles. However…. SOME people think that you can slide into the New Year faking it with a random stranger that happens to be standing there. Or hovering around there like it’s a goddamn game of musical chairs. What? You like musical chairs? Sure you do. You’ve never considered the way the chair feels.
Of course I was already silly drunkish by ten pm so I was only half aware of the circling by eleven forty-five. Usually I’m consumed with anxiety about such a thing. I mean… their feelings and all. As if it’s my job to make them feel better about circling an empty fucking chair. I mean it would be one thing if the chair were some sort of fancy lazy boy recliner or something… but we’re talking about the cold metal deal they unfold at a church potluck here. So clearly I feel sorry for them that they’re some how confused enough to be hoping to sit in it.
I remember seeing the time on the large television and thinking I should head outside to smoke a cigarette in the very near future to avoid the horror that is the midnight make out. But then I was dancing… and the band kept changing words in the song to wish me a happy birthday so I danced some more and then before you know it everyone was counting as though a rocket was about to take off and a young man who’d been trying to teach me to swing dance an hour before snaked an arm around me and tilted my chin up and BAM.
There I was. Starting my New Year out being molested by a rubbery lipped baby marine.
Damn it.
So I held my lips together against the onslaught and pulled away and smiled and made nice and whatnot. ‘Cause that’s just what ya do. And then I managed to locate my jacket and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. The Marine followed.
“Hey I think I locked my keys in my truck! Will you go over there and take a look with me?” He was looking across the road at the parking lot.
“Not a chance.” I continued smoking.
“What? Why not? You don‘t trust me?” he seemed genuinely shocked. Or that was part of the routine -I’m not sure.
“Gee, I don’t know? How about ‘cause I don’t wander over into dark parking lots with strangers?”
“Stranger! You’ve known me all night! See that little white truck right there? That‘s mine.”
“Not going to happen. But I tell ya what. I’ll stand here and watch you and if anything happens to you I’ll scream and such.”
“Oh wow.” He’s rustling his hand around in his jacket pocket. “My keys are right here.”
“It’s a New Year miracle.”
January 1, 2010
Trouble with midnight is the traditional New Year kiss. You’re supposed to have a fabulous bend you over backward into the new year make out session with someone you love. And if you cannot have that it should just be a lot of confetti and horn blowing and friendship and smiles. However…. SOME people think that you can slide into the New Year faking it with a random stranger that happens to be standing there. Or hovering around there like it’s a goddamn game of musical chairs. What? You like musical chairs? Sure you do. You’ve never considered the way the chair feels.
Of course I was already silly drunkish by ten pm so I was only half aware of the circling by eleven forty-five. Usually I’m consumed with anxiety about such a thing. I mean… their feelings and all. As if it’s my job to make them feel better about circling an empty fucking chair. I mean it would be one thing if the chair were some sort of fancy lazy boy recliner or something… but we’re talking about the cold metal deal they unfold at a church potluck here. So clearly I feel sorry for them that they’re some how confused enough to be hoping to sit in it.
I remember seeing the time on the large television and thinking I should head outside to smoke a cigarette in the very near future to avoid the horror that is the midnight make out. But then I was dancing… and the band kept changing words in the song to wish me a happy birthday so I danced some more and then before you know it everyone was counting as though a rocket was about to take off and a young man who’d been trying to teach me to swing dance an hour before snaked an arm around me and tilted my chin up and BAM.
There I was. Starting my New Year out being molested by a rubbery lipped baby marine.
Damn it.
So I held my lips together against the onslaught and pulled away and smiled and made nice and whatnot. ‘Cause that’s just what ya do. And then I managed to locate my jacket and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. The Marine followed.
“Hey I think I locked my keys in my truck! Will you go over there and take a look with me?” He was looking across the road at the parking lot.
“Not a chance.” I continued smoking.
“What? Why not? You don‘t trust me?” he seemed genuinely shocked. Or that was part of the routine -I’m not sure.
“Gee, I don’t know? How about ‘cause I don’t wander over into dark parking lots with strangers?”
“Stranger! You’ve known me all night! See that little white truck right there? That‘s mine.”
“Not going to happen. But I tell ya what. I’ll stand here and watch you and if anything happens to you I’ll scream and such.”
“Oh wow.” He’s rustling his hand around in his jacket pocket. “My keys are right here.”
“It’s a New Year miracle.”
January 1, 2010
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